The Storage Problem

My parents visited recently and somehow the talk turned to the size of the lockers we are allowed.  My mother chuckled as I griped, saying it’s not like I have that much stuff anyway.  This sent me into a faux-ticked off rant which I summarize here for your edification.  Let’s not discuss the size of our cubes/rooms just now; let me just examine our lockers and all the stuff we have to store in them.

Each guest of the BOP is allowed two hooks on a coat rack and half of a two foot bookshelf where you can only store five (no more) books.  And a locker.  Rules say everything you own must be on or in the storage apparatus.  So you can hang your uniform and coat on the hooks, or maybe a laundry bag on one, that’s it.  Your small/medium-sized locker has to store everything else.  If you’re lucky, your locker may have four shelves that can function as cubbies, but usually they only have two.  In this space, you must fit the following:  2 sets of sweats, 2-3 pairs of shorts, 5-7 t-shirts, 5-6 pairs of boxer shorts, boxer briefs for exercise, 7-8 pairs of socks, a hat, gloves, and maybe a scarf.  You may wonder why I need two pairs of sweats?  Well, one’s for working out and the other for lounging around the unit or the library.  In such close quarters, it’s important not to have smelly, unwashed clothes, so you need this wardrobe to make it through to your weekly laundry.

Okay, you’re thinking, maybe that could fit in a locker.  But don’t forget toiletries (and backups for things like toothpaste, soap, and deodorant in case of a lockdown).  Pencils, pens, markers, paper, notebooks, letters, envelopes, books (if you have more than the five allowed on the shelf), craft materials (like my crochet stuff), it’s all got to fit in the locker.  Maybe you teach or take a class in the ACE program and have some reference materials?  In the locker! 

And then there’s food.  But don’t you guys get three meals a day, you ask?  Yeah, but it’s not great, and just having some crackers, peanut butter, maybe instant coffee or oatmeal packets and some candy can help you get through the day.  And all that goes in the locker too.  Along with your coffee mug, your utensils, a couple bowls and a tumbler.  Let’s see, what else?  Oh yeah, we can only have two uniforms out, so any extras have to be put away where?  You guessed it, the locker. 

Somehow you have to cram in your radio and headphones without getting them crushed.  So just take a moment to imagine, every time you open the locker door, it’s like a clown car unloading.  With one arm you try to hold back the flood, while with the other you rummage around for whatever you need, then you smush everything else back inside and slam the door as best you can.  Then you spend the day worrying about a shakedown, because God only knows how you’ll get everything back in again if the guard messes it up.  Okay, that’s my locker rant!

Rick My Friend is Dead

I don’t know where to start with this entry.  A mixture of anger, sadness, disbelief and disgust are combining to make it difficult to think.  My friend died yesterday.  He died right in front of our eyes.  He died while we stood by helpless or scrambling around trying to do something, attempting to show that we are not entirely powerless.  They rolled him out and lied to us, “He’s fine.”  They said, “He just likes to play it up to get more attention.”  How about the truth:  “He died because we did nothing to stop it.  He died because we just don’t care.”

I’m getting way ahead of myself.  Let me start at the beginning so you can decide for yourself what you think.  There are always two sides to any story, but I have no reason to lie to you.  I am in prison, with nothing to gain and a whole lot to lose.  The BOP is not fond of criticism.  The BOP does not like being exposed as a hypocritical bureaucracy that has lost touch with humanity.  For two years I have lived next door to Rick.  We shared a number, which is a big deal in prison.  That means we had the last three digits of our IDs in common, meaning we’re from the same district.  “Homeboys” in prison parlance.  We sat together in the tv room and crocheted or worked on art projects side-by-side every night.  We joked that we ran that corner for the 555 (not our real number, but you get the point).  Any new guys who arrived with the same number came to us to make sure they were situated, knew the ropes for using the tv room, the rec room, etc.   We talked every day at Count.  Challenged each other with obscure sayings that we then checked out in our Dictionary of Idioms and Slang.  We helped each other out when necessary.  Ultimately we did the most important thing you can do for another person in prison:  We treated each other with respect and shared a “life” that took us away at least for a little while, at least in our minds, from being in prison.  Was it funny to watch two guys debating crochet stitches for two hours in the tv room?  I’m sure it was.  Did that beat arguing and griping about the inmate’s life all day?  Hell yes!

All of the good times are now relegated to memories.  Rick is dead.  I watched him fight for his life for 45 minutes, writhing on the floor.  I watched helpless as my friend died.  We tried in vain to get him help, but our Unit Officer on Duty just sat in his office with his feet up on the desk, chomping on a snack, waving us off with, “Ah, he’s just faking.  I don’t give a f**k what you inmates think I should do.”  When confronted by a medical doctor, now imprisoned, with the opinion that “if we don’t get this man some help in minutes he will die!” the guard yelled, “Keep flappin’ your gums Doc and I’ll lock you up and ruin you!”  For the whole 45 minutes of this ordeal no staff member attended to Rick.  The guard claimed Medical would not respond until he stopped being “over-dramatic.”  When Chow was called many of us scurried to find a staff member who might help.  Finally an officer saw fit to look at Rick.  Medical arrived ten minutes later without a gurney or medical kit.  Ten minutes after that they carried him out, no longer living.

There are so many details of this horrible day that I will never forget, details of this same pattern of callous, blatant disregard for human life.  This is not a case of exaggerated inmate rumor.  I saw it all with my own eyes.  The fallout?  Three inmates have been threatened with a “shot” for questioning the guard’s judgment and interfering.  How you can interfere with someone doing absolutely nothing but chewing on crackers, I don’t know.  They say an investigation is underway.  But is the guard on duty being put on leave?  Nope.  He’s at work on a different unit, just as smug and arrogant as ever.  At least 50 of us have written up the incident and turned it in to the Administration.  Black, white, Hispanic, young, old, you name it, all of us stepped up.  For once we are united.  No bickering or backstabbing. We all loved Rick and we want justice!  They told us when we were convicted and jailed that the system is blind, applied equally to all, but we have often been treated unfairly.  We have been over-punished.  We are locked up for longer and in greater numbers than any prisoners in any other so-called civilized nation in the world.  But we get up every day and carry on, doing what we can to survive.  Now we feel like it’s our turn.  We want some kind of justice for our friend.  We want the guard held responsible, the man whose wanton neglect, indifference, arrogance, and anger killed my friend.  He should not be held above the law.  But you know, mainly we just want Rick back.  My friend, may you rest in peace!

Jailhouse Humor Lesson

Ever watch a comedian deliver a genuinely distasteful, cringe-worthy joke?  And in that split second before your filter kicks in telling you not to laugh, your body takes over and it just comes out?  You can’t stop it.  You turn to your companion and say something like, “Oh, that’s just so wrong!” or “I know I shouldn’t laugh, but…”

Humor is about context and nothing drives that point home like spending some time behind bars.  It might take you awhile, you may need a period of adjustment not to feel guilty laughing at something that’s way inappropriate.  But if you can get past the awkwardness, then you’ll be laughing, and that can make life in here feel a little more normal.

Here’s an example from my early days as a guest of the BOP.  I’m in a holding cell with another guy who seemed as confused as I was, and then we are joined by a talkative older dude who would just ramble on making somewhat entertaining random comments.  And then a fourth guy enters, sporting a black eye and a heavily bandaged hand.  Blood dripping from the bandage.  I suggest that the guy should call for a nurse.  So while he’s out of the cell getting fixed up, the Old Timer tells us that somebody had been on the news last night for getting in a fight.  Before he can finish the story, the guy with the bandage returns.  He seems nervous and says he needed to talk to the police and explain that the fight was over an ex-girlfriend.  The other guy had pulled a knife (hence his bloody hand) and he had acted only in self-defense.

Nothing funny here, right?  But then comes my introduction to jailhouse humor, courtesy of the Old Timer, who had seen the news story about the fight.  He explains, “The way I see it, you get into a fight with a dude, he pulls a knife and you get it from him?  Maybe you stab him 1, 2, 3, maybe even 4 times and you can call it self-defense.  When you get to poking him 43 times, that argument goes out the window!”

After a momentary pause, I will have to admit that all four of us started laughing.  In the outside world, of course, getting stabbed that many times is no joke.  But in jail, well, I’m learning what that old phrase means:  “If you don’t laugh, you’re gonna cry.”  Not funny, no way, I get that.  But at that moment, in that context, with that deadpan delivery?  Well.

Flip Flop Flap

My great luxury here in prison is a pair of Adidas Slides (flip-flops).  While we are not allowed to wear them outside, they are essential for comfort around the unit.  For anyone new to this blog, yes I’m in a prison that’s relaxed enough to let you take off your boots indoors.  Many guys will return from work or the yard and slip on their slides or put them on for a shower.  I’ve learned to keep mine by the bunk in case I need to get up in the night for the bathroom.  Which leads to this installment of the clumsy white guy chronicle: 

The other night I climbed out of the bunk, slipped on my Slides, and headed to the bathroom to pee, neglecting to put on my glasses.  Well, the accepted prison method for flushing the toilet is to shove the handle with your foot, but owing to drowsiness, impaired vision and low lighting, I lost my balance and missed.  No big deal, right?  Except in missing the handle I somehow placed my foot – shod in my lovely Adidas – right into the toilet!  I mean up to my ankle.  As you may have guessed, there are few things on earth nastier than a prison toilet.  I yanked my foot back and raced to the showers to immerse myself in scalding hot water, somehow forgetting in my panic that the showers are off limits at night.  I’d be risking a shot if I turned on the shower.  On the other hand my foot is now contaminated with radioactive prison toilet water.  My solution?  Use the sink.  Problem there being, I’m not the tallest guy and not the most flexible either.  I just could not get my foot into the sink without turning around backwards, bending at the waist, sticking out my leg and dunking my foot in the sink toes down (try to imagine this contortion).  Which, of course, was the necessary cue for two guys to come strolling into the bathroom.  Funny, though, neither said a word, just nodded like all was normal and went on about their business.  I’m not sure what that says about our lives here, but it can’t be good!  Finally, foot and Slide washed, I hopped back to my cube and collapsed into the bunk.  Even a quick trip to the bathroom can end up being an adventure when you’re a guest of the BOP.

Fake News - Prison Style

Well, we are just coming off five days of lockdown due to inclement weather.  It is amazing what 3.5 inches of snow can do to the routine of a federal prison.  Most of the time, we’re treated like dangerous hardened criminals, but get a little snow and we’re kept inside like children.  God forbid we might actually get our feet wet or enjoy getting outside in the snow.  But finally the snow has melted and we’re allowed to walk the outdoor track again, where we can release some pent up energy and get some exercise.  As good a time as any to share some of the amazing conversations overheard while we were on lockdown.  Believe me, nothing you are about to read is embellished in the least.  I am merely summarizing rather long and involved discussions for brevity’s sake.  Keep in mind that inane and arcane debates are a nonstop occurrence in here.  These are just my four favorites from our most recent lockdown:

The Moon Landing Conspiracy:  Sure, lots of people talk about this.  REM mentioned it in a song.  But in here the conspiracy has taken on a whole other layer of absurd.  You see, the moon landing hoax was propagated by the white man because they do not want black people to know the truth that the moon is a man-made machine designed to help control the masses.  The politics of all that was never explained, however, because the participants in this debate got sidetracked by the science involved.  You see, you can’t land on the moon because it’s way too hot.  That’s why it lights up at night.  It’s a giant light bulb with a powerful heat source inside making it glow.  If you go to Ethiopia, you will see all of this explained in their science text books.  The ancient Kushites knew all about it before the white man started to hide the facts.  The speaker has seen all this with his own two eyes!  I so much wanted to chime in with the hope that the utility company in charge of the moon would switch to long-lasting fluorescent bulbs to save a little money, but held my tongue.

Family Planning Through Linergy:  Two of my neighbors described this rapidly spreading family planning model which came down to us in America from ancient civilizations as the most effective way for society to function.  In this system, males mate as often as possible with as many women as possible, in order to create as many babies as possible.  The optimal number is one baby per woman or 6-9 overall.  The beauty of the system is that the man is only ever expected to care for the most recent mate and baby.  Previous mates (and their children) become the temporary responsibility of the most recent male to have mated with them.  That way no man ever has to feel responsible for more than one woman and one baby at a time.  There are complex rules governing the proper way to interact with any other kids your current mate may have had with other men, but at this point I started to lose track of things.  It began to seem like some sort of huge sexual Ponzi scheme.  But anyway, keep in mind that this model is called (for some reason) Linergy and it’s spreading like wildfire.  If any male readers out there choose to run this idea by their wife, please do let me know how that conversation turns out!

Learning Spanish:  This is a quick one.  Two guys are sitting together diligently attempting to learn Spanish (you’ve got to give them credit for their dedication).  Discussing the challenges of this endeavor, one guy says to the other, “Man, the crazy part is that for every English word, they expect you to know a Spanish word!  Whoever thought this shit up was pretty smart!”  I don’t mean to make fun, but it struck me as really funny the way he said that.

The Emancipation Proclamation, Page Two:  Okay, first off, I don’t know how many pages are in the Emancipation Proclamation, so by no means am I judging that part of this conversation.  But did you know that there is a secret page to the document giving the President the right to reinstate slavery immediately nationwide with ONLY the approval of the Illuminati?  Expect this to happen any day now, according to the learned historians holding this discussion.  I did want to join in this conversation, because I find it intriguing and would love to learn where people come up with this fake news.  In the end, though, I decided to pass.  Just didn’t have the energy at the moment, though I do plan to bring it up again next lockdown.

Well, as you can see, just another typical stretch of killing time in prison.  If nothing crazy, unusual, or surprising happened in here then nothing would ever happen at all.  Although, now that I think about it, if everything that happens is nuts, then doesn’t that become the norm?  As one oldtimer put it to me, “If nobody has it, then why do they still call it common sense?”

Life on the Beach

Here's a guest post by a friend; thought you might enjoy it:
  

I live on the beach.  Well that’s what we call it.  If you haven’t read along with this blog, you may need some background.  See, in the 1990s the U.S. decided to lead the world in incarceration, so it ramped up its prison population, I mean way up, and things in here got crowded.  To fit everybody in, they pulled the tables and chairs out of the common area and welded in place four sets of bunk beds, thus the beach!

The beach is right out in the middle of everything.  The lights never go out, ever.  And anyone who wants to go anywhere passes just inches from your bed.  In our block, a room designed for maybe 70 people, 170 now live and with that many guys in a confined space, the coming and going all day and night is constant.

So how does one end up on the beach?  Newbies often times spend a few weeks there while hoping for a bunk in a less conspicuous corner to open up; if you’re not homeboys with the guards or counselors the smallest infraction can land you on the beach, too.  I spent a week there when I first checked in and returned recently for a minor infraction.  Apparently, I left a sweaty shirt to dry on the back of my chair during the daytime.  Now, if you’re a counselor’s homeboy, you can drape your clothes on chairs and even hang clothes lines with nary a comment.  But I’m not that guy, so up to the beach I went and here I sit.

When you first try to sleep on the beach (sleep meaning lying there with your eyes closed), you notice how loud this place really is.  At 11 o’clock, about an hour after supposed quiet time, the tv room begins to empty out so that dozens of people come pouring forth paying no mind to those in their bunks trying to sleep.  You hear loud debates over whether Lebron or Steph is the best or whatever else has been on the tube that night.  When the tv room finally empties out the bathroom runs start.  My bed on the beach is about four feet from the bathroom door.  Many of my 170 roomies are past middle age, so all night there is a constant stream (pun intended) to the toilet.  You may not know that prison protocol requires us to flush constantly while sitting on the pot, then to wash our hands, and hey, why push the hand dryer button with a finger when you can pound it with your fist as hard and loud as possible?

At some point amidst all the bathroom visits, it’s time for evening count.  Which means that guards with a known aversion to this concept called numbers strut up and down the hall with flashlights blazing and keys jangling.  It never fails that Tweedledee and Tweedledum end up with conflicting totals.  They yell “Recount!”  And start all over again.

And then there’s our obsessive floor buffer guy.  Our geri-curled transgender orderly fires up the buffer and sets to work some mornings at 4:30 am.  If you work in the cafeteria, you have to get up at 4 to be ready for work by 4:45.  Insulin call is at 5:30 am.  Breakfast call is 5:45.  Medical call at 6.  The first interesting arguments start up around 6:15.  And there you are, bleary-eyed, wondering what sleep must feel like for anyone lucky enough to be deaf and blind in this place.

Once I’m up and unrested, I get to hang out with my fellow beach mates.  Since everyone starts out on the beach, you meet all sorts.  Guys that just arrived from country jails look shell-shocked; those that dropped down from medium security sleep in their boots, keep their shank handy, and rag about how this place is no real prison.  I currently share the beach with a guy who wears a colostomy bag (after a hospital screw up) and another we call Louis Farrakhan (constantly preaching Nation of Islam while pointing a finger at someone in this loud staccato voice claiming he used to be a rich securities trader (this is normal in prison, where guys will claim with a straight face that they used to make $150k a day and drive a Bentley and live in three mansions and by the way, if you want a good stock tip all you have to do is send his people a couple thou.)

So that’s a typical day on the beach.  Never dark, never quiet, no sleep, and crowded like you can’t imagine.  Don’t get me started on the smells.  But, you know, I guess it’s not as bad as living in a cube with a floor polishing tranny and Dr. Strangelove.  But that’s a story for another time….

10 Things NOT to Do in Prison

A lot of my blog posts address things you should do to get along in prison.  Today I’d like to give some examples of things NOT to do, all of which happen to have been attempted by the same person, the forever clueless G-Money.  As one old-timer put it, “That boy is a crash-test dummy, just keeps on slammin’ his head into the dashboard again and again.”  In no particular order then, here are Ten Things NOT to Say or Do in a Federal Prison:

1.     Drop your trousers to change clothes in an open pod or cube (as G-Money did on his first week on the Beach here).  When advised not to do this, he compounded the problem by stepping right into…

2.     This reply:  “How ‘bout you don’t look at my ass?”  (Um, seriously?  I mean, never EVER accuse a man of looking at your butt unless you are prepared for a harsh consequence, which in this case was a swift punch to the face.)

3.     Do not go on about how your sentence is just a blip in front of guys who are serving 10, 15, 20, 25, 30 year bids.

4.     Do not openly refer to fellow inmates as “you prisoners.”

5.     Do not talk about how you will refrain from ice cream or candy or soda for the duration of your blippy 18-month bid (no one wants to hear it).

6.     Do not openly compare your case to others and explain why you got less time.

7.     Do not go into the tv room and sit on top of someone else’s blanket, then when confronted tell the guy to “lighten up, it’s just a blanket.”  (In here, a cardinal rule is that you do not sit on, touch, or move someone else’s stuff unless you have express permission.)

8.     Do not lecture a guy that he may not understand what you are saying because it may be over his head.

9.     Do not express anger at being gloved (in prison parlance this means losing a card game 5 times in a row, a full glove) in gin for the 4^th straight time by your truck driving redneck cellie, grab your cards and storm out of the cube. (Being a poor loser in prison is a license for trouble.)

10. After “taking the ball and going home” re 9 above, do not then attempt to smooth things over by explaining that you are simply not accustomed to losing games to those clearly of inferior intellect.

Maybe some of these transgressions seem silly to you, but here in prison, let me just say that each is an offense for which getting punched in the face would be considered a perfectly reasonable punishment.  Luckily (and incredibly), so far G-Money has only suffered that one punch out, though he has been threatened and yelled at too many times to count.  Most of the guys seem to have decided that he is a clueless, short-timer, smug asshole, not worth the trouble to straighten out.  For all of us, at least, he does provide some entertainment.