Prologue

It’s been 24 years since the day I was assaulted. The physical scars are gone, with the exception of the missing teeth. I bounce back pretty handily.  TDCJ won’t fix my smile though.  It’s not in their budget. The only dental care here is an occasional temporary filling or extraction.  To their credit, Texas has taken steps to limit and protect inmates from assault and extortion, but in my case – it’s a little too late.

I’m no longer at the unit where it all happened.  Now, I’m in a minimum security, medical unit.  If there are gang members here – they are ex-members.  Most are so old, they wouldn’t qualify to belong in a gang anyway.

Once again – TDCJ’s mission statement is to protect society, to protect officers and inmates and reintegrate offenders back into society. I think a smile would help someone’s self-esteem and job opportunities, however I’m in the minority on this issue. My dad would say, “It’s an eye for an eye – a tooth for a tooth.”  I just know it…

 Training day

When I stepped off the bus at the Robertson Unit in Abilene, Texas, in August of 1994, I was 33 years old.  I had no idea what was in store for me – I call it training day.

At 33 I was 160 pounds, 5’9” tall, in fairly good shape – and dumb as a brick when it came to prison.  My first warning should’ve been the look of concern on the faces of those I met at intake when I told them where I was going. But I figured anywhere I was going was going to blow chunks anyway. I just lost my family, my job, my life. How bad could it get?  Note… Never say it can’t get any worse – believe me, it can.

The second I stepped off the bus, I could hear the anger, the frustration, the sheer terror. They were shouting from the rec yard, “Hey, give me those fucking tennis shoes! You won’t need them when I get through with you, bitch.  Yeah, I’m talking to you, bitch! I’m going to fuck you tonight.  Fresh meat!”

I made my way to classification and things calmed down. The building Captain, Oscar Strains, made me a 53 (I’ve never been lower than that), assigned me to live in 3 building, and put me in the kitchen.

And so it began.  My cellie – an older black gentleman – told me that I’d have to, “Catch a square soon.”  I asked him what that meant. He told me I’d have to fight or ride (pay protection) in order to keep from being hurt. Okay, I’m not Sugar Ray Leonard, but I can hold my own, so I filed this information away.  And over the next few days, they came at me – like salesman.  “Say, if you want, you can make store and I’ll keep your stuff for you in my house.  That way you won’t get robbed.”  That was pretty much the party line – pay or play.  And I began to feel like a rotisserie chicken in a neighborhood of starving people…

I didn’t pay. I only had so much money to start with, and I wasn’t about to give it to those folks.  So, I made store – about $20.  I bought basic stuff, pretty much what I buy now. Stamps, envelopes, toothpaste, soap, a toothbrush, a few food items, Diet Coke and a lock to lock it away in my locker.

I went to work, was gone eight hours and came back.  My lock was busted off my locker.  My stuff, even my toothbrush, was gone.

I told the building Sgt., and he laughed, “Go back and fight.”  He was Polish, white, and a tough guy.  So I went back to the commissary, bought $20 worth of more stuff, and went home and locked it away.  Then I fell asleep.

I woke up with three inmates in my cell, one small – about an inch shorter than me, one medium, and one extra large.  I kicked the little one in the balls, I hit the middle sized one with a lock, but big bear – he kicked my ass.  He broke three teeth out and loosened about five others.  I bruise easy anyway, so I looked like a California raisin when he was done with me. I wasn’t cut, but I knew I had a concussion. I got myself a towel, got it wet and cleaned up.  I had to heal.

The next morning I made my way to the unit infirmary, and they didn’t even react to my appearance.  It was like, “Oh, I see you’ve made friends.”

When I got back to my building, that Sgt. – the Polish gentleman – he said, “Well, I see you’ve been fighting. I ought to write you up, but I doubt you’ll last long enough to get the case. Get out of my sight.”

Charming.

When I went to work that day, a sweet Lt. saw me and about had a cow. “Green, what the fuck happened to you?”

I told her it was a skateboard accident, and she told me to come with her.

Remember the Building Captain, Oscar Strains?  Well, I didn’t know this at the time, but he’s a bit of a legend.  Lt. took me to him, and Capt. Cole was there – he threw up when he saw me.  They took pictures and Captain Strains told me, “Son, this is my fault. Come with me.”

I followed him back to 3 building, and we walked into 3A.  He turned off all the TVs and told everyone to gather around. The inmates, including the three involved in my makeover, gathered in a semicircle.

Captain Strains is a big guy. Imposing. Came up through the system.  He said, “Everybody, listen up. You see this white boy? If anyone wants to know who he’s riding with, he’s riding with me.  And if any one of you sorry motherfuckers so much as touch a single hair on his head, from this day forward – I’ll roll this whole building to 8 building, and that’s where ya’ll stay.  Am I clear?”

One of the inmates in the back started to protest and Captain Strains said, “We’ll start with you – pack your shit.”  He then put his hand on my back and said, “I’m sorry, son. You won’t have any more trouble. I’m moving you to 3C – they’re civilized there. They even eat with spoons.”

I ran to my cell and packed what was left and followed him to 3C.

I didn’t have any more trouble while I was there.  I was assigned to a job outside – sweeping sidewalks, mopping, and painting lines. That’s the job I had until I was moved in March, 1995.  That was 23 years ago.  I still have the missing teeth to remind me, but I’m alive.  I survived to tell the story.

I’m not sure if it’s still the same in Robertson Unit – but that brief visit – it made me stronger.  It made me not want to be like those guys that came into my cell. I’m not like them. I never was, and I never will be.  I survived to tell the story, but I’m sure there are plenty that weren’t so lucky.  I pray for them.  I can’t leave them behind. That’s why I write. To remain silent is to approve.  I don’t.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Shipwrecked and found.  John is currently doing a recent two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

When thoughts of living the rest of my life in prison come to mind – I have to quickly expunge them.  Allowing myself to be mentally trapped will emotionally paralyze me.  I refuse to be placed in that particular mindset – to submit to this time.

I sit in a corner sometimes, though, and observe others.  I no longer want to be in the spotlight, so I watch the younger cats, who often look up to me and respect my advice.  I’ve been where they are.  Prison life is depressing, causing individuals to get caught up in the nonsense and lose focus on their condition and their freedom.  They sometimes become mentally trapped, losing their desire to return to the loved ones they’ve lost.

It’s what happens over time as they are dehumanized, demoralized and disrespected every day.  I see men given a choice between starvation – or eating something that is often compared to dog food.   Policy says six ounces of potatoes for lunch, yet the Supervisor of the kitchen forces inmates in the kitchen to serve two ounces on each tray.  That’s just one of the many daily methods used to try and trap us mentally.

Imagine being trapped in box with barely enough oxygen to sustain your body.  That is what a prison cell in Virginia feels like.  Inside your box, there is just enough air to prevent you from dying.  Living in that box can easily destroy you mentally, trapping your mind and playing tricks on your emotions, on your sense of a sound mind and even on your intelligence.

As we live this perplexed, chemically imbalanced life inside our box, misunderstood and misrepresented, we fight for peace of mind every day, many of us just struggling to be recognized as human – while trapped inside this box…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Ty Juane Pridgen lives in Virginia’s Wallens Ridge State Prison.  He was 18 years old in 1995 when he was first incarcerated – over twenty years ago.  Ty Juane can be contacted at:

Ty Juane Pridgen #1019760
Wallens Ridge State Prison
P.O. Box 759
Big Stone Gap, VA 24219

These walls and the many ‘little’ things that occur behind them trick some prisoners into believing they deserve this treatment.  Things like being spoken to aggressively and encounters with certain C.O.’s who give super rough pat downs that leave you feeling violated become expected.  I wish you could see their eyes – you’d see hatred there.  I imagine it’s the same look Martin Luther King or Rosa Parks must have seen – what a lot of black folks saw that had the audacity to request respect.  It’s enough to leave a lot of prisoners feeling hopeless and worn down, because it appears all the officers are ‘with the program’.

Here at Wallens Ridge State Prison, the pod I’m housed in – A-6 – would appear to be segregated by race.  The bottom tier is mostly Caucasian inmates, while the upper mostly black. This would not be a problem if the tiers were treated equally, but many of us on the top tier have submitted complaints ranging from unequal out of cell time to arbitrary and capricious top tier lockdown.  There is a constant undertone of animosity and barely concealed hostility toward the inmates on the top tier.  In my opinion, the bottom tier inmates are good guys who are just benefiting from something they have no control over, but there is an unofficial consensus that the top tier is being discriminated against.

There are some things we all experience.  Instead of having prisoners go to medical to have blood drawn for medical tests, the nurses come in around midnight or later and have us extend our arm through the cell door tray slot.  We have to squat or bend over while the nurse pokes and jabs in the dark to find a vein.  The cell door tray slots, with their peeling paint and rusty hinges, are not sterile surfaces, not to mention the uncomfortable process of squatting in a fixed position for five plus minutes with your arm extended out the cell door while a nurse ‘draws labs’.  It’s something that doesn’t have to be. Have you ever seen a dairy cow getting milked through the cage?  Just the sight of it should disturb most people. I’ve written my paperwork, to no avail.

If an inmate visits with a psychiatrist/psychologist, regular corrections officers are allowed to sit in.  That can be very intimidating for some prisoners who are trying to open up and discuss vitally important things, all while a shady officer is listening to every word.  It’s a violation of state law and DOC policy, but they do it anyway because who is going to stop them?  We have lots of mentally ill guys up here being housed unjustly.  It’s convenient for the state.

Even though this particular prison has a longstanding culture of intimidation, the crazy thing is most of the prisoners are laid back.  There is a bit of gang activity, and they use that to justify keeping the place open.  Most guys messed up on a lower security level and are remaining charge free trying to go back.  If you could see us on a typical day in any pod, there would be nothing to see, except the occasional fight.  Their livelihood depends on painting us with a broad stroke though.

Nothing is sacred here.  We still aren’t even provided water outside, and it’s only getting hotter.  Water on a hot day should not be considered a privilege.  It’s not for the attack dog – he has a big bucket of water to drink out of.  That’s what it’s all about though – it’s a system designed to slowly strip away our humanity and whatever self worth we have left.  In the name of justice we are left in the care of the unjust.  We’ve let people down and we have to find a way to forgive ourselves and become the people we were meant to be, in a world where our authority figures view us as less worthy than the dog on the yard.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Phillip Daniel is a thought provoking and talented writer serving his sentence at Wallens Ridge State Prison.  He is currently working on his first novel.  Phillip can be contacted at:

Phillip Daniel #1008019
Wallens Ridge State Prison
272 Dogwood Drive
P.O. Box 759
Big Stone Gap, VA 24219

Prison isn’t anything like its depicted in films.  It’s not glamorous.  In fact I spend more time sleeping than anything else.  The other things follow – writing and reading, followed by standing in endless lines to nowhere for food, showers, the pill window, insulin administration, commissary, everything is a line.

The line at the bank, or the Department of Motor Vehicles, or the Post Office are short and fast compared to the lines here.  On those lines you might hear “next” or “this line is closed.”

Here?  You are subject to getting yelled at, called everything but your name, and thrown out of line even though you’ve been as quiet as a church mouse.

When I got out of the van that transported me from the county jail to diagnostics, I was walked in the back door of the prison along with everyone else, and we were herded like cattle or sheep into holding tanks. From there, we were moved to another tank, stripped of our orange jail clothes and led barefoot and naked to a shower area.  Afterwards, we were given clothes, boots, and off to the barber.

At this barber you are shaved, once again much like a sheep, and given a comb (which you won’t need for a few months).  From there, you are escorted to a row (cells).  After that, it’s a new experience every day.  You are taken to medical where your needs are evaluated and you are given medication to keep you alive if deemed necessary.

You are taken to dental, where they marvel at your perfect teeth, give you a toothbrush, and then you go back to housing.

The next day its Q and A.  You talk to psychology and sociology. You’re given an IQ test, an education evaluation test and quizzed on your academic background.  Did you graduate from high school?  What grade did you complete?  Did you attend college?  What kind of employment did you have?

You’re given an MMPI – Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory – and you’re asked questions like, Are you suicidal?  Are you hearing voices?  Are you angry?  Sad?  Of course.

Prison is like being born. You enter crying, naked hungry and unsure of what will happen next.  If you survive the next 48 hours without any issues, then you have the following three weeks to get used to waking up at 3 a.m. every day and going to breakfast, lunch, and dinner at specific intervals.  It isn’t like in the movies.  You don’t have other inmates yelling, “Bitch, I’m going to have you in my cell tonight!”  or “Give me those tennis shoes, they look like they’ll fit!”  Basically, everyone there is new and on the same page socially.

At the end of intake though, that’s when you have to watch what’s going on around you.  They assign you to a unit.  Some are close by, some are 400 miles from nowhere.  I was assigned to the French Robertson Unit in Abilene, Texas.   Texas is a big state.  It wasn’t just 400 miles from nowhere, it was dead center.   It was cold and wet in the winter and uncomfortably hot and dry in the summer.  No fall, no spring.

We arrived after a ten hour bus ride.  That’s when the fun began.  That’s where dog eat dog starts. A good number of the inmates sent to French Robertson are, to sum it up in one word, predators.  The guards were there for two reasons – to keep anyone from escaping and to keep the weaker inmates from being eaten.  All the education in the world can’t help you.  You either give up or you fight.

I’m not good at giving up, but I’m not a prize fighter – I’m a surprise fighter.  If I feel threatened, my best defense is a great offense. At 5’9” and 160 pounds, I don’t intimidate anyone.  I never intended to live my life as an MMA fighter.  I was 33 years old, well educated, soft spoken, big hearted and scared to death.

Then I met Mongo.  He may not have been the sharpest crayon in the box, but he had a sharpener.  He taught me things in the following months that would keep me alive.  Hell, he kept me alive.

Like Bob used to tell me, “The only way to eliminate your enemies is to make them your friends.”  So, I mixed and matched.  The ones I couldn’t convince I wasn’t lunch, I avoided or I fed to Mongo.  The ones I trusted, I kept at arm’s length, but I used my charm to win them over.

I did okay, I think.  I’m still alive.  I have one scar above my left eyebrow where I fell because of a hypoglycemic reaction – I passed out, hit my head on the corner of the table and hit the floor nose first.  They stitched the eye, reset the nose, good as new!  I also have a ten inch scar on my left ankle above the foot, where they had to operate because of a staph infection.  Not bad for twenty-five years.

But, I want to go home now.  To erase the scars on the inside, the psychological ones.  I’ve seen all the sights, I rode all the rides.  It’s time.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’.   In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

I sympathize with the people of Flint, Michigan.  Their water was contaminated because nobody gave much thought to the problems that could be created by switching from a water source that was proven reliable to the Flint River, which was known for its mercury poisoned waters.

Sometimes greed overcomes public welfare and safety.   Or, as in our case, indifference.

When I arrived at this place in May of 1995, I immediately noticed one thing.  The water wasn’t right, and it wasn’t just the way it tasted.  If an inmate heats water for coffee, soups or anything else they might want to cook, they need a hot pot.   The pot doesn’t get hot enough to ‘boil’ water, but it can get hot enough to ‘crock pot’ a meal if used correctly.

I’ve had two.  I had the first one for almost six years and the second for ten.  Both never leaked because I kept them dry while not in use, and I never left water in them for longer than an hour.  Everyone who owns one and doesn’t dry it out immediately after use is plagued with the dilemma of replacing their pot.  If a pot is left slightly wet or heats water for long periods of time, the water will begin to eat through the bottom plate of the pot.

Which brings us to the crux of the story.  All of the water coolers here have filters – except for the ones in the male housing areas.  The infirmary, the cannery, the areas where officers fill their bottles, the officers’ dining areas – all of those locations have filtered water.  Everywhere – but where we live.  There are even signs in some locations stating ‘non-potable water’.

The officers often buy bottled water from the commissary or bring in bottles by the dozens in the hotter months of June, July and August.  Of course, I can hear my dad saying to me now, “Johnny, if water can eat through a hot pot, imagine what it’s doing to your stomach?”  It regularly eats and corrodes the water pipes in the plumbing system.

So, what’s in the water?  Being the resourceful person I am, I once sent a fellow inmate home with a water sample to find out.  He was a plumber by trade so he had access to the type of testing and technology needed.  A week after he got home and settled in, he had the sample tested.  He never sent me the results, only told me, “You don’t wanna know.”

Before I came to prison in 1993, I never experienced any kind of skin irritation or sensitivity.  I’ve battled all kinds of skin problems since I’ve been here.  I’ve had athletes foot, jock itch, and scaling skin issues since my arrival.  I seem to have developed an immunity over the years, but I continue to see things on a daily basis that, pardon the pun, would make your skin crawl.

The quality of life suffers when the water you drink and bathe in is at war with you.  Sometimes there are notices to the inmates to boil the water we use.  Remember our hot pots?   They don’t boil – crazy, huh?  Or is it by design?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’.   In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

If you know how to cook, you can quit reading here – unless you’re having a bad day and just need a laugh.  If you don’t know how to cook, read on, let a convict teach you a thing or two.  Necessity is the mother of invention, they say.  You cook, you eat; you don’t cook, you go hungry.

As a ten year old boy I discovered that if you could make mac and cheese, you could control your destiny.  So, by the time I was 18, I could prepare almost any meal that Graham Kerr or Julia Child could dream up.

Then I went to prison.  When you enter this place, you enter much in the same manner in which you were born – naked, crying and hungry.  There’s not much to be said about prison food, though.  I will sum it up in one word—Ewwww!

Get ready for endless pasta.  There are a variety of entrees involving elbow macaroni.  All those dishes taste pretty much the same, except for the tuna casserole – coined ‘tuna massacre’.  When that is on the menu, I avoid the unit dining hall at all costs.  I also call this entre ‘Little Friskies’.  The chow hall smells like a feral cat gang bang, and I haven’t liked tuna since they removed the dolphin.

Then there’s Beef Noodle Casserole, Pork Noodle Casserole, and Chili Mac.  Whenever I see the Hamburger Helper van on TV commercials I get PTSD – Pasta Traumatic Stress Disorder.

You can count on at least one of the seven days in a week including pasta.  It’s cheap, readily available, and easy to prepare.  Boil noodles, drain, add meat.  Done.

Don’t get me wrong, I love pasta, but overkill, not so much.  I’ve received letters from folks commenting on our lunch menu—“Oh, you’re having fried chicken for lunch next Wednesday!” Don’t worry, Col. Sanders, your secret is safe (as well as you, Chef Boyardee).

Let’s talk about breakfast, shall we? The most important meal of the day, right?

In the 9000 days I’ve been incarcerated, I’ve eaten a minimum of 8000 pancakes. Those not familiar with my problem with pancakes—I’m diabetic.  Carbohydrates are not my friend, but I have to eat something. So I’m caught between high and low blood sugar.  Another interesting fact about pancakes – if you fry them at 2 a.m., and put them in a warmer until 4:30 a.m. when they are served, they can almost stop a bullet.

Let’s move on to what’s available in the unit commissary. More carbohydrates?  Yes!  Ramen noodles—the backbone and breadbasket of prisons everywhere.  Add water, cook, mix in other ingredients, and serve!

Out of the frying pan, and into the microwave we go. You can buy Spam, chili, mackerel, squeeze cheese, jalapenos, corn chips, tortilla chips, salt, pepper, picante salsa, peanut butter, crackers and pesto – and you can temporarily stave off a trip to pasta land.

Believe me, after 9000 days, a tossed salad sounds extremely good.  You learn to get creative though, which takes me back to necessity being the mother of invention.  I will share one of my personal favorites:

INGREDIENTS

2 Ramen noodle soups-chili
1 jalapeno pepper
1 packet ranch dressing
1 package of Spam (2 oz.)
1 package saltines or round crackers

Cook noodles until well done.

Dice jalapenos and Spam.

Chill noodles with cold water and drain.

Combine noodles, jalapenos, and Spam.  Add ranch dressing.

Serve with crackers.

Total cost  at prison commissary $2.55.   Serves 3

Now, parents, while this may sound very cost effective for the children, this story is for entertainment purposes only.  Cook those kids a hot meal. Lots of vegetables, greens and NO pasta. They’ll appreciate it, believe me.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583