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
