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