Every morning at 5:00am, the military horn blew its top off. God it took me forever to get used to waking up that way. We'd all jump out of bed to stand at attention at the foot of our bunkbeds, cold tiles on bare feet waking us up even faster. Some did the peepee dance as discreetly as possible (I know I did more than a few times), while waiting for the officer on duty to count us. Every federal prison and facility was subject to the same count times across the country. And under NO circumstances should you miss a count. None.
These couple of minutes were crucial to determining how the rest of the day went. Each CO (Corrections Officer) had vastly different personalities. There was the playful but aggressive, steroid-taking officer with the mentality of a 12 year old (his bark was definitely worse than his bite), the unpredicatable but highly intelligent (but crazy!) Mr. Loy (however many think, and I agree, that he put on an act), the good-natured, but very tempermental Mr. Steese, who could have been smart had he not grown up in the middle of the woods, and the short and sadistic Shark, who had a serious Napoleon complex.
There were others, but these were the most colorful officers. If the Shark woke us up, we were fucked. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, dreaded when he was on duty. He once crawled underneath an empty bunk before 5:00am to spy on us, and see who got out of bed before the horn sounded. Apparently that wasn't allowed, and the guy got hell for it.
After we're counted, we have a few minutes to wash up, make our beds (which had to be made hospital style... ugh...) and get ready for our morning PT (Physical Training) and this varied from officer to officer, or from day to day. Ranging from calisthenics, aerobics, endurance training, and running, working out on an empty stomach when your last meal was about 22 hours prior wasn't easy. Quite a few people threw up while running on an empty stomach, especially if they overdressed in the winter time.
That lasted about a half hour. We changed, lined up, marched to the cafeteria (food was served to us from the Camp, the lowest possible security federal prison besides boot camp), and once there, one team after the other goes in to eat, while the others stand outside waiting. The only time we waited indoors was when it was pouring, otherwise, we learned how to doze off standing and to talk without moving your lips. No yawning, no looking/moving around, no scratching yourself, no talking, no sleeping. But I've managed to hold conversations that way and play mental chess just to kill time.
Meals lasted around 40ish minutes, meanwhile we only had 5 minutes to eat. And we had to finish everything on our tray unless you're slick enough to throw it away in the trash without any COs seeing.
Bootleg Fruit Loops (I was told these would make me shit different colors, and I obviously thought they were joking... unfortunately they were not), Lucky Charms and Cheerio's made up most of our breakfasts, we also had french toast or waffles once in awhile. The milk was real at least, but we were restricted to one cup a person.
Now remember how there's nothing you can do while waiting to eat or waiting for others to finish? This is even worse when beans were on the menu, because people had no shame in farting randomly. And trust me, a bunch of guys from all over the country put together, there were some really foul smelling stomachs out there.
Then we marched back, and our day officially begins. Between mandatory classes (drug education, resume building, etc.), voluntary classes (smoking cessation, food safety, etc.) which people took to get out of work, and work, all of us go to our designated stations.
Most of the work there sucked. Mainly all labor work, from working the farm, mopping the units, laundry. I was designated to Topside, one of the best jobs. It was basically clothing issue, and the CO in charge of it was Mr. Steese, and from the day I first joined, he had requested to have me work there. Later, he told me it was because he could see I wasn't a bad kid, and wanted to save me from all the bullshit the others had to go through. And that's how he recruited everyone in Topside.
We basically didn't do shit all day lol. Once in a awhile inmates came to swap out their clothes or canteens for one reason or another. And when a new team comes in, we're in charge of distributing all of the stuff they need for their 6 months of torture. The rest of the time? We built a ghetto chessboard made from cardboard, buttons, pieces of paper and tape.
But the most important part was our ability to get brand new clothes whenever we wanted. Everyone of us working there had our stash hidden somewhere of the newest things we want in our sizes. Hey, even in jail people wanna look good! Also a cleanliness thing though. On top of that, since we were free for most of the day, we ironed our clothes and shined our boots, leaving us more of our personal time at the end of the day.
Then it was lunch time. Same routine. After lunch we had about a couple hours before we had PT again, work/class, then dinner around 6:00pm. Work/class once again, then 8:00pm is the start of our personal time. During this time we shower, write letters, and take care of our affairs for the next day.
Lights out at 9:00pm, then rinse and repeat. Six and a half months of this crap. We were all designated time slots to make our one 15 minute phone call a week. This is different from regular jail, where you have a max of 300 minutes a month, 15 minutes each, but you can call again an hour later. One 15 minute call a week was rough. Real rough.
The entire bootcamp was split into four teams: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta. I was in Delta. And what sucks is, especially during the beginning months (they did this less as we got closer to leaving), when one person fucked up, the entire team paid for it. I've done countless pushups and other ab exercises without even knowing why, not to mention a ridiculous amount of extra miles that I normally wouldn't have had to run.
"DELTA TEAM, DROP!" was something we heard quite often. I was on a team of fucking idiots by the way.
Other random rules? You couldn't step on any black tile. When not in our sleeping areas, you can't walk past a CO without stopping and sounding off, "Sir, Inmate [NAME] request permission to carry on, sir, I can make it, I can take it, nothing can stop me sir!"
And if the CO just stood there and ignored you, you just keep standing there until either he tells you to carry on, or he walks past you.
If a CO drops you for pushups or something, before you get back up even though you're done with whatever number he said, we had to say, "Sir, Inmate [NAME] request permission to recover sir. Thank you for conditioning my mind and body, please feel free to do so at anytime, sir!" Now sometimes if they were assholes they'd say, "Anytime? Okay, do another fifty."
No looking into the CO's eyes. No hands in pockets. Boots are to be shined, shirts with three creases in the back, no snacks, no gum, no drawings or anything personal outside of a particular personal envelope.
Typical day in boot camp. Thank god it's way behind me =)
Showing posts with label jail. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jail. Show all posts
Monday, January 4, 2010
Friday, December 11, 2009
Most Frequently Asked Question
One question almost everyone asks me is, "What's jail like?"
Well, it's nothing like what you see on TV. Not where I was at anyway. Sure there's gay guys or guys that turned gay in there, but in low security and camps (camps have the lowest security, there's not even a fence surrounding the complex), rape isn't a common thing.
So what is jail like? Fucking boring. Day in and day out, you have nothing to look forward to. Only thing that keeps inmates going are letters, and our fifteen minute phone calls.
When I first got sent to the low security prison in Allenwood, PA, the first thing that came to mind was that it looked like a college campus. Except for the multiple fences, guard towers, and razorwire lol. But besides that, the grass was nicely manicured, there were four units with a few hundred inmates in each.
Despite the appearances though, there were some major differences with life on the outside.
The way phone calls work there is, you get fifteen minutes at a time, every hour. Each call, if it's long distance (which all of mine were), costs a little over $3. Do the math, goddamn I missed my cell phone.
Commissary is our own little private store. How lucky. You can spend a total of $220 a month max. Every inmate has an account that people in the real world deposit money into.
What's interesting is that mackerels (in plastic packages) cost $1.05, and these macks were used as currency amongst the inmates. Or anything of value. Bartering was the norm. For the less fortunate inmates who didn't have money in their commissary account, they found money in other ways, by doing chores for people, gambling, drawing, etc. And they got paid generally with macks.
You can also buy a glorified ink cartridge at commissary for use as a pen. It was literally an ink cartridge with some rubber around it, which made it flexible. Do you know how fucking hard it is to write with that shit?? So what a lot of inmates did was take a shaver, break off the razor part, then the remainding handle has some space on the back where you can lodge the "pen" in and use that. A huge improvement, but after hours of writing, the calluses I ended up with were huge as well.
The TV room was an area I avoided. It's a room with about 7-8 TV sets, and you use your Walkman to tune in to the proper one to listen. Chairs were available to place wherever you wanted to sit. Now, the catch is, I was told that some people, having been there for many years, have their designated "seats." And they would come up to you and tell you to move. It's a lose-lose situation. You fight (whether you win the fight or not), you get sent to the hole (solitary) and your security level goes up and off to the medium you go. You change seats and you're a bitch. So I just didn't watch a lot of TV.
The entire prison complex is on lockdown all day long. It opens up for ten minutes every hour for inmates to move between buildings. But you can only be in certain areas if you have a pass, or you'll be considered out of bounds. This took a little bit to get used to, because if you missed it, you were stuck wherever you were for another hour.
We slept in 9x9 cubes, shared by three people. All of my belongings fit in a 4ft tall dresser, the most fashionable clothing we had was what we could buy from commissary. Sweat pants, sweatshirt, and surprisingly, Nike Air Force Ones (or New Balance sneakers) lol. I bought a pair to wear out, that I still have lol.
Microwaves were used to cook. And man, people can get creative. Spaghetti with macks, cheese and some seasoning thrown into the microwave, that shit was actually pretty damn good. Okay I admit, relatively good.
Speaking of food, I've been told from various sources who worked kitchen detail, that the meat they served us was usually expired. By years. Whenever I changed facilities, my stomach had to readjust and I couldn't hold my food for a couple weeks until it did. The same happened when I came back to NYC, eating good, clean food lol.
Some inmates went on dates with Fifi. Who's Fifi you ask? No, not another inmate, but it's some MacGuyver type of shit. They would take a towel, roll it up in a cylinder shape, take a surgical glove and shove it into one of the sides, and secure the glove on the outside by flipping it over. Some baby oil, and voila, you have a night with Fifi. Or however many minutes they took lol.
It's very race oriented. My first day there, every asian person I saw told me that if I needed anything to let them know. Extra clothes, newer stuff, anything that they would have spares of since they're already settled in.
Gambling is illegal, so most card games are played for pushups. There is a gambling ring in there anyway, employing other inmates who could fight as its collectors.
Every inmate had to work. Most of the work there is bullshit, except for one job which pays $70 a month, and that was community work that I'm pretty sure the prison got paid for. My job (which consisted of cleaning the recreation area at the end of each shift) paid a little over $5 a month. Yeah. A month.
For the most part, shit is just boring though. Wake up, go work, eat lunch, workout, work, eat dinner, write letters, hopefully read letters, make some calls, talk to a couple people, cook something in a microwave, talk or draw or write some more, read, play cards... that's about it. If we get bored enough we sometimes make up games too lol.
That's it in a nutshell. Oh yeah some guy went by the name of Precious. He walked, talked, and had all the mannerisms of a ghetto hoodrat lol.
Much better than MDC Brooklyn, boot camp, or solitary, but it still sucked. Oh well, nothing beats being free lol =)
Well, it's nothing like what you see on TV. Not where I was at anyway. Sure there's gay guys or guys that turned gay in there, but in low security and camps (camps have the lowest security, there's not even a fence surrounding the complex), rape isn't a common thing.
So what is jail like? Fucking boring. Day in and day out, you have nothing to look forward to. Only thing that keeps inmates going are letters, and our fifteen minute phone calls.
When I first got sent to the low security prison in Allenwood, PA, the first thing that came to mind was that it looked like a college campus. Except for the multiple fences, guard towers, and razorwire lol. But besides that, the grass was nicely manicured, there were four units with a few hundred inmates in each.
Despite the appearances though, there were some major differences with life on the outside.
The way phone calls work there is, you get fifteen minutes at a time, every hour. Each call, if it's long distance (which all of mine were), costs a little over $3. Do the math, goddamn I missed my cell phone.
Commissary is our own little private store. How lucky. You can spend a total of $220 a month max. Every inmate has an account that people in the real world deposit money into.
What's interesting is that mackerels (in plastic packages) cost $1.05, and these macks were used as currency amongst the inmates. Or anything of value. Bartering was the norm. For the less fortunate inmates who didn't have money in their commissary account, they found money in other ways, by doing chores for people, gambling, drawing, etc. And they got paid generally with macks.
You can also buy a glorified ink cartridge at commissary for use as a pen. It was literally an ink cartridge with some rubber around it, which made it flexible. Do you know how fucking hard it is to write with that shit?? So what a lot of inmates did was take a shaver, break off the razor part, then the remainding handle has some space on the back where you can lodge the "pen" in and use that. A huge improvement, but after hours of writing, the calluses I ended up with were huge as well.
The TV room was an area I avoided. It's a room with about 7-8 TV sets, and you use your Walkman to tune in to the proper one to listen. Chairs were available to place wherever you wanted to sit. Now, the catch is, I was told that some people, having been there for many years, have their designated "seats." And they would come up to you and tell you to move. It's a lose-lose situation. You fight (whether you win the fight or not), you get sent to the hole (solitary) and your security level goes up and off to the medium you go. You change seats and you're a bitch. So I just didn't watch a lot of TV.
The entire prison complex is on lockdown all day long. It opens up for ten minutes every hour for inmates to move between buildings. But you can only be in certain areas if you have a pass, or you'll be considered out of bounds. This took a little bit to get used to, because if you missed it, you were stuck wherever you were for another hour.
We slept in 9x9 cubes, shared by three people. All of my belongings fit in a 4ft tall dresser, the most fashionable clothing we had was what we could buy from commissary. Sweat pants, sweatshirt, and surprisingly, Nike Air Force Ones (or New Balance sneakers) lol. I bought a pair to wear out, that I still have lol.
Microwaves were used to cook. And man, people can get creative. Spaghetti with macks, cheese and some seasoning thrown into the microwave, that shit was actually pretty damn good. Okay I admit, relatively good.
Speaking of food, I've been told from various sources who worked kitchen detail, that the meat they served us was usually expired. By years. Whenever I changed facilities, my stomach had to readjust and I couldn't hold my food for a couple weeks until it did. The same happened when I came back to NYC, eating good, clean food lol.
Some inmates went on dates with Fifi. Who's Fifi you ask? No, not another inmate, but it's some MacGuyver type of shit. They would take a towel, roll it up in a cylinder shape, take a surgical glove and shove it into one of the sides, and secure the glove on the outside by flipping it over. Some baby oil, and voila, you have a night with Fifi. Or however many minutes they took lol.
It's very race oriented. My first day there, every asian person I saw told me that if I needed anything to let them know. Extra clothes, newer stuff, anything that they would have spares of since they're already settled in.
Gambling is illegal, so most card games are played for pushups. There is a gambling ring in there anyway, employing other inmates who could fight as its collectors.
Every inmate had to work. Most of the work there is bullshit, except for one job which pays $70 a month, and that was community work that I'm pretty sure the prison got paid for. My job (which consisted of cleaning the recreation area at the end of each shift) paid a little over $5 a month. Yeah. A month.
For the most part, shit is just boring though. Wake up, go work, eat lunch, workout, work, eat dinner, write letters, hopefully read letters, make some calls, talk to a couple people, cook something in a microwave, talk or draw or write some more, read, play cards... that's about it. If we get bored enough we sometimes make up games too lol.
That's it in a nutshell. Oh yeah some guy went by the name of Precious. He walked, talked, and had all the mannerisms of a ghetto hoodrat lol.
Much better than MDC Brooklyn, boot camp, or solitary, but it still sucked. Oh well, nothing beats being free lol =)
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Introduction to the Intensive Confinement Center
The day had finally come. After 18 months of pretrial supervision (which consisted of weekly drug tests and telephone check-ins, and being restricted to the five boroughs of NYC), after 18 months being with Lisa, after 18 months of fear wondering how much time I would actually do (and more importantly, where), the day had come for me to report to the Intensive Confinement Center, aka boot camp.
The name Intensive Confinement Center (ICC) sounds a lot worse though, doesn't it? Sounds like some 24/7 isolation lol but it's basically boot camp.
Lisa and I were to take a train down to Harrisburg, PA and there would be a car service waiting to drive us to Lewisburg, PA, an hour away.
I would be gone for six months, longest stretch that Lisa and I would be separated for. Ever since we met, we saw each other every day, and we both knew this was going to be a difficult adjustment.
Our last night together, Lisa was in tears. I'm not one to cry much, and I tried to stay strong enough for the both of us, to be her rock that she could lean on.
From the moment I met Lisa, I told her I was going to jail. I also told her I didn't expect her to wait for me. At the time I was facing up to five years, and she adamantly refused to break up, even when facing five years. I understood that she didn't realize how long five years were, so I let it go.
So looking at six months, given her conviction that she would have even waited five years (she claimed she had no doubt in her mind lol), she reiterated she would wait these six months as well.
We kissed and cuddled, wiping away her tears, soothing her with comforting words, it was both the happiest and saddest moment possible. We didn't sleep much. I also didn't have anything to pack. Weirdly, even the last night of freedom, it didn't quite hit home that I was going to be locked up. Probably because I had no way of relating to what I was about to experience. It was probably plain ol' denial.
We agreed to write to each other every single day, and when mail doesn't go out on weekends or holidays, we would keep writing and just combine them into one. If I were to list all the mushy stuff we did and agreed to continue doing despite our separation, you'd probably gag on your monitor just to stop reading, so I'll spare you a few Bounty sheets.
Dawn came, but unlike most fictions, dawn doesn't always bring comfort. This was the dawn I never wanted to see. Given that this was our last day together for six months, I would have thought we'd be more talkative, to make the most of it, but in retrospect it's obviously unrealistic.
Both the train and car ride were fairly silent. We spoke here and there but our hearts just weren't into it. Too preoccupied, we just hugged some more and Lisa cuddled into my arms.
We got to Lewisburg, a prison complex consisting of three facilities: ICC, the camp, and the penitentiary. The penitentiary is obviously a supermax, the camp is the lowest possible security level you can have (except for the ICC), and they don't even have a fence keeping the inmates in.
But any walk-off is considered armed escape with a five year sentence. Not many dared to.
Our car parked in front of the ICC, and Lisa burst into tears.
"Excuse me," I asked the driver. "Do you mind waiting a few minutes?"
"No problem. Take your time, I'm in no rush."
I thought I heard sympathy in his voice. "Thanks."
We got out to smoke a last cigarette together and say bye.
Three pulls in, I hear:
"Hey! HEY! Where do you think you are? Put that out and get in here!"
It was a Correctional Officer.
"I'm not scheduled to report before another 45 minutes," I replied politely.
"I don't care, you're here, you're in, there's no standing around here."
Goddammit. I had a problem with authority, and this was already a bad start. If I had known, I wouldn't have told the driver to park here so I'd have some more time with Lisa.
"But..."
"Get in here now!"
Flicking away my cigarette, I took one long last look at Lisa's tear-strewn face, hugged her, and my heart dropped to my stomach. This was it. This was really it. What the fuck.
With a sigh, I reluctantly let her go and finally shed a couple tears.
"I love you bebe."
"I love you too bebe."
And we both "tingled." Don't ask.
I turned around and walked into the Intensive Confinement Center.
First things first. They shaved my head. Wait, no. First things first, they yelled at me. Then they shaved my head. Then they yelled at me some more. And then other inmates whispered to me:
"Don't step on the black tiles."
"Why not?"
"Just don't."
Ugh, this was going to be a long six months...
The name Intensive Confinement Center (ICC) sounds a lot worse though, doesn't it? Sounds like some 24/7 isolation lol but it's basically boot camp.
Lisa and I were to take a train down to Harrisburg, PA and there would be a car service waiting to drive us to Lewisburg, PA, an hour away.
I would be gone for six months, longest stretch that Lisa and I would be separated for. Ever since we met, we saw each other every day, and we both knew this was going to be a difficult adjustment.
Our last night together, Lisa was in tears. I'm not one to cry much, and I tried to stay strong enough for the both of us, to be her rock that she could lean on.
From the moment I met Lisa, I told her I was going to jail. I also told her I didn't expect her to wait for me. At the time I was facing up to five years, and she adamantly refused to break up, even when facing five years. I understood that she didn't realize how long five years were, so I let it go.
So looking at six months, given her conviction that she would have even waited five years (she claimed she had no doubt in her mind lol), she reiterated she would wait these six months as well.
We kissed and cuddled, wiping away her tears, soothing her with comforting words, it was both the happiest and saddest moment possible. We didn't sleep much. I also didn't have anything to pack. Weirdly, even the last night of freedom, it didn't quite hit home that I was going to be locked up. Probably because I had no way of relating to what I was about to experience. It was probably plain ol' denial.
We agreed to write to each other every single day, and when mail doesn't go out on weekends or holidays, we would keep writing and just combine them into one. If I were to list all the mushy stuff we did and agreed to continue doing despite our separation, you'd probably gag on your monitor just to stop reading, so I'll spare you a few Bounty sheets.
Dawn came, but unlike most fictions, dawn doesn't always bring comfort. This was the dawn I never wanted to see. Given that this was our last day together for six months, I would have thought we'd be more talkative, to make the most of it, but in retrospect it's obviously unrealistic.
Both the train and car ride were fairly silent. We spoke here and there but our hearts just weren't into it. Too preoccupied, we just hugged some more and Lisa cuddled into my arms.
We got to Lewisburg, a prison complex consisting of three facilities: ICC, the camp, and the penitentiary. The penitentiary is obviously a supermax, the camp is the lowest possible security level you can have (except for the ICC), and they don't even have a fence keeping the inmates in.
But any walk-off is considered armed escape with a five year sentence. Not many dared to.
Our car parked in front of the ICC, and Lisa burst into tears.
"Excuse me," I asked the driver. "Do you mind waiting a few minutes?"
"No problem. Take your time, I'm in no rush."
I thought I heard sympathy in his voice. "Thanks."
We got out to smoke a last cigarette together and say bye.
Three pulls in, I hear:
"Hey! HEY! Where do you think you are? Put that out and get in here!"
It was a Correctional Officer.
"I'm not scheduled to report before another 45 minutes," I replied politely.
"I don't care, you're here, you're in, there's no standing around here."
Goddammit. I had a problem with authority, and this was already a bad start. If I had known, I wouldn't have told the driver to park here so I'd have some more time with Lisa.
"But..."
"Get in here now!"
Flicking away my cigarette, I took one long last look at Lisa's tear-strewn face, hugged her, and my heart dropped to my stomach. This was it. This was really it. What the fuck.
With a sigh, I reluctantly let her go and finally shed a couple tears.
"I love you bebe."
"I love you too bebe."
And we both "tingled." Don't ask.
I turned around and walked into the Intensive Confinement Center.
First things first. They shaved my head. Wait, no. First things first, they yelled at me. Then they shaved my head. Then they yelled at me some more. And then other inmates whispered to me:
"Don't step on the black tiles."
"Why not?"
"Just don't."
Ugh, this was going to be a long six months...
Monday, November 9, 2009
Metropolitan Detention Center - Supermax
MDC Brooklyn. Metropolitan Detention Center. The name brought fear and dread to all inmates' hearts. Corrections Officers hate it too actually. According to one of the doctors in Allenwood, PA, MDC Brooklyn always fucks shit up, loses shit, sends them wrong medical readings and information.
Imagine what it's like dealing with them on the other side of the law.
So, after having served six months in boot camp and nine more months out of thirteen in the halfway house, I violated and was sent back to jail. Great.
The story of how I ended up cuffed by the marshals and dragged to MDC Brooklyn is for another post. Surprisingly, the marshals were actually really nice. They tried to make small conversation, asked why I violated, but since I still had hope to fight the accusations, I wasn't very talkative.
The worst part of jail is the commuting. Being processed into new facilities, strip searched, locked in a cell all by yourself (or maybe with a couple other people), took HOURS.
It fucking sucked.
But I'll fast-forward all that boring shit.
MDC Brooklyn. A super-max. It's a holdover facility, usually meant for people on pretrial who didn't make bail, or people in transit who haven't been assigned to a real prison yet. What this means is, there's no differentiation in security here. What this means is, murderers, rapists, molesters, white-collar crimes, drug related offenses, armed robbers, all of these people are together.
MDC consists of multiple units, two per floor I believe, and each unit has two levels of cells, totaling maybe a couple hundred inmates. There's a "handball court" with an opening at the top for fresh air, a row of shower stalls, a few tables spread out, four TVs that you tune into with Walkmans.
I met my new cell mate, some 60+ year old Mafia guy. He used to be a bookie, but he was charged with three murders.
Wow. I had never met anyone face to face who had killed another person. It was weird. Scary to think that I was sharing thirtyish square feet with him.
But what he killed me with wasn't what I expected of a mob bookie with three bodies on his jacket. I mentioned he was over 60 right? And we all know that past a certain age controlling your bowels can be challenging.
So here's the approximate breakdown of a typical day at MDC. Doors open to your cell around 6:00 AM or 7:00 AM (I'm not sure, I sure as hell wasn't up at that time). Lunch is served at 11:00 AM, dinner's at 5:30ish PM, and in between those times, they count us every few hours, locking us in our cells, this can last from 30mns to 1.5 hours. What did this depend on? No clue.
And at 11:00 PM, they locked us in our cells until morning time. A tiny cell, one bunk bed, one metal "dresser," a small table attached to the wall with an also attached stool, a sink and a toilet.
So lights are out. Door is locked. Within five minutes, my cellie is apologizing.
"Sorry bunkie, but when you gotta go, you gotta go."
What is anyone to say? He's right, if you gotta go you gotta go. And boy did he gotta go. The stench, the wet sounds, the... ew nevermind I'llshit shut up now.
Have you ever tried to fall asleep with that stench? Can you imagine going to bed in a public bathroom? Don't try, it's obviously not pleasant.
Anyhow, during the rest of my time there, I read (a lot), played chess (a lot), played cards (even more). I met this asian guy Mike, part of the original Flying Dragons (FD, an asian gang), he was in for thirteen murders, and was wrapping up an eleven year bid. He was the only other asian person there, and if there's one thing you do in jail is stick with your own color. Doesn't really matter who they are or what they've done, because hey, who are we kidding, we're not going to find any saints in there.
People take care of their own, and when you're put into a situation where you have nothing and no one, you revert back to very primitive ways of distinguishing your own from others, namely race.
He seemed like a nice enough guy. After eleven years in jail though he was worried about rehabilitating himself to the real world. The internet, how to pick up girls, etc, he felt completely lost, like a newborn. I didn't quite know what to tell him, I didn't know how to bring him up to speed from such a situation. Talking to him reminded me of Red and Brooks from Shawshank Redemption, who both became institutionalized.
I also think I came very close to dying (or getting the living shit beat out of me at least). This giant of a Puerto Rican guy, mentally unstable, but built like a mountain, for some reason got mad at me. I don't even remember why.
We were playing cards, Casino to be exact, and I've played with him many times before. Him and this other younger Hispanic kid. The younger one was one of those very talkative, tries to be suave kinda guy, slightly cocky, but funny and good-natured enough to be tolerated. Seems like I found one of those in every facility I went to.
The giant however was much older. Graying hair, thick glasses, 45ish, with a neck thicker than a tree trunk. I really don't remember what happened, but something pissed him off. Something I said.
"What, you wanna go? You wanna throw down?"
I stared right back into his eyes, and my mind drew a blank. What do you do when confronted with this situation in jail?
On the streets there's no question really. But in jail, it's a completely different story. There are only so many possible outcomes to this:
"Nah man, I'm tryna go home, but if it comes down to it, I'll go," I replied.
That was my bullshit way of trying to talk my way out of it. I backed down without really backing down, basically meaning I didn't do or say jack shit. Well, I didn't do jack shit but infuriate him even more.
The younger kid luckily squashed the whole thing. He pulled him away, saying it was just a misunderstanding, that everything was cool. We actually kept on playing Casino right afterwards lol.
The guy was obviously mentally unstable. I have no idea what he was in for, neither did I want to know. I still played cards with him from there on out, but I was very cautious.
This other guy in there, this lanky white guy who did time in state prisons as well, had chunks of metal embedded in his body in various places. Now I'm talking about huge chunks of shanks that he got stabbed with, and doctors were not able to extract from him. It looked unreal. He could just pull a chunk, stretching his skin as far as it could go, and boing it'd snap right back into his arm.
Cigarettes went for $10 each, $200 a pack. People who went to court didn't even wear socks so they could slip off their shoes and pick up cigarette butts on the street with their toes.
And that was that. Six weeks here literally felt like six months. It was the worst time of the entire seven year ordeal I went through since my arrest until the day I was done with probation. MDC was by far, the most horrid experience of the entire stretch.
Letters and phone calls help you get through the days, listening to that stupid smug female recording over and over:
"This call is from a federal prison. This is a prepaid call. You will not be charged for this call. This call is from: [insert my name here]. To accept, please press five. To decline all future calls from this person, please press seven, seven."
As much as I hated hearing this recording, I also loved it. It meant that whoever I called picked up. What sucked was that I only had fifteen minutes at a time to talk.
And I would also like to thank all the people who were there for me to write to, and call, even though a lot of those people I had just met, and had very little incentive to keep correspondence with an inmate. One person in particular, I had never even met lol.
Disappointingly but not surprisingly, Lisa was the hardest to get a hold of. We were broken up by this time, but I guess I still thought she'd be more available for me to call or write. She wrote one letter during this stretch. One letter in ten months. Oh well.
But I never thought I'd be happy to hear that I was going to be sent to a prison facility. But when I heard that I was being transferred to Allenwood, PA, I was ecstatic. That meant no more MDC. I'd miss the cheap phone calls (since it was local calls, it was about 1/3 of the price from PA), but a gym, facility, better food, cubes instead of cells, everything else would be better in Allenwood.
And it was. Especially when June 2005 came along.
Imagine what it's like dealing with them on the other side of the law.
So, after having served six months in boot camp and nine more months out of thirteen in the halfway house, I violated and was sent back to jail. Great.
The story of how I ended up cuffed by the marshals and dragged to MDC Brooklyn is for another post. Surprisingly, the marshals were actually really nice. They tried to make small conversation, asked why I violated, but since I still had hope to fight the accusations, I wasn't very talkative.
The worst part of jail is the commuting. Being processed into new facilities, strip searched, locked in a cell all by yourself (or maybe with a couple other people), took HOURS.
It fucking sucked.
But I'll fast-forward all that boring shit.
MDC Brooklyn. A super-max. It's a holdover facility, usually meant for people on pretrial who didn't make bail, or people in transit who haven't been assigned to a real prison yet. What this means is, there's no differentiation in security here. What this means is, murderers, rapists, molesters, white-collar crimes, drug related offenses, armed robbers, all of these people are together.
MDC consists of multiple units, two per floor I believe, and each unit has two levels of cells, totaling maybe a couple hundred inmates. There's a "handball court" with an opening at the top for fresh air, a row of shower stalls, a few tables spread out, four TVs that you tune into with Walkmans.
I met my new cell mate, some 60+ year old Mafia guy. He used to be a bookie, but he was charged with three murders.
Wow. I had never met anyone face to face who had killed another person. It was weird. Scary to think that I was sharing thirtyish square feet with him.
But what he killed me with wasn't what I expected of a mob bookie with three bodies on his jacket. I mentioned he was over 60 right? And we all know that past a certain age controlling your bowels can be challenging.
So here's the approximate breakdown of a typical day at MDC. Doors open to your cell around 6:00 AM or 7:00 AM (I'm not sure, I sure as hell wasn't up at that time). Lunch is served at 11:00 AM, dinner's at 5:30ish PM, and in between those times, they count us every few hours, locking us in our cells, this can last from 30mns to 1.5 hours. What did this depend on? No clue.
And at 11:00 PM, they locked us in our cells until morning time. A tiny cell, one bunk bed, one metal "dresser," a small table attached to the wall with an also attached stool, a sink and a toilet.
So lights are out. Door is locked. Within five minutes, my cellie is apologizing.
"Sorry bunkie, but when you gotta go, you gotta go."
What is anyone to say? He's right, if you gotta go you gotta go. And boy did he gotta go. The stench, the wet sounds, the... ew nevermind I'll
Have you ever tried to fall asleep with that stench? Can you imagine going to bed in a public bathroom? Don't try, it's obviously not pleasant.
Anyhow, during the rest of my time there, I read (a lot), played chess (a lot), played cards (even more). I met this asian guy Mike, part of the original Flying Dragons (FD, an asian gang), he was in for thirteen murders, and was wrapping up an eleven year bid. He was the only other asian person there, and if there's one thing you do in jail is stick with your own color. Doesn't really matter who they are or what they've done, because hey, who are we kidding, we're not going to find any saints in there.
People take care of their own, and when you're put into a situation where you have nothing and no one, you revert back to very primitive ways of distinguishing your own from others, namely race.
He seemed like a nice enough guy. After eleven years in jail though he was worried about rehabilitating himself to the real world. The internet, how to pick up girls, etc, he felt completely lost, like a newborn. I didn't quite know what to tell him, I didn't know how to bring him up to speed from such a situation. Talking to him reminded me of Red and Brooks from Shawshank Redemption, who both became institutionalized.
I also think I came very close to dying (or getting the living shit beat out of me at least). This giant of a Puerto Rican guy, mentally unstable, but built like a mountain, for some reason got mad at me. I don't even remember why.
We were playing cards, Casino to be exact, and I've played with him many times before. Him and this other younger Hispanic kid. The younger one was one of those very talkative, tries to be suave kinda guy, slightly cocky, but funny and good-natured enough to be tolerated. Seems like I found one of those in every facility I went to.
The giant however was much older. Graying hair, thick glasses, 45ish, with a neck thicker than a tree trunk. I really don't remember what happened, but something pissed him off. Something I said.
"What, you wanna go? You wanna throw down?"
I stared right back into his eyes, and my mind drew a blank. What do you do when confronted with this situation in jail?
On the streets there's no question really. But in jail, it's a completely different story. There are only so many possible outcomes to this:
- I fuck him up, get sent to solitary, get my security raised, and good time is deducted
- He fucks me up, and I still suffer all the consequences from possibility #1
- I back down and I'm branded the unit bitch until... I don't want to think that far ahead
- Death for one or the other
"Nah man, I'm tryna go home, but if it comes down to it, I'll go," I replied.
That was my bullshit way of trying to talk my way out of it. I backed down without really backing down, basically meaning I didn't do or say jack shit. Well, I didn't do jack shit but infuriate him even more.
The younger kid luckily squashed the whole thing. He pulled him away, saying it was just a misunderstanding, that everything was cool. We actually kept on playing Casino right afterwards lol.
The guy was obviously mentally unstable. I have no idea what he was in for, neither did I want to know. I still played cards with him from there on out, but I was very cautious.
This other guy in there, this lanky white guy who did time in state prisons as well, had chunks of metal embedded in his body in various places. Now I'm talking about huge chunks of shanks that he got stabbed with, and doctors were not able to extract from him. It looked unreal. He could just pull a chunk, stretching his skin as far as it could go, and boing it'd snap right back into his arm.
Cigarettes went for $10 each, $200 a pack. People who went to court didn't even wear socks so they could slip off their shoes and pick up cigarette butts on the street with their toes.
And that was that. Six weeks here literally felt like six months. It was the worst time of the entire seven year ordeal I went through since my arrest until the day I was done with probation. MDC was by far, the most horrid experience of the entire stretch.
Letters and phone calls help you get through the days, listening to that stupid smug female recording over and over:
"This call is from a federal prison. This is a prepaid call. You will not be charged for this call. This call is from: [insert my name here]. To accept, please press five. To decline all future calls from this person, please press seven, seven."
As much as I hated hearing this recording, I also loved it. It meant that whoever I called picked up. What sucked was that I only had fifteen minutes at a time to talk.
And I would also like to thank all the people who were there for me to write to, and call, even though a lot of those people I had just met, and had very little incentive to keep correspondence with an inmate. One person in particular, I had never even met lol.
Disappointingly but not surprisingly, Lisa was the hardest to get a hold of. We were broken up by this time, but I guess I still thought she'd be more available for me to call or write. She wrote one letter during this stretch. One letter in ten months. Oh well.
But I never thought I'd be happy to hear that I was going to be sent to a prison facility. But when I heard that I was being transferred to Allenwood, PA, I was ecstatic. That meant no more MDC. I'd miss the cheap phone calls (since it was local calls, it was about 1/3 of the price from PA), but a gym, facility, better food, cubes instead of cells, everything else would be better in Allenwood.
And it was. Especially when June 2005 came along.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Ten Twenty Nine Oh One - Part 2
Part 1
They left us in our cells for awhile. If there's anything you learn in jail, it's patience. Needless to say, I couldn't count how many hours I've wasted sitting in a cell, waiting for guards to finish my paperwork and usher me along to the next step
(cell)
where they'll keep me for more innumerous hours. Your eyes just dim. Have you ever felt like you were SO bored, that you couldn't be any more bored? Yeah try that times a quadrimillion. I never knew the meaning of boredom until then.
Literally. Nothing. To. Do.
Finally they came to get us. I've always been skinny (bony?), and yeah it'd be nice to have a little more meat on my bones but hey it was never that big of a deal. Until tonight. After strip searching us, they took away our shoe laces, belts, and anything else we could hang ourselves with or attack someone else with.
Problem? The pants didn't belong to me, and were about three inches too big for me. Next problem? They cuffed me so tight it kept grinding against my wrist bone, chaffing skin and bruising.
Wincing, what else am I to do? Complain? Ha. Haha. Funny. Not really.
And never two without three (especially when it comes to more problems), hands cuffed painfully behind my back, I'm struggling to pull my pants up as they walk me out to a van. I shuffle my way there, handcuffs attached to ankle cuffs.
Now, I'm not sure how many people can relate to what I'm about to say next, but I'm pretty sure you've all experienced that dawn of realization moment, where either your eyes are opened wide and you can now see the clearly painted blue sky, or the dawn brought about a scene so gruesome that you couldn't shut your eyes hard enough to escape it.
My skies weren't blue. Lined up along a wall, about eight of us cuffed and chained, they took count. This is nothing new to us though. We've seen these scenes hundreds of times in movies, main or side character getting arrested, locked up, etc. Yeah. That's the point. In movies.
That's when my dawn
(apocalypse...)
came and I knew I fucked up. I fucked up bad. There was no lying my way out of this, there was no running, there was no escape, there were no drugs. Just stark, merciless reality. And cold metal cuffs.
The van ride was depressing. They drove us to MCC (Metropolitan Correctional Center), which is a pretrial and holdover prison in Chinatown, right by Columbus Park.
They lined us up along a wall, facing it, and called each of our names.
"Haydee!"
No answer. Haydee? A girl? I didn't see any female inmates here and either way that's just not possible.
"Haydee! Haydee!"
My name's been mispronounced a lot, but that was the worst. I finally reacted.
"What, you don't even know your own name?" one of the guards chuckled.
"If you could fucking pronounce it properly maybe I would," I replied.
Lol yeah okay, I'm just kidding. I said nothing lol.
And another cell. This one was cold though. None of us were separated, close to ten of us trying to find a warm and somewhat comfortable spot on the hard benches.
Let me fast forward a little. I think you all got the point that it's as boring as staring at the same spot on a wall hoping you can will it to move with your mind alone just so that something changes in the scenery.
The next day they separated us by groups, I was put in a two-man cell with Steve. I never quite understood why solitary was called "solitary" when it's really a two-man cell.
They clothed me after stripping me (again... I sometimes wondered if they found enjoyment in our humiliation) but everything they had was 4XL or bigger. I kid you not, my tighty-whiteys could be wrapped around me a couple times and knotted.
A bunk bed. A sink. A toilet. A sad excuse for a desk/chair combination. And lots of cockroaches. A lot of inmates sleep with earplugs, not to block out sound (there's really not too much noise once lights are out), but because roaches crawl into your earlobe while you're sleeping and lay their eggs there.
The unsuspecting host goes about their days until the eggs hatch. I forgot what exactly happened to the host (it didn't kill them) but I'm sure it wasn't pretty.
And I had no earplugs. FML.
Fortunately I never had a bug hatch in my ear since so I think it's safe to say I escaped unscathed. Unfortunately, they didn't even let me shower for four days (I never got to leave the cell), so birdbaths in the sink made due.
I think they served food around 5am, 11am, and 6pm. From 6pm to 5am, nothing. And after each meal, I felt like I didn't even eat yet.
Staring out of barred windows, I caught a glimpse of Columbus Park. My mind played tricks on me making me think I could smell Chinese food. Fuck I was starving.
A psychiatrist came by the door to talk to me.
"Do you understand me?"
"Yeah."
"Are you feeling okay?"
"Yeah."
"You're not hearing voices or... seeing hallucinations or anything?"
"Uhh... no?"
"No suicidal thoughts?"
What the fuck.
"No."
He glanced at me and his eyes said that he didn't quite believe me but he also didn't give a flying fuck because he was on the other side of that door and was getting paid regardless if I was lying or not.
That was the only interaction we had with the guards there besides getting our food.
Steve and I did what we could to pass the time. And it's sad when, the person who ratted you out, is the only person that you have right then and there. He tried to stay positive, talking about bail, mentioning that his family had some cops in it...
"I doubt I'm making bail," I said.
"Why not?"
"My mom always told me, she can deal with follies, she understands we all go through those phases, but there are two things that she won't be able to help me with: one, if I got involved with drugs, and two, the law.
This is both. She's dealt with enough of my shit, this is it, I really doubt I'm going to make bail."
Four days later, I met my lawyer. In his fifties, he seemed nice enough. Basically, I was screwed because of the written statements Steve and Jules made.
"I'm working on getting you out on bail, but the USDA must have sensed more money in your family, because she set the bail really high."
"How high?"
"$500,000."
My heart crawled through its own artery to shrivel up and die.
"What??"
I later learned that Steve and Jules' bail was about $30,000 and $24,000 respectively, and we had to post up 10% of it. My lawyer managed to negotiate mine down to $50,000.
Either way, it was a moot point, I wasn't making bail.
On the day I was to appear in court to see if I made bail, I felt like the poor kid on Christmas, watching everyone open up presents, but thinking Santa forgot about me.
I walked into the courtroom and witnessed the power of a mother's love for her child with my very own eyes. Of course she was there, a look of utter disappointment and worry etched all over her face, but she was there nonetheless.
The court proceeded, and I actually made bail.
"Okay, so you made bail, the conditions are as follow," my lawyer says. "You can't leave the city, you can't fail a drug test, miss a meeting with your pretrial officer, or get in trouble in any other fashion, if not you'll be remanded, sent straight to jail, and your parents will be liable for the full $50,000."
I nodded. "Wait but, what if I fail my first drug test, because I still have it in my system?"
"Well that won't be the case, you came out negative for everything."
I blinked a few times. Then a few more times.
"What? That's impossible."
He shrugged. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."
I left 500 Pearl Street in an orange jumpsuit, fiending for a cigarette, but so ashamed I couldn't even look my mother in the eye.
Blood is thicker than water. Sometimes. But the unconditional love of a mother can never be replaced, and if genuine, should never be doubted. At least that's what I learned from my mother.
I hope you feel the same way about yours.
They left us in our cells for awhile. If there's anything you learn in jail, it's patience. Needless to say, I couldn't count how many hours I've wasted sitting in a cell, waiting for guards to finish my paperwork and usher me along to the next step
(cell)
where they'll keep me for more innumerous hours. Your eyes just dim. Have you ever felt like you were SO bored, that you couldn't be any more bored? Yeah try that times a quadrimillion. I never knew the meaning of boredom until then.
Literally. Nothing. To. Do.
Finally they came to get us. I've always been skinny (bony?), and yeah it'd be nice to have a little more meat on my bones but hey it was never that big of a deal. Until tonight. After strip searching us, they took away our shoe laces, belts, and anything else we could hang ourselves with or attack someone else with.
Problem? The pants didn't belong to me, and were about three inches too big for me. Next problem? They cuffed me so tight it kept grinding against my wrist bone, chaffing skin and bruising.
Wincing, what else am I to do? Complain? Ha. Haha. Funny. Not really.
And never two without three (especially when it comes to more problems), hands cuffed painfully behind my back, I'm struggling to pull my pants up as they walk me out to a van. I shuffle my way there, handcuffs attached to ankle cuffs.
Now, I'm not sure how many people can relate to what I'm about to say next, but I'm pretty sure you've all experienced that dawn of realization moment, where either your eyes are opened wide and you can now see the clearly painted blue sky, or the dawn brought about a scene so gruesome that you couldn't shut your eyes hard enough to escape it.
My skies weren't blue. Lined up along a wall, about eight of us cuffed and chained, they took count. This is nothing new to us though. We've seen these scenes hundreds of times in movies, main or side character getting arrested, locked up, etc. Yeah. That's the point. In movies.
That's when my dawn
(apocalypse...)
came and I knew I fucked up. I fucked up bad. There was no lying my way out of this, there was no running, there was no escape, there were no drugs. Just stark, merciless reality. And cold metal cuffs.
The van ride was depressing. They drove us to MCC (Metropolitan Correctional Center), which is a pretrial and holdover prison in Chinatown, right by Columbus Park.
They lined us up along a wall, facing it, and called each of our names.
"Haydee!"
No answer. Haydee? A girl? I didn't see any female inmates here and either way that's just not possible.
"Haydee! Haydee!"
My name's been mispronounced a lot, but that was the worst. I finally reacted.
"What, you don't even know your own name?" one of the guards chuckled.
"If you could fucking pronounce it properly maybe I would," I replied.
Lol yeah okay, I'm just kidding. I said nothing lol.
And another cell. This one was cold though. None of us were separated, close to ten of us trying to find a warm and somewhat comfortable spot on the hard benches.
Let me fast forward a little. I think you all got the point that it's as boring as staring at the same spot on a wall hoping you can will it to move with your mind alone just so that something changes in the scenery.
The next day they separated us by groups, I was put in a two-man cell with Steve. I never quite understood why solitary was called "solitary" when it's really a two-man cell.
They clothed me after stripping me (again... I sometimes wondered if they found enjoyment in our humiliation) but everything they had was 4XL or bigger. I kid you not, my tighty-whiteys could be wrapped around me a couple times and knotted.
A bunk bed. A sink. A toilet. A sad excuse for a desk/chair combination. And lots of cockroaches. A lot of inmates sleep with earplugs, not to block out sound (there's really not too much noise once lights are out), but because roaches crawl into your earlobe while you're sleeping and lay their eggs there.
The unsuspecting host goes about their days until the eggs hatch. I forgot what exactly happened to the host (it didn't kill them) but I'm sure it wasn't pretty.
And I had no earplugs. FML.
Fortunately I never had a bug hatch in my ear since so I think it's safe to say I escaped unscathed. Unfortunately, they didn't even let me shower for four days (I never got to leave the cell), so birdbaths in the sink made due.
I think they served food around 5am, 11am, and 6pm. From 6pm to 5am, nothing. And after each meal, I felt like I didn't even eat yet.
Staring out of barred windows, I caught a glimpse of Columbus Park. My mind played tricks on me making me think I could smell Chinese food. Fuck I was starving.
A psychiatrist came by the door to talk to me.
"Do you understand me?"
"Yeah."
"Are you feeling okay?"
"Yeah."
"You're not hearing voices or... seeing hallucinations or anything?"
"Uhh... no?"
"No suicidal thoughts?"
What the fuck.
"No."
He glanced at me and his eyes said that he didn't quite believe me but he also didn't give a flying fuck because he was on the other side of that door and was getting paid regardless if I was lying or not.
That was the only interaction we had with the guards there besides getting our food.
Steve and I did what we could to pass the time. And it's sad when, the person who ratted you out, is the only person that you have right then and there. He tried to stay positive, talking about bail, mentioning that his family had some cops in it...
"I doubt I'm making bail," I said.
"Why not?"
"My mom always told me, she can deal with follies, she understands we all go through those phases, but there are two things that she won't be able to help me with: one, if I got involved with drugs, and two, the law.
This is both. She's dealt with enough of my shit, this is it, I really doubt I'm going to make bail."
Four days later, I met my lawyer. In his fifties, he seemed nice enough. Basically, I was screwed because of the written statements Steve and Jules made.
"I'm working on getting you out on bail, but the USDA must have sensed more money in your family, because she set the bail really high."
"How high?"
"$500,000."
My heart crawled through its own artery to shrivel up and die.
"What??"
I later learned that Steve and Jules' bail was about $30,000 and $24,000 respectively, and we had to post up 10% of it. My lawyer managed to negotiate mine down to $50,000.
Either way, it was a moot point, I wasn't making bail.
On the day I was to appear in court to see if I made bail, I felt like the poor kid on Christmas, watching everyone open up presents, but thinking Santa forgot about me.
I walked into the courtroom and witnessed the power of a mother's love for her child with my very own eyes. Of course she was there, a look of utter disappointment and worry etched all over her face, but she was there nonetheless.
The court proceeded, and I actually made bail.
"Okay, so you made bail, the conditions are as follow," my lawyer says. "You can't leave the city, you can't fail a drug test, miss a meeting with your pretrial officer, or get in trouble in any other fashion, if not you'll be remanded, sent straight to jail, and your parents will be liable for the full $50,000."
I nodded. "Wait but, what if I fail my first drug test, because I still have it in my system?"
"Well that won't be the case, you came out negative for everything."
I blinked a few times. Then a few more times.
"What? That's impossible."
He shrugged. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."
I left 500 Pearl Street in an orange jumpsuit, fiending for a cigarette, but so ashamed I couldn't even look my mother in the eye.
Blood is thicker than water. Sometimes. But the unconditional love of a mother can never be replaced, and if genuine, should never be doubted. At least that's what I learned from my mother.
I hope you feel the same way about yours.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Why You Shouldn't Air Your Dirty Laundry in Public
It always interested me how humanity rebuilds societies, from the smallest scale to the largest. Post-apocalyptic settings are full of these scenarios, the backbone of novels and games galore. What becomes currency, what economic issues are encountered, what kind of groups emerge from the survivors...
And jail was no different. Pouches of mackerels were a dollar each since they cost $1.05 at commissary (our Walmart). Macks and stamps were the most common form of currency. A billionaire secretly employs a quarter of the unit, a hustler starts his own underground, after-hours K-Mart, a gambling kingpin sends out his henchmen to collect debts.
But you don't have to be a billionaire to be lazy in jail. If you have five macks to spare a week, you can get your cube cleaned and your laundry done and folded. All the inmates that are not fortunate enough to have people on the outside able or willing to send them funds work for their keep.
And because of this side job of theirs, two Jamaicans got the shit beat out of them, one of their eye popping out of the socket. All over laundry.
Six Mexicans took over the laundry room one Sunday, since they were doing a couple dozen loads. The two Jamaicans were on their day off and wanted to wash their own clothes. From what I heard, they waited for quite a while.
Sick of endlessly waiting for their turn, they took out whatever clothes were in the washer and started their own laundry load. Whether they were justified or not in doing so is up for debate, I can understand both sides.
The Mexicans weren't so understanding. They proceeded to crack them in the head with one of those really old, heavy (iron?) mop buckets, kicked off a broom handle, and stabbed the Jamaicans with the splintered end. Supposedly one of the Jamaican's eye popped out of its socket.
All of them were detained, and sent to solitary or the hospital as necessary. FBI got involved and our unit was shut down and isolated for a couple days because they thought it might have been gang related.
We never saw any of those inmates again. They all got their security level raised and were most likely going to a medium-level security prison. And the Jamaicans were most likely hospitalized for a while.
What irks me about this whole story though is, I made it a point to not get involved with all the jail politics and bullshit drama, but it still affected me regardless. One of those Mexicans was the guy I paid to do my shit!
Lol I say that in jest however. Not really that big of a deal. But jumping someone over laundry? Really? What happened to using our words? =P
And jail was no different. Pouches of mackerels were a dollar each since they cost $1.05 at commissary (our Walmart). Macks and stamps were the most common form of currency. A billionaire secretly employs a quarter of the unit, a hustler starts his own underground, after-hours K-Mart, a gambling kingpin sends out his henchmen to collect debts.
But you don't have to be a billionaire to be lazy in jail. If you have five macks to spare a week, you can get your cube cleaned and your laundry done and folded. All the inmates that are not fortunate enough to have people on the outside able or willing to send them funds work for their keep.
And because of this side job of theirs, two Jamaicans got the shit beat out of them, one of their eye popping out of the socket. All over laundry.
Six Mexicans took over the laundry room one Sunday, since they were doing a couple dozen loads. The two Jamaicans were on their day off and wanted to wash their own clothes. From what I heard, they waited for quite a while.
Sick of endlessly waiting for their turn, they took out whatever clothes were in the washer and started their own laundry load. Whether they were justified or not in doing so is up for debate, I can understand both sides.
The Mexicans weren't so understanding. They proceeded to crack them in the head with one of those really old, heavy (iron?) mop buckets, kicked off a broom handle, and stabbed the Jamaicans with the splintered end. Supposedly one of the Jamaican's eye popped out of its socket.
All of them were detained, and sent to solitary or the hospital as necessary. FBI got involved and our unit was shut down and isolated for a couple days because they thought it might have been gang related.
We never saw any of those inmates again. They all got their security level raised and were most likely going to a medium-level security prison. And the Jamaicans were most likely hospitalized for a while.
What irks me about this whole story though is, I made it a point to not get involved with all the jail politics and bullshit drama, but it still affected me regardless. One of those Mexicans was the guy I paid to do my shit!
Lol I say that in jest however. Not really that big of a deal. But jumping someone over laundry? Really? What happened to using our words? =P
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
A different kind of love letter
A letter my mom sent me in jail.
"In general, there are two kinds of love, one that rocks your world, and the kind that soothes your heart. When we are young, we tend to believe the first to being the real deal, because we want drama (not to mention the greatest loves in literature, films and music of all times are of the first kind), because we long to feel the flutters in our hearts, because we envision the height it'll take us, and we can't wait to take that plunge... then we grow up. But still there are those who still pine for it despite their age, until the end of time. They, we call them the old fools.
The other kind is more complicated. It isn't so much the falls and the heartbreaks but the everyday aches that hurt. I think you truly love somebody when it pains you to see him/her smile. The love pain - almost a strum in your heart, it's so sweet that it hurts and brings tears of gratitude - thankful to having this person to love. When it breaks you to see him/her in a stage of struggle, so much that you'll step in and take over that fight of hardship to stop that pain - that pain of your own heart breaking and when you'd rather trade places with him/her than to see him/her hurt and suffer, because somehow it is easier to take the pain in your body than in your heart.
It is an adventure, almost a drug, to love someone... and a blessing to be loved... Unlike what most believe, the power lies in the one who loves and not in the beloved. The beloved is merely chosen - for in some small way he/she calls to his/her lover, the beneficiary so to speak, and the lover, the donor, who decides all... Because ultimately it ends when the lover decidedly stops loving...
In the end it doesn't matter how great the love, once gone, it will fade over time and will be replaced by another eventually. For all the obvious reasons but mainly it is our instinct to survive that moves us forward. I cannot fathom a love so great that the loss of which will leave a person so incomplete, that it mars him/her forever... except when that love is but a vision, her/his very own, for then no one can replace that..."
"In general, there are two kinds of love, one that rocks your world, and the kind that soothes your heart. When we are young, we tend to believe the first to being the real deal, because we want drama (not to mention the greatest loves in literature, films and music of all times are of the first kind), because we long to feel the flutters in our hearts, because we envision the height it'll take us, and we can't wait to take that plunge... then we grow up. But still there are those who still pine for it despite their age, until the end of time. They, we call them the old fools.
The other kind is more complicated. It isn't so much the falls and the heartbreaks but the everyday aches that hurt. I think you truly love somebody when it pains you to see him/her smile. The love pain - almost a strum in your heart, it's so sweet that it hurts and brings tears of gratitude - thankful to having this person to love. When it breaks you to see him/her in a stage of struggle, so much that you'll step in and take over that fight of hardship to stop that pain - that pain of your own heart breaking and when you'd rather trade places with him/her than to see him/her hurt and suffer, because somehow it is easier to take the pain in your body than in your heart.
It is an adventure, almost a drug, to love someone... and a blessing to be loved... Unlike what most believe, the power lies in the one who loves and not in the beloved. The beloved is merely chosen - for in some small way he/she calls to his/her lover, the beneficiary so to speak, and the lover, the donor, who decides all... Because ultimately it ends when the lover decidedly stops loving...
In the end it doesn't matter how great the love, once gone, it will fade over time and will be replaced by another eventually. For all the obvious reasons but mainly it is our instinct to survive that moves us forward. I cannot fathom a love so great that the loss of which will leave a person so incomplete, that it mars him/her forever... except when that love is but a vision, her/his very own, for then no one can replace that..."
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