Posted on April 14,
2012
When one first sets foot
inside the stark confines of a prison or jail, the first lesson to be learned
is that this is an entirely different world. Everything one has learned up to
that point about to live life is placed on ho and a whole new set of
instructions comes into play.
For example, here at
Oakdale, we take our meals in a dining hall comprised of about 50 four-man
tables. When you finish your meal and prepare to leave, you knock on the table.
The others seated with you respond by each providing an answering knock.
During my first week
here, I asked someone the meaning behind this odd custom. I learned that it was
a throwback to a time when inmates were not allowed to speak during meals.
(This situation still endures at some higher level facilities.) When someone
prepares to get up from the table, his knock is meant to convey the following
message: “Excuse me. I am getting up now. This only means that I am leaving. I
have no intention to attack you.” The answering knock implies: “We understand.
Thank you for not attacking us. We appreciate it. Good bye.” This custom is one
that I have not adopted. Instead, as I rise, I usually say “Have a good day”
(or evening.) This seems to work just as well in conveying the message that I
do not intend to beat up anyone.
Another timeless custom
is the “cool” prison nickname. This is often employed s a defensive measure.
For example, if one is named Marvin or Ronald, this does not serve to keep
others at bay nearly as effectively as “Killer” or “Bruiser.” However, in
practice, I have noted that some of the nicknames tend to defeat their purpose
by turning out to be . . . well I’ll just say it, kinda silly.
In my unit alone, we have
a “Boo-Boo”, (shades of Yogi Bear) a “Ya-Ya” and silliest of all in my opinion,
a “Hot Sauce.” I have thus far resisted the temptation to address him as “Mr.
Sauce.” You see, “Hot Sauce” sports the tear-drop tattoo. A single teardrop
under one eye is meant to convey that the wearer has killed someone. “Hot
Sauce” has a whole splash of them so I have opted to avoid him altogether and
remain off his radar.
These customs and many others
like them are generated among the inmates themselves. But occasionally, I come
across one that has originated with the prison staff.
Last year, our unit
counselor came upon an entire trash bag full of hooch. (“Hooch” is a
prohibition-era term for illegal alcohol.) One inmate in my unit had created
the forbidden elixir from pilfered oranges and the yeast from bread. You should
know that most people in the prison population turn into McGiver complete with
the ability to turn a paperclip into a Gatlin gun.
While I have never
imbibed, I am told this “hooch” ferments for only a week or so in a trash bag,
so I am surmising that it does not have the woodsy tang of Jack Daniel’s that
has steeped for twelve years in a specially treated oaken barrel. But I’m
guessing that it gets the job done nevertheless.
Anyway, the unit manager
assembled us all and announced that our beloved microwave ovens were being
removed until further notice. I looked around to see who was going to raise his
hand and object to the idea of punishing over two hundred men for the actions
of a single individual but no one did. The microwaves were not returned for
another six months.
About a month ago,
another bag of “hooch” was found, another meeting hastily assembled and once
again, the microwaves were gone. This time, I raised my hand to ask the obvious
question and the unit manager replied, “You are all responsible for policing
your own unit.” This was news to me. Foolishly, I had assumed that my job was
to follow the rules but now I was being told that I was expected to enforce
them as well. The inmates refer to the Corrections Officers t here as “the
police”, so it was a fairly natural assumption that they would be the ones
doing the policing.
I have not been
successful in obtaining any information as regards what specific steps I need
to be taking should I encounter anyone manufacturing “hooch.” Do I beat him
senseless? Do I merely threaten to do so? In either case, I would be in
violation of the rules and sent to the SHU (Special Housing Unit or as it is
lovingly referred to by one and all here, THE HOLE.) Do I snitch on him? Well,
if I do that, then I am the one who will be beaten senseless. Do I shake my
finger at him and say, “Bad inmate”?
Yeah, that’ll work.
So I am left to ponder
the imponderable. The only answer that I am left with is that the staff is
saying with a wink and a nod: “Take care of this dude however you want. Just
don’t let us know about it.” From my point of view, the easier course is to
just do without the frickin microwaves.
I cannot, in the course
of a single article, begin to cover all the ways in which prison life differs
from that of the free world. That would take an entire book and a very fat one
at that.
Perhaps one day I’ll
write it.
But for now, I am content
to observe at a distance as prisoners bump fists rather than shake hands, hold
extended conversations at the top of their lungs with others on the opposite
side of the compound, or smuggle ten-pound rump roasts out of the kitchen
concealed in their underwear.
What do I know? It’s their world. I just live in it.
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