Schoolin' G-Money

A new guy, G-Money, dropped by my cube a couple of mornings ago looking overwhelmed.  Before I go any further, let me explain the origin of his nickname.  G-Money is Jewish.  His cellie claims to have never really known a Jewish guy before now, his knowledge limited to, “They’re all rich!”  So that’s the Money part of his moniker, but why “G”?  Does his real name start with G?  Does his hometown start with G?  Nope on both counts, so what is it?  We asked the cellie, who looked at us as if we were total complete morons, then took a long pause and replied, “G-Money – as in Jewish money?  G-E-W-E-S-H Money!  Got it?”  Well, after that story the name stuck.  We now have a prim and proper upper middle class Jewish inmate who will forever be known by the incongruous nickname G-Money.

But now, back to our original programming, G-Money perches on the stool in my cube with that old familiar What-the-F-K-is-Up-With-This-Place? look on his face.  How, he asked, can anyone be so nonchalant when surrounded by such odd people and behavior?  I tried to recall if anything particularly unusual had happened that morning, but then wondered if maybe I’ve just grown immune to the things this newbie found weird.  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a minute and then opened them again trying to meet him where he was, attempting to erase the past two years from my life.  How does prison look and feel, I tried to recall, to a newcomer?

G-Money waited patiently, no doubt counting this as yet another oddball behavior he’d have to deal with, as I walked a lap around the unit.  What had thrown off his equilibrium?  What had him questioning his ability to cope?  Was it the pre-op transsexual Native American with a shoulder length perm and homemade red bra showing through her t-shirt as she ran – yes ran! – down the hall mopping the floor?  Explaining to anyone who asks that running somehow makes the floors cleaner?  Was it the guy ironing his boxers, the same boxers he ironed yesterday, and the day before….?  Was he thrown at the sight of a guy getting his, um, man parts tattooed with a homemade tattoo gun?  Quesadillas grilled with a clothes iron?  Perchance, the storeman smuggling fruit out of the chow hall in his underpants, then selling it as “Fresh from the Warehouse?”  The guy shouting at the top of his lungs, making sure he can be heard throughout the building and disrespecting any human within earshot as he raves on about "MF’ers got no respect!” 

I returned to my cube and sat opposite G-Money, then looked into his eyes and calmly said, “Nope, nothing unusual going on here – seems like a normal day in the unit.”  Pause.  LAUGHTER.  When we stopped laughing, we had a serious talk.  Human beings, we agreed, are incredibly adaptable.  A survival adaptation in prison is developing a behavioral filter.  You learn what to pay attention to and what to ignore.  If you can’t find some way to live at peace with your reality you cannot grow or flourish as a person in this trying environment.  I think G-Money can get there.  For now he’s trying to grasp what I’ve written about many times before:  1) you can’t make this stuff up! and (2) If you don’t laugh, you’re gonna cry.  So you might as well pop some popcorn and enjoy the show.