by Verb1

    I was scared, and the guards' snide comments didn't help.
    "They're going to love you in there."
    "I give you two days..."
    I had almost worsened the situation by mouthing off to the lady at the processing desk who coldly collected and filed my belongings. I refused to remove my gold chain which was reason enough to be branded as "having an attitude" and be shipped to B-5, the facility's maximum security unit where the most hard-core predators and others who were unable to get along in the lower units were held. I discussed my "attitude problem" at length with Ms. Processor, and it was agreed to instead place me in B-4, where the largest and some of the most violent inmates were kept. I was far from large at the time, but my "attitude" had sent me on my chorus.
    By time I showered and was ready to be placed in my cell it was already past three a.m., and B-4 unit was eerily quite. The only voices to be heard were the guards', who were still remarking on my impending doom. I was more scared than ever, but I tried not to show it, telling my guard escort, "Fuck it, put me wherever." After some debate, a cell was chosen for me. I was given a plastic mat to sleep on, two blankets, some used sandals with the city's sets and gangs scrawled all over them, one pair of underwear and socks, beige khaki pants, an old white T-shirt, and told to move in. In the dark of the cell I could barely make out any detail, except that it was extremely small and made even smaller by the giant form sleeping on the floor to one side of the cell.
    "Wait," warned someone behind me. "Don't put him in there. That guy has gotten into it with every cellmate he's had." The good Samaritan guard, much to the annoyance of his peers who were looking forward to some late night entertainment at my expense, directed me to another cell down the hall where I quickly set up my "bed" of a plastic mat and two dirty thin blankets, with no sheet nor pillow, and laid down. Too tired to care anymore, I soon fell into an exhausted sleep.
    Early the next morning I awoke to incessant pounding on my cell door by the morning shift guards, who went by the innocuous euphemism of "counselor." I sat up and checked my surroundings, wondering what I had gotten myself into. The cell was oppressively small and filthy—penciled sets and nicknames spelled out the legacy of the cell's previous occupants all over the dingy white walls. One small barred window, blackened with years of neglect, filtered in weak light; on the opposite end, an orange door with a tiny barred peep window allowed only the slightest view of the hallway and other cells across the hall. There was no toilet nor sink in the cell. If one needed to use the bathroom or wanted a drink of water, he shouted out the cell for a guard. If you were on the guards' bad side, you'd be ignored—sometimes for days.
    My cellmate was a small Vietnamese kid who talked a game much bigger than his slight size. As we got dressed in our beige jumpsuits, he told me about how a group of Somoan kids had beaten down his girlfriend and how he had returned the next day armed with a pistol and shot several of them. I wasn't sure if I believed his story, but later several other people assured me it was true, adding, "That Chinese kid is crazy."
    As soon as we finished dressing, we lined up with the rest of the unit for breakfast. I examined my fellow inmates seeing a sea of young Black faces. I counted only four non-Black people in there: no Latinos, my Vietnamese celly, two Samoans, and one white kid. I had abandoned my sandals, which were at least three sizes too small, and decided on staying barefoot, eliciting a number of jokes about my feet. I could've worn socks, but I decided it was safer to be barefooted; in case a fight broke out, I didn't want to be slipping around everywhere.
    The attitude in the chow line was almost playful. Kids around me gathered in line with their respective cliques and joked and laughed loudly. I didn't see anyone I knew. A kid two people down in line from me turned around and asked me not very kindly what I was in for. I replied, "For knocking muthafuckas out" and stared at him. If I was going to get bumrushed then and there, so be it. My fear had disappeared as I was too depressed to care any longer what happened to me. The kid stared back at me unimpressed for a minute and turned back away in apparent disinterest. There was a gang conflict brewing in the unit between two sets, and he had more important beefs to think about.
    My first whole day was long and miserable. With the exception of the few who were lucky enough to be on kitchen crew, most of the unit was on lockdown from fights arising from gang rivalries. I spent the day staring out of the sooty window watching the other units, one by one, play volleyball in a little yard. It was a depressing view, offering nothing more than gray concrete. My celly kept up a steady stream of questionable stories in his broken English, but I paid him little attention. The monotony of the day was broken for dinner in the evening, but shortly after I was back in my cell with nothing to do again. I decided to go to sleep early, having little else to do.
    Sleeping was difficult at best. The noise was horrible. Threats, brags, and mama jokes ensured everyone a poor night's sleep. The plastic mats were extremely uncomfortable as well. The material stuck to my skin like tape, forcing me to peel myself off every time I turned and rolled over. The cells were cold and unheated, and the two thin blankets did little to keep me warm. My celly, apparently used to the surroundings, fell asleep with seemingly little problem, but I got very little sleep.
    The next day was Sunday. I awoke more depressed than the day before. I was also in an evil mood, hating the guards, my cellmate, and everyone around me. Being new, I was left behind with the people who were locked down for punishment while the rest of the unit went to church and recreation. A kid in the cell next to mine kept screaming for the guard to let him out to use the bathroom and get cleaning supplies. He had the flu and had vomited and shitted all over his cell. I didn't know what he had done to have the guards dislike him so much, but they ignored him, forcing him to continue to live in his own waste until the next day. With nothing else to do, I banged beats on the wall for entertainment until a guard yelled at me to stop. I paced my room. I did pushups. I stared out the window to the empty rec. yard.
    I continued to be locked down the rest of the day even as the rest of the unit filed back in from church and recreation. I was allowed to leave my door open, although I was told not to leave the cell. Several people came by, talking to me and asking me where I was from. I told one short kid who was from a neighborhood that my neighborhood was at war with about how I hadn't gotten a change of underwear nor socks, and how my sandals didn't fit. Unbelievably, he gave me his sandals which fit fine and promised to try to get me changes of underwear and socks. Perhaps as punishment for my frequent banging out beats on the walls, I never received another pair of socks nor underwear my entire stay, but at least I finally had shoes that I could wear.
    That day—a Monday—the white kid in the unit got beat down and was immediately transferred out the unit. I heard it happening, but wasn't able to see why or how it happened from my cell. Someone I didn't know ran by my cell and gleefully informed me that "that white boy got beat down!" I didn't feel badly for the kid. I didn't like the way he looked and figured he got what was coming to him.
    After passing another nearly sleepless night, I awoke tiredly the next morning to a message that my probation officer wanted to see me. I had already been on probation when I was arrested the last time, so I knew I was in for a long lecture. I hated my P.O. A large, ugly white lady with no hint of humor in her eyes or heart, it wasn't hard not to like her. She skipped the lecture and told me I wouldn't be getting out any time soon, that I needed to be "taught a lesson," and sent me back to my cell with no hope of getting out soon. I hated her more than ever.

So you wanna be a thug...?
• To T-Fresh, who survived gunshots to the back and neck in a driveby, just to be shot in the head several years later.
• To Lil' John, who began using the drugs he sold, went crazy, and committed suicide.
• To Jeremy, who was smart enough to have done anything, but instead became a dopefiend.
• To El Lonely, killed in a driveby.
• To Jonah, who hasn't seen sunshine in the eight years since he turned 17 and likely never will again.
• To Anthony, killed at age 15 while speeding in a stolen car.
• To Henry, shot in the head execution style.
• To Mint, who disappeared and left everything he knew four years ago after shooting someone.
• To Kenny B, who will never walk again after being shot.
• To JoJo, who was killed for being in the wrong set at the wrong time.
• To Sick Mane, stabbed to death in San Quentin State Prison.
• To Mack El, doing his third bid.
• To B-Ware, killed while running from police.
• To my man from Black Dynasty, murdered.
• To Little Share, killed in a driveby.
• To Kev, serving twenty long years in Indiana.

    The prison system has become a certainty for many Blacks and Latinos in this country. The system's laws are set up in such a way that this trend is assured to continue its ominous growth. It is estimated that 25% of American Blacks are either currently incarcertaed, on parole, or on probation. The criminal justics system, with its sentencing disparities, is targeting non-whites for long prison terms.
        The time I spent locked up was the most miserable period of my life. The depression of being incarcerated goes beyond the common jail stories of rape, shankings, and guard abuse. It is deeply psychological. Jails are painstakingly planned and built to be as depressing as possible. The jailer's psychology is a depressed inmate is one easily controlled. From the complete lack of color in the prison walls—they're usually a sickly green or grey—and clothing to the guard's mental and physical abuses, jails are all about mental warfare. They are specifically designed to give the least number of visual and physical stimuli possible. Weights are currently banned in California prisons; doing pushups has also been banned in many institutions. Many prison law libraries have been removed, and there is a drive to get rid of them all. This is not to say that the violence in jail is not a stress factor as well. Fights were an everday occurrence in my unit, and it took nothing to provoke beef.
    In 1997, California had the highest number of inmate murders. The situation in California prisons is becoming more violent and desperate. A state of permanent war exists between more than ten different prison gangs at this time, including 415, Bloods, Crips, Black Guerrilla Family, various factions of Norteños (Northerners, Latinos from central and Northern California) and Sureños (Southerners, Latinos from Southern California), and the Aryan Brotherhood, which has now split into two enemy groups. At any given time there might be an active war between 415 and Crips, 415 and Black Guerrilla Family, 415 and Sureños, Sureños and Norteños, whites and Blacks, Blacks and Latinos, Crips and Bloods, Crips and B.G.F., or different factions of the Aryan Brotherhood. Alliances between 415, Bloods, and Norteños are common while the Sureños often ally themselves strangely with the Aryans, although all of these alliances can change at a moment's notice. It is a highly charged, tense atmosphere that has lead to the nation's most violent prison system.
    So you wanna be a thug...?



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