Taylor Kole's Blog, page 2

Entry 11: My first fistfight & how my life changed

I’m not going to make it in prison. I don‘t think I’ll crack, I mean survive in general. When I give it some thought and consider my personality, it’s almost a guarantee I get stabbed.

I started life poor. My young mother crocheted doilies and held Avon parties. She did her best raising me and tending house. My dad worked as a salesman by day and pumped gas at night (yes, yes, pumping other people’s gas used to be a real job). These traits are why he and my mother climbed from the housing projects to upper-class in a steady rise throughout their lives.

I used to think I escaped the slums. Looking around, I’m not sure I did. I got into my first fight at age four. It took place in the Fifth-Ward Housing Projects in Houston. There were even ringside seats.

My mom has told this story often, so I know it well. We were one of two caucasian families in these projects, and despite having the same skin, it was Bubba (his Christian name), who gave me the most problems. He was a few years older than me, and his parents encouraged him to be dominant.

I came home one day holding my bleeding nose. My mom asked what happened. I said, “Bubba wanted my G.I. Joe, I told him no, so he pushed my face, and then tried to pass my face.”

“Pass your face?”

I stepped away and pantomimed a kick. I was learning soccer, but all I had absorbed was how to pass the ball.

This was the first and one of the only times, I saw my mom get angry. She marched me down to their house and demanded the return of my G.I. Joe.

The Bubba clan refused on grounds of Darwinism.

An argument ensued, escalated, and my father paused his changing of the oil to come drag my mom away.

That night, my parents made a decision. My dad had just completed four years in the Marines, and my mom had fought to escape a frightening past. They combined these strengths and taught me how to make a fist and punch.

My mother spent the next twenty years claiming it was the biggest mistake of their lives, but my anger issues, which started in my teenage years, had nothing to do with what they showed me.

After a training montage, the day came for me to retrieve my G.I. Joe. The sun was up, but past the blaze that Houston provides. I remember my dad doing push-ups and rolling a pack of cigarettes into his sleeve, revealing his much-loved tattoo of a bulldog wearing a Marine‘s shirt. My mom was fired up. She banged on the door and explained I was hear to fight Bubba and winner gets the G.I. Joe.

The Bubba‘s laughed. They brought out lawn chairs and called over neighbors. Bubba‘s dad had a beer belly. He eased into a chair with a six pack, offered my dad one, who refused, then kicked back. Bubba‘s skinny mother was so convinced of her son’s victory, she went around their apartment and gathered all of the toys Bubba had stolen from me.

Bubba and I were ushered into the center and everyone waited.

With a grin in place, Bubba pushed me.

I balled my little fists under my jaw and narrowed my eyes. 

“Get ‘em boy,” Bubba‘s mom yelled. On his way in, I kicked him on the shin and popped him with a left jab, then a right hook that set him on his butt.

I approached like a robot. My upper body swaying with each step, my fists glued under my chin. I mounted his lap and landed a few methodical rights before my dad stepped in and lifted me off of Bubba, who curled up and wailed.

All of the spectators were riled up. Bubba‘s dad laughed and threw an empty beer can at his son.

My mom collected my toys and we did the walk of champions.

I don‘t recall fighting again until Junior High, when one event derailed my life.

I was a happy boy with loving parents. I loved to read Hardy Boys mysteries and my mother made sure I always had a new book. My dad encouraged my imagination by playing ninja with me or Conan the Barbarian. We built tree forts in the summer, rolled snow forts in the winter, and made them with blankets and couches on rainy nights.

By seventh grade, I was a popular kid, in advanced classes, ran track, and wrestled.

We’d elevated to lower-middle class. One day, an older boy gathered everyone at his house after school. We piled on and around the couch in his basement as he toyed with the VCR.

When the movie played, I was transfixed. I forgot I was surrounded by peers, or in a room, or on a rock called Earth.

I was watching my first porno.

Twenty seconds into it a boy darted from the couch and shut it off.

The host told us he had found the video in his parent’s closet.

We all hopped on our bikes and dispersed. We had homes to search!

For the next few days we would assemble at different homes and watch a minute clip. Looking back, anything longer would have been too awkward.

The day came for all of my friends to watch the one I had found. We took our spots and I played it. A second later, I hurried to shut it off.

It was homemade and of my parents. There was another couple. A woman filming and a naked man near my naked parents. We all freaked out and laughed. I was embarrassed, but not too much… these were my friends.

The next day at school one of the other popular kids, who was much larger and more developed than I, asked to see my hand. The gathering crowd had hungry eyes, which made me nervous. But no problem, me and this guy had done sleepovers, we hung in the same crowd. I was protected from pranks by the public school societal hierarchy.

He pinned my hand back in a manner his police officer father had shown him. The pain was so intense, I dropped to my knees and begged him to stop.

A few seconds later, he shoved me down (he’s a police officer now). From my rump, I massaged my wrist and searched the kids around me.

Why did he do that?

He said something about my mom being a whore and walked away.

At the next class break, I got more. But now it was my dad was a faggot and a pimp. They laughed at everything I said. I left school at lunch and went home to cry.

My world changed.

The following morning I had resolved to confront the kid who bent my wrist. He was a year older, double my size and had already shaved. I challenged him to a fight after school, where I held on, did not cry, but lost soundly.

Any bullying or whispers about me were countered with a challenge to fight. Most didn’t think the tradeoff fair. Some did. Soon I was fighting bullies at other schools. It carried into my twenties. All the while I researched the science of strikes and submissions.

I got older, found less bullies, and gradually relinquished my anger. In prison, however, there are multitudes of bullies and I feel the old juices flowing. I find myself stretching, visualizing a fight.

The guys in here may be tough, but they know nothing of hand-to-hand combat, grappling, or boxing. They think because they listen to certain music, have tattoos, use slang, force baritone, and one time sucker-punched a drunk cousin at a barbecue, that they can fight.

I want to show them that it‘s not nice to pick on people, but fights will add to my sentence. Besides, I want to grow, not regress. I want to read and write, learn who cares about me, and make new friends for my future life.

We‘ll see how it goes, but at what point does staying in-line become cowardly? When is punching a guy in the face because he’s an asshole and everyone else is too scared to do it, noble?

I’m not sure. I’ll try and lay low until I hear your thoughts. Please continue checking on me.

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As always, please read the posts in numeric order.

Entry 10: Hard Evidence these were written in prison

[image error]Hard evidence this was written in prison.

Previously, on the tenth posts, I inserted something different. I will continue this with updates about my current situation. Perhaps, after the first twenty five posts are up and you have a nice feel for the writing, I will insert a “live update” on every fifth post. Maybe I will start with my release, the struggles, and go from there. Who knows.

First I’ll answer the main questions I get: how accurate are these? Was this written in prison? How much to you embellish? They are 100% accurate. I wrote things as they were. With post five I had to wonder myself, but I know I only wrote what happened as I saw it, so I trusted even that wild entry.
With this entry, I’m asking you to help me and this blog. My life is progressing. On a chart, I got released and went up, hit a few snags of depression and loss, but rebounded. As a convict, my gains come from innovation (meaning there is no opportunity), doing quality work, and going the extra inch in everything I do. That said, my money is low.

I will place these journal entries on Amazon. If you want to read more than what is provided on the site, all 600k words will be on Amazon as soon as possible. Amazon ranks how people see writing based on reviews. If you’d like to read more and support me, click this link and enjoy. Diary of a US Prisoner.
Donations help in the most direct way. I will prove worthy of any hand up I receive. I need basic things. (My vacuum cleaner has no handle. To vacuum, I get on my knees and push it by the base with two hands. Real talk). 

I also want things. (A nice TV to enjoy all the shows I missed, a couch that doesn’t sag to the carpet when I sit.) Not ready to donation? No problem. There are free methods that require seconds of your time:

Please:

1. LIKE the FACEBOOK page, Share my posts when you feel up to it.

2. Follow the TWITTER account, retweet when you feel up to it.

3. If you like to type, I could use help typing these entries. I have over 300. Once I get them typed, I will put in print form (50 entries at a time), and put as ebooks (20 at a time) on Amazon. Email me if you’re willing to type a few out. diaryofprisonerx@gmail.com

4. Click on the links. I don’t get paid for them, but Google will give me “credibility” rankings for every link that gets clicked.

5. Leave comments when something strikes you. (this is big and seemingly being overlooked)

6. Register your email. It’s at the bottom of every post. You will get a notification and the emails are easy to read from any phone.

7. Leave me a review on Amazon. (Buying the ebook makes it a “verified review” which is multiples more credible through Amazon’s algorithm. But reviews are HUGE. Please leave me one.

8. Reddit upvotes. and comments

9. Donate through Paypal. If Venmo or any other, let me know and I will attach it. 

I’m concerned the paypal doesn’t work. Fifty-nine people have clicked the donate link, yet there have been zero donations. We will need some love to keep going. And if you tried and paypal is giving you issues, please let me know.

That‘s it. Take a few seconds or a few minutes and work through this list. Do what you can/are willing to, and help me. You’ll be a bona-fide contributing member, make my day, and possibly help me improve my life.

Regardless, I hope to see you at the next post.

Register email

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ENTRY ELEVEN

Entry 10: Current chat/How you can help

Entry 10: Current update/how you can help

Previously, on the tenth posts, I inserted something different. I will continue this with updates about my current situation. Perhaps, after the first twenty five posts are up and you have a nice feel for the writing, I will insert a “live update” on every fifth post. Maybe I will start with my release, the struggles, and go from there. Who knows.

First I’ll answer the main questions I get: how accurate are these? Was this written in prison? How much to you embellish? They are 100% accurate. I wrote things as they were. With post five I had to wonder myself, but I know I only wrote what happened as I saw it, so I trusted even that wild entry.
With this entry, I’m asking you to help me and this blog. My life is progressing. On a chart, I got released and went up, hit a few snags of depression and loss, but rebounded. As a convict, my gains come from innovation (meaning there is no opportunity), doing quality work, and going the extra inch in everything I do. That said, my money is low. Working six days, 51 hours a week, I have $375 a month in spendable income. Phone, internet, toiletries, socks and such, usually leaves $25 a week to spend on myself (Culver’s Snicker’s concrete mixers). I’m fine, but that part of my life sucks.

I will place these journal entries on Amazon. If you want to read more than what is provided on the site, all 600k words will be on Amazon as soon as possible. Amazon ranks how people see writing based on reviews. If you’d like to read more and support me, click this link and enjoy. Diary of a US Prisoner.
Donations help in the most direct way. I will prove worthy of any hand up I receive. I need basic things. (My vacuum cleaner has no handle. To vacuum, I get on my knees and push it by the base with two hands. Real talk). 

I also want things. (A nice TV to enjoy all the shows I missed, a couch that doesn’t sag to the carpet when I sit.) Not ready to donation? No problem. There are free methods that require seconds of your time:

Please:

1. LIKE the FACEBOOK page, Share my posts when you feel up to it.

2. Follow the TWITTER account, retweet when you feel up to it.

3. If you like to type, I could use help typing these entries. I have over 300. Once I get them typed, I will put in print form (50 entries at a time), and put as ebooks (20 at a time) on Amazon. Email me if you’re willing to type a few out. diaryofprisonerx@gmail.com

4. Click on the links. I don’t get paid for them, but Google will give me “credibility” rankings for every link that gets clicked.

5. Leave comments when something strikes you. (this is big and seemingly being overlooked)

6. Register your email. It’s at the bottom of every post. You will get a notification and the emails are easy to read from any phone.

7. Leave me a review on Amazon. (Buying the ebook makes it a “verified review” which is multiples more credible through Amazon’s algorithm. But reviews are HUGE. Please leave me one.

8. Reddit upvotes. and comments

9. Donate through Paypal. If Venmo or any other, let me know and I will attach it. 

I’m concerned the paypal doesn’t work. Fifty-nine people have clicked the donate link, yet there have been zero donations. We will need some love to keep going. And if you tried and paypal is giving you issues, please let me know.

That‘s it. Take a few seconds or a few minutes and work through this list. Do what you can/are willing to, and help me. You’ll be a bona-fide contributing member, make my day, and possibly help me improve my life.

Regardless, I hope to see you at the next post.

Register email

Subscribe

Entry 9: First Prison Knockout

It’s 8:30 in the morning. A bit early to write today’s post, but I doubt an event will top the currently ebbing one, so here we go.

As I sat on my cot reading last night’s post/rant, an inmate yelled directly below me, breaking the silence.

“They’re going to kill me, ya’ll! They’re going to kill me! Tell my family!”

People yell stupid stuff throughout the day, but this guy sounded terrified.

“They’re going to kill me! You’re next! Believe me, you’re all next!”

Someone on the rock shouted, “I wish they would hurry up so we can get back to sleep.”

“No!” The guy screamed with an increased level of distress. “Don’t fucking kill me! Please don’t kill me!”

I’m not sure who he was talking to, but he is right below me, which means he can probably see the officers at their desk.

“Shut the fuck up before we do,” barked the psychotic officer we all know.

I’ve watched Shawshank Redemption. I remember the brutality of those guards, and I’m new to prison. Perhaps this inmate is right to be afraid?

The CO’s threat sent the inmate into a frenzy. He kicked at his cage all while droning, “don’t kill me, don’t fucking kill me. Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me.”

The guard’s rattled as if he rose from his chair. He paced toward the man. He started heckling him, a little too low for me to hear it all, but by the tone he was having fun. I heard him say, “We’re gonna get ya!”

 The man was yelling so loud everyone on the rock started to yell. Some to their neighbor, others at the inmate, some at the guard. 

When the worried man reached a point where you could hear that he was crying, the CO shouted for everyone to shut up. Most of the inmates obeyed, but the man was inconsolable. He was begging to not be murdered.

Once relatively quiet, the CO called for back up over his mic and addressed the distressed man, “You’re going to observation. I’m not gonna listen to this shit all day.” His keys rattle and unlocked the cell. The convict went silent the minute the key slid into the lock.

As the door opened, the CO–now in full control–said, “Now, keep your fucking mou-“

That was when the guard we know so well’s words were cut short by a two slap sound I know so well, a left, right to the face, and the right connected with serious umphh!

Quick footsteps, and the exterior door crashed open. An alarm sounded. Not the piercing alarm of a prison escape, it was a lone fire alarm the guards tested daily, but it still amplified the danger. The inmate had fled his cell, then the building, inside a fortified prison.

There was no chance of escape. We are in the heart of a complex with redundant walls, razors, and fences. The area he ran back to led to a majority of the prison that had been closed for years, but it still had its own fencing and razors, and structures. However, the thought of those obstacles didn’t constrict my chest and perk my ears.

The man in the gun tower scared me.

On my first day here, a nurse informed me that he had worked at this prison for thirteen years. I asked him if he had ever seen anyone shot.

While exhaling, he bobbed his head. A beat later, he pointed out our window. “A couple of months back, a guy tried the fence rights there. It was a foggy day.” He placed a pen to his lips and was lost in thought. A moment later, he added, “He’s a paraplegic now.”

Back in my cell, the big sirens went off. I heard the fleeing convict scream and through the window slats, saw him go down

I tensed for the report of a rifle shot. Luckily for the man, tasers have a decent range.

His escape lasted twenty seconds, covered thirty feet, and put the entire prison on lock-down. When the prison gets put on lock-down, inmates are hurried back to their cells.

The man in the cell next to me was on a callout. Having arrived after the doors had been locked, he was stuck on the catwalk which afforded him a bird’s eye view of the ordeal. He is one of the people I talk to and the only one who knows I am writing this, and I asked him what he saw.

He looked back at me with eyes the size of half-dollars, a smile etched his faced. He then yelled so everyone could hear. “It’s officer so-and-so, man!” Meaning the guard we all know and hate (perhaps just dislike). “Nigga’s on his back, wide-eyed, dazed, holding his jaw and neck.”

Another inmate who could see yelled, “I saw it. He got knocked the fuck out.”

Hundreds of voices screamed in unison, deafening the narrow building. People were kicking the hollow, thin metal that housed our desks and lockers. It sent a deafening reverberation through the building. To me, they sounded like post-victory war drums.

With a current racing through me, I joined hundreds of others and yelled, “Where’s that mouth of yours now?” I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt vindicated. I imagine we all did.

Convicts asked the guard how tough he was now? How he liked being a smartass, and so on.

My neighbor watched and called it out in real time as officers helped the smart ass to his feet. He was limping as they helped him to a chair. He seemed delirious, but I think he was lucid. I think inflections of justice were raining down, overloading him. He was hearing each and every insult, absorbing them, and accepting he deserved them all, and more.

He may remain the same man, but for that instant, God was doing His best to navigate the bully onto a corrected path.

As they led him out, a universal chant was gaining steam, but I wasn’t sure what was being said, and asked my neighbor. He was leaning over the railing, chanting with the throngs. At the sound of my voice, he leaned all the way back while keeping his hands on the top bar and continued in-time, “ARUS IS NEXT!”

Yes, that was it. “ARUS IS NEXT! ARUS IS NEXT!”

“But what’s ARUS?”

“Our psych.”

Each section gets a counselor. They are our only line of defense, our representatives against errors and mistreatment. He’s called an ARUS. I’ve written ours multiple times, but have yet to receive a response.

I see him daily. He spends his time at the guard station, laughing. He strolls to the few people he blesses with his attention. He wears dark-colored sunglasses atop his slicked-back hair. His shirts are Tommy Bahama–a brand popular in my small circle of smuggler friends as they cost a hundred and fifty dollars, are made of silk, and each button is pressed from a coconut husk. His pants flow as he walks and his polished shoes add to his South Beach persona.

It was rumored that he shared our medical and mental information with the guards and they all got good laughs out of it.

I’m not sure what ARUS means, but it stands with the guards, and was the exact opposite of anything you would want to rely on when you need sympathy or assistance.

Out of the window, I saw the guards lift the man who one-two’ed our oppressor from the grass. It was the first look I had. All my glee evaporated. His face was contorted in agony. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He bellowed for help while rotating his head, searching for a friendly face in the sea of gray and black.

Blood leaked from his forehead, presumably from the fall after being tased (in jail, I learned this was common). As they led him inside, he cried, “Please don’t kill me, guys. Please don’t kill me.”

I swallowed the rising lump in my throat as the chaos around me dimmed. The rock grew quiet, then silent. Everyone listened as they escorted the man through the building.

Moments later, chatter resumed a steady buzz, but the yelling had subsided. I talked with my neighbor. He had been telling me the day before that if our A-hole guard worked in a level four prison, he would be respectful, or get stabbed–plain and simple.

My cell is the first at the top of the stairs. It is nearest the gun lane, a spot that allows an armed man to cover the two galleys in case of a riot. He also had end slots to cover the yard.

The gun tower officer was standing in the  “window” saying something to me.

I yelled that I couldn’t hear him.

He yelled, “That man don’t know how close he came to reaching that big house in the sky.”

Being slow on the uptake, I frowned. He pointed upwards and I understood.

By the flushness of his face, I could tell he was coming down off a rush and needed someone to vent to. He had just been through an ordeal. I saw in his face that he was thankful he hadn’t shot the fleeing man, but the reduction of adrenaline was proof that it had been his intention.

“What’s the shoot rule?” I asked.

“Shoot to stop.”

“The head?” My neighbor asked (and here I had been thinking about a warning shot).

“Could be, but it could also be the leg,” he retrieved his rifle. Its presence tightened my chest. He racked the bolt. The sound echoed and amplified, sending a chill down my spine.

Ejecting the bullet, he rotated it between his thumb and forefinger. Again, I had the feeling he was grateful to have someone to talk to, rather than be looking at someone who would never speak again.

The phone trilled in his hide. He nodded. I nodded, and he ducked away.

An old-school joined us and inquired as to what the gun tower officer had said. I told him.

He then told us today was the guard who got punched’s lucky day. He would receive twenty to ninety paid leave to recover. But it was really because he needed time to pass to avoid constant ridicule.

He then animatedly impersonated many of the potential insults the guard would have endured.

While laughing at one of old-school’s impressions, I asked what would happen to the inmate. His tone changed from light-hearted to serious.

“Depends on the guards, I guess. A little beating. A lot? Then they treat him like a dog the rest of his bit.”

“Will he get a new charge?”

“Maybe, but don’t matter. He’ll do every day of his max.”

Today David slew Goliath, but the payment for helping his people will be years of mistreatment. A stiff price for someone who was probably mentally ill.

It’s 10:24 in the morning. The start of another day in quarantine.

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Entry 9: Karma

Entry 9: Karma

It’s 8:30 in the morning. A bit early to write today’s post, but I doubt an event will top the currently ebbing one, so here we go.

As I sat on my cot reading last night’s post/rant, an inmate yelled directly below me, breaking the silence.

“They’re going to kill me, ya’ll! They’re going to kill me! Tell my family!”

People yell stupid stuff throughout the day, but this guy sounded terrified.

“They’re going to kill me! You’re next! Believe me, you’re all next!”

Someone on the rock shouted, “I wish they would hurry up so we can get back to sleep.”

“No!” The guy screamed with an increased level of distress. “Don’t fucking kill me! Please don’t kill me!”

I’m not sure who he was talking to, but he is right below me, which means he can probably see the officers at their desk.

“Shut the fuck up before we do,” barked the psychotic officer we all know.

I’ve watched Shawshank Redemption. I remember the brutality of those guards, and I’m new to prison. Perhaps this inmate is right to be afraid?

The CO’s threat sent the inmate into a frenzy. He kicked at his cage all while droning, “don’t kill me, don’t fucking kill me. Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me.”

The guard’s rattled as if he rose from his chair. He paced toward the man. He started heckling him, a little too low for me to hear it all, but by the tone he was having fun. I heard him say, “We’re gonna get ya!”

 The man was yelling so loud everyone on the rock started to yell. Some to their neighbor, others at the inmate, some at the guard. 

When the worried man reached a point where you could hear that he was crying, the CO shouted for everyone to shut up. Most of the inmates obeyed, but the man was inconsolable. He was begging to not be murdered.

Once relatively quiet, the CO called for back up over his mic and addressed the distressed man, “You’re going to observation. I’m not gonna listen to this shit all day.” His keys rattle and unlocked the cell. The convict went silent the minute the key slid into the lock.

As the door opened, the CO–now in full control–said, “Now, keep your fucking mou-“

That was when the guard we know so well’s words were cut short by a two slap sound I know so well, a left, right to the face, and the right connected with serious umphh!

Quick footsteps, and the exterior door crashed open. An alarm sounded. Not the piercing alarm of a prison escape, it was a lone fire alarm the guards tested daily, but it still amplified the danger. The inmate had fled his cell, then the building, inside a fortified prison.

There was no chance of escape. We are in the heart of a complex with redundant walls, razors, and fences. The area he ran back to led to a majority of the prison that had been closed for years, but it still had its own fencing and razors, and structures. However, the thought of those obstacles didn’t constrict my chest and perk my ears.

The man in the gun tower scared me.

On my first day here, a nurse informed me that he had worked at this prison for thirteen years. I asked him if he had ever seen anyone shot.

While exhaling, he bobbed his head. A beat later, he pointed out our window. “A couple of months back, a guy tried the fence rights there. It was a foggy day.” He placed a pen to his lips and was lost in thought. A moment later, he added, “He’s a paraplegic now.”

Back in my cell, the big sirens went off. I heard the fleeing convict scream and through the window slats, saw him go down

I tensed for the report of a rifle shot. Luckily for the man, tasers have a decent range.

His escape lasted twenty seconds, covered thirty feet, and put the entire prison on lock-down. When the prison gets put on lock-down, inmates are hurried back to their cells.

The man in the cell next to me was on a callout. Having arrived after the doors had been locked, he was stuck on the catwalk which afforded him a bird’s eye view of the ordeal. He is one of the people I talk to and the only one who knows I am writing this, and I asked him what he saw.

He looked back at me with eyes the size of half-dollars, a smile etched his faced. He then yelled so everyone could hear. “It’s officer so-and-so, man!” Meaning the guard we all know and hate (perhaps just dislike). “Nigga’s on his back, wide-eyed, dazed, holding his jaw and neck.”

Another inmate who could see yelled, “I saw it. He got knocked the fuck out.”

Hundreds of voices screamed in unison, deafening the narrow building. People were kicking the hollow, thin metal that housed our desks and lockers. It sent a deafening reverberation through the building. To me, they sounded like post-victory war drums.

With a current racing through me, I joined hundreds of others and yelled, “Where’s that mouth of yours now?” I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt vindicated. I imagine we all did.

Convicts asked the guard how tough he was now? How he liked being a smartass, and so on.

My neighbor watched and called it out in real time as officers helped the smart ass to his feet. He was limping as they helped him to a chair. He seemed delirious, but I think he was lucid. I think inflections of justice were raining down, overloading him. He was hearing each and every insult, absorbing them, and accepting he deserved them all, and more.

He may remain the same man, but for that instant, God was doing His best to navigate the bully onto a corrected path.

As they led him out, a universal chant was gaining steam, but I wasn’t sure what was being said, and asked my neighbor. He was leaning over the railing, chanting with the throngs. At the sound of my voice, he leaned all the way back while keeping his hands on the top bar and continued in-time, “ARUS IS NEXT!”

Yes, that was it. “ARUS IS NEXT! ARUS IS NEXT!”

“But what’s ARUS?”

“Our psych.”

Each section gets a counselor. They are our only line of defense, our representatives against errors and mistreatment. He’s called an ARUS. I’ve written ours multiple times, but have yet to receive a response.

I see him daily. He spends his time at the guard station, laughing. He strolls to the few people he blesses with his attention. He wears dark-colored sunglasses atop his slicked-back hair. His shirts are Tommy Bahama–a brand popular in my small circle of smuggler friends as they cost a hundred and fifty dollars, are made of silk, and each button is pressed from a coconut husk. His pants flow as he walks and his polished shoes add to his South Beach persona.

It was rumored that he shared our medical and mental information with the guards and they all got good laughs out of it.

I’m not sure what ARUS means, but it stands with the guards, and was the exact opposite of anything you would want to rely on when you need sympathy or assistance.

Out of the window, I saw the guards lift the man who one-two’ed our oppressor from the grass. It was the first look I had. All my glee evaporated. His face was contorted in agony. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He bellowed for help while rotating his head, searching for a friendly face in the sea of gray and black.

Blood leaked from his forehead, presumably from the fall after being tased (in jail, I learned this was common). As they led him inside, he cried, “Please don’t kill me, guys. Please don’t kill me.”

I swallowed the rising lump in my throat as the chaos around me dimmed. The rock grew quiet, then silent. Everyone listened as they escorted the man through the building.

Moments later, chatter resumed a steady buzz, but the yelling had subsided. I talked with my neighbor. He had been telling me the day before that if our A-hole guard worked in a level four prison, he would be respectful, or get stabbed–plain and simple.

My cell is the first at the top of the stairs. It is nearest the gun lane, a spot that allows an armed man to cover the two galleys in case of a riot. He also had end slots to cover the yard.

The gun tower officer was standing in the  “window” saying something to me.

I yelled that I couldn’t hear him.

He yelled, “That man don’t know how close he came to reaching that big house in the sky.”

Being slow on the uptake, I frowned. He pointed upwards and I understood.

By the flushness of his face, I could tell he was coming down off a rush and needed someone to vent to. He had just been through an ordeal. I saw in his face that he was thankful he hadn’t shot the fleeing man, but the reduction of adrenaline was proof that it had been his intention.

“What’s the shoot rule?” I asked.

“Shoot to stop.”

“The head?” My neighbor asked (and here I had been thinking about a warning shot).

“Could be, but it could also be the leg,” he retrieved his rifle. Its presence tightened my chest. He racked the bolt. The sound echoed and amplified, sending a chill down my spine.

Ejecting the bullet, he rotated it between his thumb and forefinger. Again, I had the feeling he was grateful to have someone to talk to, rather than be looking at someone who would never speak again.

The phone trilled in his hide. He nodded. I nodded, and he ducked away.

An old-school joined us and inquired as to what the gun tower officer had said. I told him.

He then told us today was the guard who got punched’s lucky day. He would receive twenty to ninety paid leave to recover. But it was really because he needed time to pass to avoid constant ridicule.

He then animatedly impersonated many of the potential insults the guard would have endured.

While laughing at one of old-school’s impressions, I asked what would happen to the inmate. His tone changed from light-hearted to serious.

“Depends on the guards, I guess. A little beating. A lot? Then they treat him like a dog the rest of his bit.”

“Will he get a new charge?”

“Maybe, but don’t matter. He’ll do every day of his max.”

Today David slew Goliath, but the payment for helping his people will be years of mistreatment. A stiff price for someone who was probably mentally ill.

It’s 10:24 in the morning. The start of another day in quarantine.

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Entry 8: US Justice

I wake to find a sheet of paper in between my bars, an itinerary.: Boot camp Registration Seminar. It’s bad news to me, but I guess it could have read: ”You’ve been charged with the Kennedy assassination,’ or, ‘Your blood work is back, welcome to HIV.”

On my way to the boot camp seminar, I weighed the advantages and disadvantages of turning down the program. Halfway through, I learned if you refused the program, they flop you, which adds another year in prison.

Declining would not “technically” be the reason for the flop, as the courts would neeevvveerr threaten someone into compliance.

What most Americans don’t realize is that our courts are not about justice nor seeking the truth. It‘s a game played by attorneys, refereed by judges.

Prosecutors don’t care about guilt. It’s not in their job description. They’re paid to win, and the best win is one where they simply suit up.

In Michigan, supplements are a fairly new tool for the prosecution. They have completely changed the thought process for a defendant to go to trial (even when innocent).

Each time a person gets in trouble, the penalty compounds until the fourth felony, where they face life in prison. Sounds reasonable. And for years it was, until team prosecution realized the defendant didn’t need to have committed a previous crime, they only had to be accused of multiple crimes at once. This allows a first time felon to qualify for this steeple of American justice.

So when I laughed at going to prison for a DUI and paraphernalia charge, and said I wanted a trial, they smirked and informed me that if I went to trial and lost, I’d get 12-30 years.

Take away the preemptive supplements and keep the charges, my guidelines become a manageable 0-17, or 5-23 months, not years!

I ended up pleading to three felonies so they would drop the supplements. The police then seized my beautiful home and everything of value, down to my cherry wood dining room set and my expensive throw rugs from around the world.

I will also have to complete weekly drug classes in here and once released, pay thousands in fines (and seven to a worthless attorney), and lose my driver’s license.

In my brief encounters with other first time “habitual” offenders, I jailed with a kid who stole a fifth of vodka from a grocery store. A police officer arrived as he exited and ordered the high-schooler to stop. He ran – felony #1 – fleeing and eluding. Having his identity, the police went to his parent’s home at six the next morning and his father foolishly allowed them to enter his home and guided then to the son’s room where they told him to get up. Here, he committed the sinister crime of covering his head with a blanket – felony #2 – hindering and opposing.

Rather than risk five years in prison–after all, he stole the fifth, ran, and covered his head with a blanket, he agreed to a year in jail, which coincided with his senior year of high school, since he was seventeen.

Two brothers got into a drunken fight with one another in their own home. A girlfriend made the frantic error of calling the police for help. They arrived and arrested both brothers and charged each of them with domestic violence. One brother voiced his disapproval and was also charged with verbal battery, and felony #1 resisting and obstructing, and after a little digging, felony #2 interfering with a police correspondence (something to that effect. He had disconnected the phone when he noticed this girlfriend calling the police. She did not object to his actions, but why would that matter?)

It’s all about twisting your arm into submission. They say plea to this and we will give you a year, or fight the absurdity, and we will convict you of at least one of these gray area crimes and give you the maximum

For my current charges, I was advised to plea, or go to trial and get 12-30 years. I still wanted to risk it, but I needed an expert to testify on my behalf, and that cost six thousand dollars a day (2 day minimum). Also, I was guilty, but I had chances to win on technicality and procedural errors, even in a slanted court room.

Most judges think we are trash and consider themselves law enforcement, not neutral arbiters of justice. The prosecutor believes being tough on crime is the path to power. The defense attorney wants the ease of money that comes with doing nothing for their clients.

My attorney, on this case, cost me seven thousand dollars. He was a really nice guy who explained in great detail, and with infectious confidence, all we needed to do and the simplicity of getting my cases dismissed, or at worst, down to six months in jail. I agreed and paid him.

He never worked another minute.

He even admitted to me, during a literal shoulder shrug, and near the end of my ordeal, that he had not found the time to read how to apply search and seizure laws to my arrest.

He never retrieved my cell-phone, or pursued the fact that the narcotics officers used it while I was in jail to text my associates. Yet, my phone was not returned, nor was forfeiture paperwork filled out?

I don’t have a law degree, but taking something that isn’t yours and using it is theft, obvious entrapment, and probable hindering and opposing, definitely resisting and obstructing. I’ve lived the life of a criminal. If this site continues, you’ll hear about it, but police are not much better. They are just people. I’m another POS they can fry and forget.

So I plead to their years. It was that, or risk trial with only me to explain the laws and situation to the jurors, knowing that if I lose I’d do decades in a place where men have built muscles for ten years to facilitate maximum violence.

Why do they care? There is no good time in Michigan, so inmates have zero incentive to behave while locked up.

Guys are hungry, but prisons won’t distribute more food. It costs too much. Creating bugs and cleaning up blood is a lot cheaper.

Okav, okay, I’m sorry. Look, life is a learning process. We just learned if I say mention rant, it’s coming.

I hope to see you tomorrow.

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Entry 7: Race Relations

Being that I’m in prison and most movie involving prison have racial themes, I might as well air my thoughts.

It seems society is regressing to a state of absolute control. Conform or die (socially). I always thought freedom of speech was the defensive wall to freedom of thought, but there is a major war targeting freedom of thought. Voicing a contrary opinion to what some hypocritical liar outlined as politically correct will get you lambasted by the frightened but tenacious zealots.

In jail, people have good open conversations about race.

What’s happening in the real world is phony.

My opinion is probably the same as ninety percent of you. Individually, we can be anything. Collectively there are racial and regional tendencies. White and Asian, Hispanic and Black. All have associated traits. Only crazy white liberals and people making money off of them will tell you different. Every time Barrack Obama said, “Let’s celebrate our diversity, I was moved.”

Throughout the millenniums, the differences in how we lived, survived and settled disputes have bred unique qualities and emotions in our genetic memory.

I’m not saying one is better. I’m saying we are different.

If you disagree, you’re either worried about being lambasted, have always lived among a majority of your own kind, are under twenty-four, or incapable of honest assessment.

Do you think men and women are the same?

Equal sure. Similar, yes. But the same?

In prison we drop the pretenses, and though there is interaction among all, the majority of inmates stick to their own. Those who don’t usually find themselves exploited, and then cast into a lonely sea.

In prison there is racism, AKA, the guard who came on shift this morning, but whites get the same treatment from certain guards, so it’s an annoying wash.

In prison, race determines who you walk with on the yard and trade items with. When a particular inmate is serving food, my portions are half that of my African American neighbors, but I don’t mind. Little jabs like that will always exist.

Looking around the yard, I see the Aryan Brotherhood walking together. In Michigan, their numbers are so few and they’re so outnumbered and alienated I find myself wishing them luck.

There are Moabites, an Islamic organization. They are easy to spot cliquing up. They sport neatly trimmed beards, prefer bald heads, and wear stocking caps rolled a certain way. Let me state they are not a violent gang, nor racist, for if I said such dribble, I would be stabbed.

I see some Mexican Mob members looking tranquilo, which I hope means chill.

If I could pick a race, I’d be Hispanic. You’re welcomed to life by a large family, your mother always pushes food into atop your plate and into your hand, and you’re born bilingual!

When I think about the people I must endure over the next few years, I hope to find inmates who want to read, write, and discuss the principles of conflict, plot, and character, regardless of race.

Side note: if you want to read a horrible account of racism in the U.S., read an article by Ho Chi Minh about a lynching during his visit (See Link). I’ll recap, remembering I haven’t read this since my teenage years.

A man was lynched for a crime. The town abused him through town. A long, slow process that Ho Chi Minh observed with detachment. During this chaos, there was a woman in the frenzied crowd who didn’t seem to share in their anger. She padded along the outer edge. The victim continually sought her out and pleaded with her to save him. The town tied the man to a tree, and the woman stepped forward. Gradually, the screaming and cursing and abuse subsided. Perhaps this woman had some authority unknown to Ho Chi Minh. The man noticed her approached and was overcome with relief. He kept thanking her and telling her he was sorry. When she reached him, she removed a pair of scissors from her smock, pulled his lips, and then cut them off.

No wonder Ho Chi Minh commanded his soldiers to never surrender.

That is racism. What people label racism today is disgraceful to those who actually suffered. Racism is dead in America. People will judge you for skin color, sure, but also for your weight, age, height, teeth, hair, vocabulary, and that’s fine. You should use that initial surge of information to make a base assumption. The good news, NO, the EVIDENCE that racism is dead is anyone can win anyone over within 30 seconds. We have reached MLKs dream. We judge by character, and that’s just common sense. 

See you tomorrow.

Entry 6: Prison Food

Here is a clue to the boredom of quarantine. It’s over 90° outside. The CO’s have four fans showering them from all angles and a door near them is propped open, yet our windows remained closed. I’m melting into my cot, staring at the ceiling when I feel a rumble in my belly, sit up, and smile. I know this pressure. It’s time for a bowel movement, which is something to do besides lay here… hell yeah!

Let’s discuss the other exciting interruption to my day: the chow hall. When it’s time, the cell doors break in unison, and we walk to a separate building whose architecture reminds me of an over-sized Pizza Hut minus the attractive lights and mouth-watering aromas.

Inmates stretch out of the two entrances. The line moves at a crawl. Guys yell to their homeboys, often having entire conversations in that manner. I resist the urge to tell them the obvious, that they can go stand right next to their friend and talk in normal tones, but talking to an inmate you don’t know can open a door. Besides, even when next to one another, there’s a sixty percent chance they’d talk at the same volume.

There are two main topics of conversations in quarantine. Guns and drugs, drugs and guns; guns, guns, and some drugs. Occasionally, someone will discuss hoes. However, in my limited earhustling, I understand why females are rarely discussed. Many of these men have slept with the same woman, of whom they have different opinions, so it’s best to avoid opening that door.

We grab our trays of food, cafeteria style, and are herded into the next available seat. There is no selecting, we fall into chairs like dominoes.

There is sparse chatting during meals and as of yet, I haven’t sat at a table where the others didn’t complain about the food. The level of griping makes me long for the boredom of my cell and would lead some to believe prison is where we house victims, not perpetrators.

Compared to my county jail, the food is fine dining. My jail had a two week menu with a sandwich day and a hot dog day (both dreaded). Every other meal was rice and beans. Varieties of each, but always unseasoned, incorrectly cooked, rice and beans.

Often mixed in with the rice and beans was a substance everyone called cathead. It’s label reads, “mechanically separated chicken”. It arrives in a cardboard box. From my jail window, I could see them stack the boxes outside a receiving door, which is opened after the delivery people leave. On hot summer days, the mechanically separated chicken thaws on the docks like ice cream, leaving a soggy box that is sometimes scooped up with a snow shovel.

It was always a treat to get a new guy to lean forward and smell his dinner tray. Everyone in view would pause their meal to watch the new guy’s head dip, and then laugh when his face distorted and he pushed his tray away asking how any of us could eat that. Two or three days later, he’d be chowing down.

I, being both gullible and intrigued, took a deep whiff on my first exposure. Now, I’ve never pulled over to smell a rotten animal carcass, but if I had, but first vomited, dropped my trousers and defecated, and then stirred all that goodness up, it would have smelled like mechanically separated chicken.

Forgoing the delicious meals of jail, all the portions were tiny. You lived in hunger. You were hungry directly following a meal and as added insight, I can’t think of a more unpleasant life than living in constant hunger.

The prison menu was unified 2011’ish to the dismay of inmates and CO’s alike. The menu works on a fourteen day rotation. Breakfast is grits and oatmeal (it used to be eggs, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, etc… The lunch and dinner consists of sixteen dishes served over the twenty-eight meals. Although I imagine years of that might be maddening, and the portions are so small I fear for my future, today I’m elated. We’ve had grilled cheese (with real cheese), cheap Banquet style chicken patties, pasta with real meat, and today it was pizza!

When you go from a state of constant hunger and eating shit to constant hunger eating actual food, you’re stoked.

Prison offers a store where you can buy snacks to substitute the monotony, but it costs real money. Having no family, only friends, all I can do is wish them financial success and fits of philanthropy, things they have in excess, so I expect to be thankful. I will need love and support to retain any confidence.

I’ll leave you with a few bits of humor.

I heard two gentlemen in their forties discussing the state of Michigan. First topic: do Flint be nicers or worsers than Michigan? (For those outside the States, Flint is a city in Michigan) Surprisingly, this was debted in earnest. They used those adjectives the entire time. It was maddening.

A few minutes into it, one of the men said with indignation, “Man, I hears Benton Harbor be in the top one hundred cities in Michigan for murder.”

More stress, because I’m not sure there are one hundred cities in Michigan.

Well, rereading those, I’m not sure if they’re funny. These were fully adult men talking in such an asinine manner that they leave my brain singed.

Prison needs more psychologists.

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ENTRY SEVEN

I bought this Breville Nespresso Machine. You can really mix up the flavors of the top foam. By doing that and using the same coffee underneath, I look forward to Sunday morning all week. It’d be great if you had that same joy because of this referral.

Entry 6: Chowhall

Entry 6: Chow hall

Here is a clue to the boredom of quarantine. It’s over 90° outside. The CO’s have four fans showering them from all angles and a door near them is propped open, yet our windows remained closed. I’m melting into my cot, staring at the ceiling when I feel a rumble in my belly, sit up, and smile. I know this pressure. It’s time for a bowel movement, which is something to do besides lay here… hell yeah!

Let’s discuss the other exciting interruption to my day: the chow hall. When it’s time, the cell doors break in unison, and we walk to a separate building whose architecture reminds me of an over-sized Pizza Hut minus the attractive lights and mouth-watering aromas.

Inmates stretch out of the two entrances. The line moves at a crawl. Guys yell to their homeboys, often having entire conversations in that manner. I resist the urge to tell them the obvious, that they can go stand right next to their friend and talk in normal tones, but talking to an inmate you don’t know can open a door. Besides, even when next to one another, there’s a sixty percent chance they’d talk at the same volume.

There are two main topics of conversations in quarantine. Guns and drugs, drugs and guns; guns, guns, and some drugs. Occasionally, someone will discuss hoes. However, in my limited earhustling, I understand why females are rarely discussed. Many of these men have slept with the same woman, of whom they have different opinions, so it’s best to avoid opening that door.

We grab our trays of food, cafeteria style, and are herded into the next available seat. There is no selecting, we fall into chairs like dominoes.

There is sparse chatting during meals and as of yet, I haven’t sat at a table where the others didn’t complain about the food. The level of griping makes me long for the boredom of my cell and would lead some to believe prison is where we house victims, not perpetrators.

Compared to my county jail, the food is fine dining. My jail had a two week menu with a sandwich day and a hot dog day (both dreaded). Every other meal was rice and beans. Varieties of each, but always unseasoned, incorrectly cooked, rice and beans.

Often mixed in with the rice and beans was a substance everyone called cathead. It’s label reads, “mechanically separated chicken”. It arrives in a cardboard box. From my jail window, I could see them stack the boxes outside a receiving door, which is opened after the delivery people leave. On hot summer days, the mechanically separated chicken thaws on the docks like ice cream, leaving a soggy box that is sometimes scooped up with a snow shovel.

It was always a treat to get a new guy to lean forward and smell his dinner tray. Everyone in view would pause their meal to watch the new guy’s head dip, and then laugh when his face distorted and he pushed his tray away asking how any of us could eat that. Two or three days later, he’d be chowing down.

I, being both gullible and intrigued, took a deep whiff on my first exposure. Now, I’ve never pulled over to smell a rotten animal carcass, but if I had, but first vomited, dropped my trousers and defecated, and then stirred all that goodness up, it would have smelled like mechanically separated chicken.

Forgoing the delicious meals of jail, all the portions were tiny. You lived in hunger. You were hungry directly following a meal and as added insight, I can’t think of a more unpleasant life than living in constant hunger.

The prison menu was unified 2011’ish to the dismay of inmates and CO’s alike. The menu works on a fourteen day rotation. Breakfast is grits and oatmeal (it used to be eggs, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, etc… The lunch and dinner consists of sixteen dishes served over the twenty-eight meals. Although I imagine years of that might be maddening, and the portions are so small I fear for my future, today I’m elated. We’ve had grilled cheese (with real cheese), cheap Banquet style chicken patties, pasta with real meat, and today it was pizza!

When you go from a state of constant hunger and eating shit to constant hunger eating actual food, you’re stoked.

Prison offers a store where you can buy snacks to substitute the monotony, but it costs real money. Having no family, only friends, all I can do is wish them financial success and fits of philanthropy, things they have in excess, so I expect to be thankful. I will need love and support to retain any confidence.

I’ll leave you with a few bits of humor.

I heard two gentlemen in their forties discussing the state of Michigan. First topic: do Flint be nicers or worsers than Michigan? (For those outside the States, Flint is a city in Michigan) Surprisingly, this was debted in earnest. They used those adjectives the entire time. It was maddening.

A few minutes into it, one of the men said with indignation, “Man, I hears Benton Harbor be in the top one hundred cities in Michigan for murder.”

More stress, because I’m not sure there are one hundred cities in Michigan.

Well, rereading those, I’m not sure if they’re funny. These were fully adult men talking in such an asinine manner that they leave my brain singed.

Prison needs more psychologists.

Entry 5: Unfair Treatment

So far we have discussed CO’s tussling with inmates, cordial murderers, density shifting shanks, and ultra clean intestines.

What I want to write now is so outlandish that I had decided against it, thinking it better to skip a day than lose the few readers I have with content that’s hard to believe. However, the insanity compounded on two occasions, so we will call those signs and proceed.

Most humans, especially those who deal in the cash fluid business of narcotics, know police corruption exists. Police don’t become magical when they accept a job. They are people. Nothing more. They take the job because it pays well and is, for the most part, cushiony. From my experience as a poor kid in the ghetto and as a well-to-do man socializing with a few, I can’t say any of them join out of a passion to do good and serve. Not one. Maybe they’re out there?

During my arrest, eight hundred dollars and a few ounces of silver vanished (forty times that in cash was stolen during my first arrest, three years ago). Again, some police believe in what they do, have morals, and think they’re the good guys. The ones I interacted with thought that line was for suckers.

Around two a.m., a few CO’s arrived and chatted with those working in my block. I am located directly above them and had no view, but I could hear just fine. A female informed the guy, or guys, working that she had found a joint.

The word itself caused me to stand at my bars and listen, curious to learn how it entered this fenced-off world.

They seemed pleased by the find. Soon, someone shuffled a deck fo cards, a lighter flicked, someone coughed in a way many of us know, and then a waft of odor that I used to enjoy so completely filled the air.

An inmate shouted for them to share. Another, as floored as me, kept repeating, “They’re smoking weed. They’re blazing down there.”

The CO’s giggled, continued to play cards, and I decided I had my next prison blog post. Later, I chalked it up as too absurd and went to bed. Out of all I have learned about prison, the guards’ behavior is what blows my mind. This group is okay with me, but the next man I’d like to discuss works the day shift and previously called me a dumb fuck.

First, I must explain that inmates do not get any handbooks (at least my batch didn’t). Our only means of learning what goes on (when to shower, wash laundry, how to get religious books or visit the law library) is through our peers, but get caught talking and you receive a ticket which may affect your prison allocation and will be scored against you when you see the parole board, which could cost you a flop.

That leaves the guard who works the desk. Unfortunately, ours waits for any questions like a trap spider, launching rudeness at anyone who approaches.

I refuse to speak to him. I’ll just shower barefoot and fight athlete’s foot when I get it. I’ll let my hair grow and wind up looking like a cross between Jesus and Charles Manson (or is that the personality mixture I embrace?).

Anyway, while we were locked down and silent, a man in a cell below me asked the guard a question. I was nearing asleep, a state many of us hover in due to the lack of stimuli, but his voice brought me to attention and I heard the rest clearly.

The guard replied, “Why should I answer a guy who sucks little boy’s dicks?”

“Fuck you, man. I’m in here for cocaine.”

“No fucking swearing, convict.” The guard replied. Then in a louder voice, “You little boy molester.”

The chastised man wisely kept quiet.

Needing more, the guard hollered, “Should I tell them what cell the guy who rapes little boys is in?”

In a whisper, the man pleaded, “Why you doing this to me, yo? You can look me up. I’m in here for cocaine.”

“You’re in here for what I say you are. I say you suck little boy’s dicks. That’s what follows you. And that’s what gets you stabbed on the yard.”

The man stayed quiet. Hours passed.

Then a young kid asked how he could get a sheet of paper. When we arrive, they give us one stamped envelope and a three inch, pliable pen, but no paper.

The guard asked him what he was in for.

The kid replied with pride. “Murder. I got life.”

“You’re nothing but a bitch.”

In prison, the word bitch is powerful. It’s like a white glove across the face, or running into a Nation of Islam prayer meeting and dropping N-bombs.

It’s the top level of disrespect.

“I ain’t no bitch!”

They argued at near a shout for a minute. The guard’s remarks were subtly racist and when the kid said, “I’ll knock your motherfuckin’ teeth out,” the guard scoffed and said that he ain’t shit without a gun and his homies. The kid fired back that the guard hides behind his badge, told him to open the cell and see what happens.

The guard laughed. “If I do that, I’ll taze you, break your legs, and stick you in solitude for a year.”

Kid said he wasn’t scared, but his voice cracked.

The guard explained the psychological drain a year in solitude put on someone.

The kid shot back, but his tone was flat.

Smelling blood in the water, the CO described how being in the hole denies you access to mail, television, books, visits. How men cry and beg. How they long to kill themselves but lack the ability.

Defeated, the kid foolishly tried to inject logic and reasoning. He said, “I just want a little respect, man. I ain’t do nothing to you. I want paper so I can write my little sister.”

The guards described the men this kid would meet at his prison. He told him they had been pumping iron longer than he’d been alive, they had  foot long cocks, and they raped every new kid who arrived.

The kid stayed silent.

After a few seconds, the guard said, “Now tell me you’re a bitch.”

“Man, no.”

“You are, so just say it.”

Silence.

It’s quiet, but I could feel three hundred set of ears listening. I imagine the kid felt shame, but he didn’t understand that we were with him. We all heard the atrocity. We all hated the injustice.

“Say it, you little bitch.”

Nothing.

“Say it nice and loud or I’ll take everyone’s yard.”

We only get forty-five minutes of yard every third day. It’s our only chance to chat, our only stint of sunlight, our only access to phones, and our only time to walk. Being the reason some lifer didn’t get to make his phone call could get you hurt.

“Tell me you’re a bitch or I’ma take everyone’s yard.”

A raspy voice broke the silence. “I’m a bitch ass nigga.”

Chuckles rolled down the galley and then someone added. “I’m the biggest bitch alive!”

More comments concerning the speaker’s level of bitchness peppered the catwalk.

Laughter snuffed the malevolence. Once extinguished, we returned to silence.

I hope quarantine is the worst of prison.  

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