Prison Vocab

Below is a list of common prison terms and some other unusual prison tidbits.

• Spread -- A spread is a meal prepared by a group of inmates. A trash bag is usually filled with 4 to 5 Ramen Noodles packages, diced summer sausages, dehydrated refried beans, beef or chicken sometimes stolen by the kitchen workers, Louisiana Hot Sauce, and whatever else the group might prefer. Boiling water is then added to the mixture and the trash bag is tied closed and encased in newspaper to keep the heat in. After about 5 minutes the trash bag can then be untied and carefully torn open to provide a perfect eating surface. Not until you pour the melted cheese over the top through. College kids everywhere should give it a try. You'd be surprised.
  
  
• Fifi (French Whore) -- A device used to simulate sex with a woman. It is usually made by rolling a trash bag inside of a towel. The excess plastic is then folded back and over the outside of the towel and secured in place by several rubber-bands at different intervals along its length. A cup of lotion is then heated and squirted generously inside of the inmate's new toy.

• A Drop -- Is a package being delivered outside of the prison walls for an inmate on an outside work crew to pick up and smuggle back in. Most drops consist of a can of Bugler tobacco, rolling papers, Vaseline, Syran Wrap, and whatever drug that inmate might prefer. Loose tobacco was the norm because shoving a whole cigarette up your ass without breaking it has to be impossible.

• Keister Bunny -- The person packing his ass. This term isn't reserved for the people bringing the contraband into the place either. Many inmates keep their anal cavities packed as it is the last place correction's officers usually search for banned substances and items. The announcement of "Full-Body Cavity Searches" sent most of the bunnies scrambling from the day-room with the quickness.

• Mule -- See Keister Bunny

• Canteen/Commissary -- Items sold to inmates by the state. This includes everything from Ramen Noodles to New Balance and Televisions.
  

• Store -- An inmate runs a store. This means his cell is usually packed with excess amounts of canteen. The merchant prisoner usually charges two for one. The prison system refers to this as bartering and it is not permitted.
  

• Rollie -- A rolled tobacco cigarette. When papers aren't available the note section of state-issue Bibles are the usual substitute. Individual rolls of toilet paper are also encased in a waxy form of paper which could also be used. A rollie generally ran you from a $1 to a $1.50 worth of canteen.

• Taylor-Made -- A whole cigarette as you would find in a pack. A rarity in prison. (I explained why already. ) These generally ran you $3 bucks a piece and were most high in demand when of the menthol variety.

• Snitch -- Anyone who rats someone out for something. Whether it occur inside the prison walls, in the court room, or behind closed doors at the police station.
  

• Dry-Snitch -- Someone who rats another person out unintentionally or through more clever means. For instance...Picture two men about to get into it over a bad tobacco transaction. They head to a location where the beef can be handled. One of these inmates begins running his mouth, calling out the other inmate, but in such a manner as to draw attention from "The Man". This of course halts the confrontation before it can get ugly.

• The Man -- Just like the Police, Prison Officials are referred to as The Man.

• Hooch -- Fermented bread and fruit which is held in a trash-bag until it becomes alcoholic. The smell alone is generally enough to keep most inmates from trying to brew their own.

• Chow -- Dinner, Lunch, and Breakfast. They are all Chow.

• Cho-Mo -- A child molester. The most hated person in prison. More than snitches or cops believe it or not.

• Tree-Jumper -- A child molester. In Colorado they were housed at the Fremont facility to protect their lives. We referred to it as Treemont.

• Baby-Raper -- A child molester. I could probably come up with a few more names for these pricks, but I'l leave it at three and with this note: I once saw one get his wig split by a tube-sock weighted with Irish Spring. A one-hitter-quitter that likely served him as good as castration. Prison justice can be beneficial at times.

• The Yard -- Where all the inmates get to play. All the "good" inmates anyway.

• Punk -- Someone who takes it up the ass.

• Bitch -- Someone who takes it up the ass.

• Ho -- Someone who takes it up the ass. Which means if you call someone any of those, you should be prepared to fight.

• The Bootie Flu -- AID's/HIV

• Moist -- As in "You're Moist". You know, soft as hell.

• Peckerwood -- A racist white bastard.

• Race Traitor -- The Peckerwoods most hated enemy.

• Lean -- Those from Texas already know what I'm talking about to a degree, but the term Lean in prison referred to Sucrettes. You could order the cough drops on canteen and then melt them down in your miniature crock-pot. After allowing to cool a bit, the medicine can then be drank down providing an adequate buzz very familiar to that of Hydrocodone. They banned the Sucrettes just before I was paroled.

• Cap -- A cap always referred to the lid of a Chapstick. This was used as a measuring device for marijuana and always cost you $25 a pop. The joints people would roll would be no more than an inch and a half in length, but Colorado bud is all good so there were never any worries about whether or not you'd get high.

If you have any words to add to the list, please drop a comment and I'll gladly include it.

Go Green or Go Home: Wipe Your Ass w/ 1 Piece of Toilet Paper

This environmentally friendly tip comes directly from an Airborne Ranger who was a drill instructor of mine while in disciplinary boot camp. A few of the recruits had complained about only being provided with ten squares when attacking the head for a number 2. I was sure we were about to be thrashed mercilessly but instead were offered the following lesson -- You can wipe your ass efficiently with just one piece. Pay attention! I'm sure you'll never have to do this.

1. Start with one section of your favorite brand of toilet paper. Avoid single-ply!

2. Fold the piece in half.













3. Fold in half once more, creating a square.

4. Locate the corner of the square in which the center of the toilet paper section rests.

5. And tear it off, being sure to preserve the smaller piece for later.

6. This should create a hole in the middle of the paper which you can then slide your index finger through. You figure out where this is going yet? Yeah, not anywhere near me either!

7. Using your finger (Yeah, fucking gross!), you then remove the fecal matter from your nether region. Afterwards, using your free hand, pull back on the toilet paper, removing the shit from your hand and depositing it onto the T.P.. Remember the tiny corner you removed?

8. It comes in handy when removing any stubborn debris which might have become lodged beneath your fingernail. Happy wiping!

Busted in Boulder

Follow the link if you missed the last post in my biography.

With the cash from Mrs. Thompson's bedroom I immediately rented an inexpensive motel room in Boulder, Colorado. The cold would not be leading to my demise after all. However, my ego had driven me to the wrong means of accomplishing this; a shelter would have been the first place most people turned I imagine (unfortunately, I am not "most people").

Three days from the date of my looting I was contacted by the police who were investigating the case. They wanted to talk to me as I suspected, and asked me to visit their offices. No problem.

When arriving at the station I was greeted by two detectives who led me toward an "interview" room. The stereotypical, over-used, you-must-be-a-fucking-fool interrogation ensued; it was Good Cop, Bad Cop. Yawn!

They mentioned finding my fingerprints on the sliding glass door and pretty much all over the house. Huge revelation there, given I had lived in the house for months. The next angle they tried was informing me that fingerprints could be dated and that my fingerprints were new enough to have been deposited after my eviction. Were these guys serious? I understood now why they worked the suburbs. It was hard to displace the smirk which fought to erase my otherwise composed countenance.

Despite the frailty of their evidence, I was taken in to custody and after a few hours transported to the Boulder County Jail. I was charged with second degree burglary and was able to visit the judge a couple of days later and receive a bond.

I can remember being behind the glass wall of the defendant section of the court room and a man being asked to stand as he was read his charges and bond. He had been arrested for possession of paraphernalia; a glass pipe. When the judge asked him if he had anything to say or would like to plead guilty, he responded with absolute seriousness, "But it was a small pipe, your honor.” Everyone chuckled, even the judge, though his furrowed brow seemed also to deepen in response to the guy's plea.

Looking back, it was a rare bright moment in the next few months of my life in Colorado. Humor never eludes me, even in the most desperate of times. Jail I could make the best of, it was the guilt of my mother having to deal with all of this that stirred my feelings the most. I'd do my best to make sure she wouldn't be having to deal with it.

When my charges were read, I plead not-guilty and was returned to my cell. The Boulder County Jail could best be described as the Waldorf Towers of county jails. You'll be glad to know that tax-dollars are spent on renting movies on Fridays and Saturdays for the inmates to view on couches with bags of popcorn and a two-liter of Pepsi to share between three inmates. Why would anyone ever want to leave? There was even carpet in the cells and porcelain toilets. Well, I bonded out anyway. My mother had been contacted by Mrs. Thompson and they somehow arranged for this to be taken care of. When I stepped outside the jail, for the first time, Mrs. Thompson's car stood waiting for me. I thought the detectives had been a joke. This surely was. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Prison Oddities: A Reflection

Anyone who has spent ANY time behind bars can attest to at least one odd story or another pertaining to their stay. There is a "What the fuck?" factor to every jail. Just keep your eyes open and you will find some detail that has you either scratching your head or laughing emphatically.

One of these "What the fuck?" moments came while spending a month in segregation for a "tobacco-related incident". The cells were bright red and had open barred faces which provided the occupant with a wonderfully pock-marked view of concrete nothingness. The slitted windows toward the ceiling of the three-story human warehouse mocked those of us confined to 23-hour lock-down with thin rays of piercing sunshine. None of us would be outdoors breathing clean air for a while, and the airborne detritus illuminated by the always fading daylight was a sickening reminder.

Very little was provided for reading in these circumstances. You could get a Bible or Book of Koran from Prison Ministries if that was your thing. You could also fill out a "kite" to the librarian requesting books of your choice to read. I'm not sure where that expression was derived from, but that was the name they had for the form. This would ultimately result in a two-week wait for requested materials to be gathered and delivered. Inmates don't like to wait and this results in reading materials being passed from one cell to another. I like to call it literary hot-potato, except that there is more than one potato and they are all different.

You never knew what you would be handed when the guy in the cell to either side of you said, "Hey!" It could be anything from Shakespeare to Machiavelli. It was usually just porn though, which always deserved a look. You usually started questioning what people had been doing with the magazine before it made it to your cell by about page 2. Then once you had turned from page 2 to the next page, page 16, you'd get your breath back. How considerate of everyone to not whack off with a community magazine in their possession! My fellow inmates had been stealing the pages one by one as the magazine made its rounds through the cell-house. Rip a page out for yourself and pass it on! It was a porn democracy. Sometimes though, you'd get the magazine and so many pages would be missing that even the thumbnail adds for Asian call girls and such would be missing

I often wondered what everyone was doing with these pages and clippings. I mean, I knew what they were doing with them, but did they keep them and archive them or what? This question was answered shortly into my stay when an inmate on my tier had his cell searched. I stood quickly and held my mirror through the bars to get a look-see. Outside of the man's cell, amongst all of his scattered belongings the corrections officers were going through, was a huge collage of porn. I can remember laughing at first and wondering if the pictures were secured in place with toothpaste or his unborn children. You could no doubt judge a man's stay in segregation by his porn accumulation. At that moment I was thankful I wasn't going to be in prison, much less segregation, long enough to go through that much adhesive. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

The Perpetual Debt

A great post from a blog I have newly become the reader of which outlines some of the difficulties faced by former felons and inmates upon release; you should enjoy the read as well. His blog is worth a look.

From: The Random Ramblings of a Midtown Miscreant

Just a few blocks from my place a 57 year old man was found murdered. The guy was an employee of Sunfresh grocery in Westport. He was also an ex con with a fairly ugly track record. With convictions for Attempted Rape and Manslaughter under his belt, it is a little tough to garner much sympathy for the guy, even though he served his time, and seems to have lived within the confines of the law since his release in 2003. In time we may learn that he strayed back to his former criminal ways. His death also may have been as simple as a street robbery gone bad. Either way, it seems his past caught up to him. People who live a violent life, and commit atrocious acts, generally meet a similar end. If you must give it a name call it Karma.

This post isn’t really about the dead grocery store clerk, that story just got me thinking about life after prison. The popular misconception is you serve your time, get out and move on with your life, debt paid. It is more than a little naive to think that someone who has been in prison can ever lead a completely normal life, and even more naive to think the past wont bite that person in the ass on a regular basis. In other words, being released from prison is not the same as being released from your past.

The conscious decision that we make to break the law, to lead a particular lifestyle, is one that will stick with us for the rest of our lives. It will hinder the pursuit of a really good job. It will linger in the minds of people who knew us "Then" and they will always have doubt about our character. So to the people who think that parole means true release, it doesn’t. More importantly , it shouldn’t. For guys like the dead grocery store employee, it is a little hard to move beyond the fact that he was responsible for the loss of a life or attempting to rape a woman. Regardless of how stellar a life he may have led after the fact, his past will always loom over him, as it should.

In my case, I defrauded banks and other financial institutions. Does the fact that my victim was an FDIC insured bank rather than john q Citizen make me a better person than the guy who commits a murder? No it doesn’t. I like to think of myself as a better person than a murderer, not because my crime wasn’t brutal, but because my character wouldn’t allow me to kill someone in the commission of a crime. In the eyes of the law, I am no better or worse than the dead ex-con grocery clerk, I’m just another in a long line of numbers.

So if the debt is never truly paid, if an ex convict is never completely free of his past crimes, what’s the point in going straight. And if he goes straight what is to prevent him from walking around with a huge chip on his shoulder? The first question is easy, you go straight to avoid returning to prison. You can live the life for years and never get caught, but once you get that first conviction under your belt, they got your number. If you re-offend, you will go back to prison. So going straight for most of us that do, is a no brainer, its self preservation, pure and simple. Most people that serve time in prison come out bitter and pissed off. The resentment festers and grows and they spend the rest of their lives angry at a world that had the audacity to punish them only to turn around and tell them that the time they served was just a down payment on a debt that will remain in perpetuity, unpaid in full.

The easy route is the one that is too often taken. You get out, you struggle, you never get free of the past. So you end up angry and bitter at a world that by and large has done nothing to you.

There is no magic bullet for absolution, in fact absolution is unattainable. The best that you can hope for is to make amends, or a close facsimile of amends. My way of doing that is to write about my past. I put my picture up on this blog and I spill my guts for all to see. I don’t sugar coat things or try to soften the edges. I suppose this is my way of doing penance, instead of Hail Mary's, I write and expose myself. Hopefully in the process I reveal the human side of a cross section of society that most people only see in a negative light. Absolution is out of reach, but redemption is mine in the telling. That is why I do this. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Boot Camp: A Letter from Mom and Dad

The sound of revelry rings in my ears to this day; loudspeakers make me cringe; and the sight of gold teeth always brings back mental images of some of my closest platoon members. Memories from this experience will always be with me. The one that stands out most from the others involves an event which happened outside the barbed-wire fences of my summer home. It would turn out to be a huge turning point in my life while also attributing to my only serious screw-up in boot camp.

A month into the program, when the blisters from my feet had just began to heal and my platoon had progressed past the point of being demeaned at every waking moment by every possible staff member, I received a letter from my mother and father. Just like in prison, as I'd find out later in life, receiving mail was one of the few highlights of boot camp. Our drill instructors handed out our mail by throwing it to us. Envelope flight isn't very predictable, and if you could catch the zig-zagging projectile before it hit the polished concrete slab of the squad bay, you were allowed to open it immediately. This happened about as frequently as a safety in football. Let it hit the ground and YOU had to hit the ground and start "working" for that letter.

When the drill instructor called my name that day, and tossed the envelope without even looking up from the other mail he was shuffling through, I scrambled forward and deftly plucked it from the air. I was hardly prepared for its contents as I ripped the envelope open and began scanning the text. South America...Venezuela...Puerto La Cruz...Transfer?

The letter stated that my mother had been given a promotion by Conoco which entailed a locale change. She would be leaving almost immediately, with my father, and would more than likely spend the next few years there. I was very happy for her. My mother is the hardest working and most driven person I have ever known. She deserved a promotion, but it left much about my future unknown. I had many questions for her and my father.

Foremost in my mind was that I would be graduating from boot camp in two months. I would be a free man, but would still have five years of probation to complete. States don't allow you to transfer your probation out of the country, so what was I going to do when I graduated? I wanted to go to college, but where would I go and with whom would I live? My closest relative would be in Birmingham, Alabama. I had no desire to immerse myself into such a fundamental community. My other option, staying in Texas without any family, would likely land me right back in jail. I had to speak with my parents, but how could I get to a phone and get away with contacting the outside world? Communication by any method other than the United States postal service was strictly forbidden and held dire consequences. I went to bed that night ram-rod straight in my bunk, cursing the irony of my life, and contemplating a plan for getting to a phone. Rules were made to be broken, right? (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Boot Camp: The First Day

"Off the bus! On the bus! Off the bus On the bus!" Such was the theme upon arriving at boot camp. I had stayed up the entire night before, anticipating this very moment but never expecting the chaos I was now a part of. Picture 70 people on a school bus, rushing as quickly from and back into its cramped confines in unison as possible. Anyone clumsy enough to get trampled or delay the effort in anyway was immediately rewarded with an eyeful of spittle and an aggravating thump to the forehead from the stiff brim of one of the drill instructors' campaign hats as he reminded you of how worthless and insignificant you really were. The breaking of men had begun. Even from the start, it was clear they intended to break every single one of us.

As we scrambled back and forth from the bus to the parade deck, a large concrete slab for military drilling that had to be well over 100 degrees to the touch, we were dropped as a group into the push-up position. If we didn't get situated fast enough, back onto the bus to try at it again. I quickly learned to find humor in the repetition of it all. Anyone here must have had a disorganized life and this was collectively no easy task for us. Being a team-player doesn't usually land you in these kinds of situations.

After about 20 minutes of the bus nonsense, we were picked out one by one to advance to the next stage of our "orientation." You were selected on physical output. The people exerting the most physical effort were picked first in descending order. Over a three month period you'd be amazed at how many of my fellow morons never did grasp this simple concept. I just blocked out all of the negativity associated with my situation and relied on my extremely competitive nature to fuel an enthusiasm for it all. We were going to have to be a team for this to not suck entirely, and what better way to motivate those around you than show them up? For three months, I'd be a hardcore trashing mother f*****.

The next section consisted of you getting your head shaved by a barber from the neighboring prison. These inmates seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in leaving patches in your head. What they appreciated even more were the faces of the people whose hair they were cutting. Eyes bulged, bewildered, and shocked. Sweat streaming from reddened faces and dripping onto heaving chests. Many people had come from county jails. I had been in high school just two weeks before and had only turned myself in the night prior. I was in a much better hygienic state than most of the others due to this, and was gaining a great appreciation for the miracles associated with good "product". I think everyone but me was suffering from some degree of dandruff. Some of these boot-campers were afflicted by dandruff so extreme, I can only describe it with these words: instant-mashed-potatoes. You know, before you add the water? Gross! Aveda probably wasn't on the commissary list in the county jail. You could tell.

Once stripped of my hair, I was then told to take a shower. Provided to me was a single medicine cup of some substance which I gather was intended to kill lice, scabies, and any other parasite one might have transported into the facility with them. This was all done prior to visiting the nurses, where we received a physical and were drug tested. I'm pretty sure I failed the urinary analysis. As they say, "what they gon' do? lock me up? I'm already locked up!"

The only real distinction the medical staff made with the physical was "fat-body" or "non-fat-body." Fat-bodies were individuals that were relegated to half-portions at every meal and no dessert until significant physical improvements had been made to their physique. I couldn't imagine. The boys in this grouping looked hungry. One of these fat-bodies in my platoon ended up shedding 90-100 pounds in a little over three months of boot camp. It couldn't have been healthy for him. The skin which hung over his belt-line at graduation would forever be his reminder of boot camp. He looked healthier in clothes, but such an extreme and accelerated weight loss made him no more physically appealing with his shirt off I'm sure.

Leaving the nurses' station in single file, hands on the shoulders of the person in front of you and in step, or "asshole-to-belly-button" as the D.I's termed it, we were herded towards the canteen. A canteen, not the container, is a depot or store in military terms. We were outfitted there with newbie greens, black boots, canteen and canteen belt, a hat, boxers, socks, t-shirts, unsatisfactory hygiene products, and linens.

The Orientation Squad Bay was our next destination. Upon entering the dormitory style building, the first thing I noticed is that there were other people already there. I had thought that everyone who I had been on the bus with was going to be in my platoon. Making my assigned bed as directed, I learned from one of the already settled in residents that we would be competing in just two weeks time for 50 slots in the next platoon to be organized. There were 80-90 people in the squad bay. 30 slacking performers, or knuckleheads as I would hear them described, would be leftover to try again in another two weeks to earn their way into a platoon. I went to bed, staring at the ceiling of what I hoped would only be my home for the next two weeks, knowing not what physical and mental tests lay ahead of me, but only that I would conquer them and get out of this boot camp as fast as I could. I was locked on! This place would be a memory in three months and my life could then regain some sense of normalcy. I was sure of it. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Water is Free!

If any of you have ever been to jail, you have probably noticed that your nose isn't necessarily in agreeance with your surroundings. Micro-organisms mask the walls, floors, and even the air. Your fellow patrons aren't any cleaner either. People enter the system with lice, scabies, VD's, and in many cases very poor health. Many prisons now shave the heads of new inmates to try and lessen the influx of filth. With all of that in mind, why not take a fucking shower once you get to jail? You don't have to buy water or soap on commissary. Both are provided by tax dollars. And while State-issue soap might sap the moisture out of your skin, at least you wont be contributing to the pungency. Jail is already a place filled with sadness and unpleasantness. No one wants to smell your ass, have your dandruff flakes in their morning chow, or share a cell with a nasty bastard. So, next time you are unfortunate enough to wind up behind bars, just wash your ass. It's FREE! (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

My First Day In The Joint

After spending 9 months in the county jail while agreeing on a plea with the district attorney, I was finally on my way to prison. The year was 1998 and although I didn't know it then, I wasn't going to be a free man until August of 2001. I had little to look forward to and simply found pleasure in the fact I would have a bit more freedom at the facility I was being transported to.

The Ford van that carried the other inmates and me towards our destination seemed almost like an amusement park ride. I had grown up in Texas and we were driving deep into the Rockies. I thought of how ironic it was that I was witnessing one of the Earth's greatest treasures for the first time while on my way to prison. I also thought it ironic this same treasure, that had for even a moment made me forget my own fate, was the perfect barricade between society and what I had become. Not that escaping ever crossed my mind, but I'd climb ten barbed-wire fences before I braved these mountains alone.

Having dropped off the other inmates at their facilities--the facilities were grouped together with a wide range of security levels--it was my turn to get settled in. I was at a Minimum-Restricted Facility as it is called. This prison system, as I like to refer to it, was a progressive one. I had a key to my own cell and was allowed freedom outside of it from the hours of 6 AM to 11 PM. There were of course "counts" between those hours, which meant you had to be in your cell at a designated time to be tallied to ensure no one had left the adult day-care. I mean seriously, picture day care for grown men where the only thing you are denied is a woman. That pretty much sums up the facility. Well, there is also the issue that you can't leave. That might bother most people.

After reporting to the guard station inside my pod and receiving the key to my cell I realize that my next "event" for the day will be meeting my celly. Arriving at my cell I notice the door is open and quickly relinquish my grip upon the key and slowly enter. My new celly was an angular man sporting a mullet. Perfect!

From our introductions I learn he is serving a 14 year sentence, is the barber of the facility, and that he is hardly someone I am going to have to be looking over my shoulder for. All of those are plusses. Barber’s get paid a daily rate in prison, but just like the real barber, you are expected to tip. Free haircuts! Also, most of the guards at these prisons are broke as fuck themselves and get their haircuts by their facility barber as well. Yeah, who would have thought? This though would often lead to a guard dropping off a Domino’s Pizza or some other form of edible payment, to which I was allowed to partake. I know, I know, prison was bad, right?

I quickly made my bed with the provided linens and then secured the few items I could call my own. I was ready to check out the “yard” and understandably didn't want to spend anymore time in a cell than what was required. My afternoon arrival had caused me to miss lunch—I had eaten the dreaded bologna sack-lunch on my trip in though—and was thus afforded about four hours of recreation time. With my celly at my side, claiming to be a basketball player of sorts, we hit the courts. The mountain sun was warming and just as I began to enjoy this I realized there weren’t any other white people playing basketball. I didn’t see Mr. Mullet hesitate and wasn’t really worried about it myself. Some of my best friends had been black back in Texas and I most assuredly met them playing basketball. Everything would be fine.

My celly and I quickly called next and selected our team for the next game. He, I noticed, was already friends with most of the people on the court. Of course he was; he faded them up. We played basketball long enough for me to change a few shades in pigment, (You’d be amazed at how efficient the sun is when you are at 11,000ft elevation.) and develop a few painful blisters from the State-issue boots. You ever tried playing basketball in boots?

Following the afternoon count it was time for dinner. I had been listening to old cons in the county jail for 9 months about how they couldn’t wait to get to prison to get some real food. I was anxious to see what fit that definition in their eyes. I definitely understood their lamentations about the county’s attempt at sustenance. Ever heard of Jell-O-salad? I hope I don’t have to explain. It’s right up there with www.2girls1cup.com. If you aren’t eighteen, don’t check it out. If you liked YOUR last meal, don’t check it out.

The cafeteria ended up reminding me of Luby’s: Obese servers, salad bar, drink machines, and all. One of the few differences was the racial break-up of the room. Whites had their own side with Hispanics littered here and there, while the other side was entirely devoid of whites. This side was mostly black, but also had its fare share of Hispanics. It was very clear what side you were expected to sit on.

I’ve never been a racist and after filling up my cup with some Root Beer, which I hadn’t had the pleasure of tasting in nearly a year, I quickly took a seat at an empty table on the black side of the cafeteria. My celly followed right behind me and somehow I knew he wouldn’t mind. The whites couldn’t get mad at him because they needed him for haircuts. I would soon learn, however, that I was officially labeled a race-traitor that day. I’m almost positive the moment I stepped onto the basketball court the cowards that call themselves white-supremacists had already awarded me race-trader probationary status.

One of the reasons I call them cowards, besides the obvious, is that not once did any of these proud whites say anything to me about associating with the black population. Not once in nearly three and a half years. But if I had a dollar for every time I was given a look, “that” look, I could have easily paid off my restitution. I guess they were all just scared of what the black population might do to them if they found out someone was fucking with me. I became the “token white-boy” and I think everyone appreciated my display in courage with breaking from the prison norm. Not once did I sit on the white side of the cafeteria. And if I had, even from day one, I doubt any of those Aryan wannabes would have raised a hand to help me if I had ever had an issue with a black inmate. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

3 Words to Forget When You Get to Prison

1. Bitch: You don't call anyone a bitch unless you're ready to display how big of one you might be. The word bitch carries a whole 'nother set of definitions behind the walls. There is absolutely no reference to a woman in its use. "You're acting like a bitch," is what substitutes for that.


2. Punk: A punk is neither a rocker or mischievous youth. It is explicitly someone who takes it in the ass. Gay people wind up in jail and they continue doing what it is gay people do. Why wouldn't they? But to be a heterosexual male in prison and be called a punk is the ultimate insult.
   


3. Ho: I think you can understand from the first two words why this one's not accepted either. Use any of them as much as you like, just don't refer to any of your fellow tenants in jail as being one unless you are prepared to fight. When presented with an opportunity to use any of the first three words on this list, you just have to swallow your pride and understand that being ignorant is what placed you in this situation. The person you are contemplating insulting, because he fouled you in a pick-up basketball game, is possibly a convicted murderer serving a life sentence. Convicts, for the most part, have nothing to lose. My three years was a blink of the eye in comparison to most of their sentences. Plus, unlike some of those folks, I didn't have any practice maiming and killing people. Use of these words falls under the "When keeping it real goes wrong" category. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)