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08-20-2002, 09:42 AM
Fighting to Survive Is The Way of Life at Alto
By Tina Susman
STAFF CORRESPONDENT
August 20, 2002
Alto, Ga. - The day begins sometime after 4:30 a.m. with a flash and a bang. Prison guards snap on the bright, overhead lights and the steel cell doors clang open, signaling inmates at Lee Arrendale State Prison that it's time to get out of bed.
Lazing too long can bring a DR, or disciplinary report, and too many DRs can cost an inmate dearly when he tries to transfer to a lower-security prison or gain certain privileges.
For the next 20 hours, until lockdown is called and the lights go out, life is a monotonous pattern of mediocre meals, head counts, inspections, outdoor recreation, hours of TV and, according to some, simple survival. "There was fighting every day. You couldn't stay out of trouble there," says Glenn Sims, 20, who spent nearly two years at Arrendale State Prison, better known as Alto. "If you don't fight, though, you're going to be somebody's punk," meaning another inmate's sex toy.
At any given time, a couple of dozen of the 1,200 inmates at the maximum-security prison are juveniles convicted as adults. By law, they are supposed to be kept away from adult prisoners, but for all the close encounters they have, Sims says, "We might as well have been together."
He remembers the constant fear of being a minor among hundreds of adult convicts, most accused of violent crimes, felons and his need to always be on guard. During mealtimes, when the juveniles would be herded into the cafeteria as adults were finishing up, the older men would talk about which youngsters they hoped to rape. Shower time brought the occasional peeping adult inmate, who would masturbate while watching the minors.
"You've got a lot of people with life sentences and no possibility of parole, and they're never going to see the streets again," Sims says. "Inmates really run that camp, and they're not going to take anything lying down."
Sims considers himself fortunate. After nearly a year without wracking up a DR, he won a transfer to Hancock State Prison in October 2000, a lesser-security facility where inmates can sleep later and where he says fighting is not a prerequisite to staying alive. Still, it doesn't change the fact that he's in prison and will remain there until December 2008, when his 10-year term for armed robbery is up. He's reminded of it every second of the day, from the "horrible" prison food he eats to the views of walls, fences and guard towers that he faces from daylight to dark. On this particular morning, breakfast was sausages, eggs and "some kind of muffins," he says with a wry grin. He spends much of his day keeping his dormitory clean and poring through books by his favorite authors, John Grisham and Dean Koontz.
Each evening he tries to watch the 6 o'clock news on one of the two television sets shared by his dorm-mates. One is used for watching movies, and the other is usually tuned to a sports station.
Like most inmates, Sims, who grew up in Roosevelt on Long Island, says he didn't know about the Georgia law passed in 1994 that required juveniles to be charged as adults for certain crimes. If he had, he says he would not have done what he did. But he admits he had gone wild as a young teen, skipping school to sell drugs and using the money to buy fancy clothes, more drugs and hotel rooms for sex. He admits he was a hothead who got into fights, including with his strict stepfather. He has a tattoo on the inside of his left arm attesting to his involvement with gangs. Etched into his skin by a fellow prisoner, it reads in large Gothic print, "Little BG," for Little Baby Gangster, his nickname on the street.
When the police came calling shortly before Christmas in 1998, he figured the worst he was facing was a charge of violating curfew. By law, though, his participation in the armed robbery of a convenience store required him to be charged as an adult, and his guilty plea brought him a mandatory 10-year term.
"I thought they couldn't do it," he said, arguing, as prisoners often do, that he doesn't deserve this punishment. In his case, though, and in the cases of other juveniles charged as adults, many human rights groups and legal experts agree. Rather than putting juveniles in prison for long periods, Sims says it would make more sense to jail teens until age 21. Under the current system, he argues that problem kids, forced to use aggression to survive in prison, only become worse.
So while Sims says he knows how to fight, and how to present a tough image to protect himself from predatory inmates, he admits he doesn't know how to balance a checkbook, write a resume or obtain a driver's license. He also admits he still can fly off the handle when provoked, as he did during an altercation in the cafeteria not long ago, a sign that prison life has not tamed his hot temper.
Nevertheless, Sims is resigned to his fate and says he has learned one important thing from prison life: that he never wants to live it again.
"I miss the freedom," he says. "Every time I look around I see a wall. Every time I look around I see a fence. It's hard to look at that and to know I'm not getting out until 2008. "
Copyright © 2002, Newsday, Inc.
By Tina Susman
STAFF CORRESPONDENT
August 20, 2002
Alto, Ga. - The day begins sometime after 4:30 a.m. with a flash and a bang. Prison guards snap on the bright, overhead lights and the steel cell doors clang open, signaling inmates at Lee Arrendale State Prison that it's time to get out of bed.
Lazing too long can bring a DR, or disciplinary report, and too many DRs can cost an inmate dearly when he tries to transfer to a lower-security prison or gain certain privileges.
For the next 20 hours, until lockdown is called and the lights go out, life is a monotonous pattern of mediocre meals, head counts, inspections, outdoor recreation, hours of TV and, according to some, simple survival. "There was fighting every day. You couldn't stay out of trouble there," says Glenn Sims, 20, who spent nearly two years at Arrendale State Prison, better known as Alto. "If you don't fight, though, you're going to be somebody's punk," meaning another inmate's sex toy.
At any given time, a couple of dozen of the 1,200 inmates at the maximum-security prison are juveniles convicted as adults. By law, they are supposed to be kept away from adult prisoners, but for all the close encounters they have, Sims says, "We might as well have been together."
He remembers the constant fear of being a minor among hundreds of adult convicts, most accused of violent crimes, felons and his need to always be on guard. During mealtimes, when the juveniles would be herded into the cafeteria as adults were finishing up, the older men would talk about which youngsters they hoped to rape. Shower time brought the occasional peeping adult inmate, who would masturbate while watching the minors.
"You've got a lot of people with life sentences and no possibility of parole, and they're never going to see the streets again," Sims says. "Inmates really run that camp, and they're not going to take anything lying down."
Sims considers himself fortunate. After nearly a year without wracking up a DR, he won a transfer to Hancock State Prison in October 2000, a lesser-security facility where inmates can sleep later and where he says fighting is not a prerequisite to staying alive. Still, it doesn't change the fact that he's in prison and will remain there until December 2008, when his 10-year term for armed robbery is up. He's reminded of it every second of the day, from the "horrible" prison food he eats to the views of walls, fences and guard towers that he faces from daylight to dark. On this particular morning, breakfast was sausages, eggs and "some kind of muffins," he says with a wry grin. He spends much of his day keeping his dormitory clean and poring through books by his favorite authors, John Grisham and Dean Koontz.
Each evening he tries to watch the 6 o'clock news on one of the two television sets shared by his dorm-mates. One is used for watching movies, and the other is usually tuned to a sports station.
Like most inmates, Sims, who grew up in Roosevelt on Long Island, says he didn't know about the Georgia law passed in 1994 that required juveniles to be charged as adults for certain crimes. If he had, he says he would not have done what he did. But he admits he had gone wild as a young teen, skipping school to sell drugs and using the money to buy fancy clothes, more drugs and hotel rooms for sex. He admits he was a hothead who got into fights, including with his strict stepfather. He has a tattoo on the inside of his left arm attesting to his involvement with gangs. Etched into his skin by a fellow prisoner, it reads in large Gothic print, "Little BG," for Little Baby Gangster, his nickname on the street.
When the police came calling shortly before Christmas in 1998, he figured the worst he was facing was a charge of violating curfew. By law, though, his participation in the armed robbery of a convenience store required him to be charged as an adult, and his guilty plea brought him a mandatory 10-year term.
"I thought they couldn't do it," he said, arguing, as prisoners often do, that he doesn't deserve this punishment. In his case, though, and in the cases of other juveniles charged as adults, many human rights groups and legal experts agree. Rather than putting juveniles in prison for long periods, Sims says it would make more sense to jail teens until age 21. Under the current system, he argues that problem kids, forced to use aggression to survive in prison, only become worse.
So while Sims says he knows how to fight, and how to present a tough image to protect himself from predatory inmates, he admits he doesn't know how to balance a checkbook, write a resume or obtain a driver's license. He also admits he still can fly off the handle when provoked, as he did during an altercation in the cafeteria not long ago, a sign that prison life has not tamed his hot temper.
Nevertheless, Sims is resigned to his fate and says he has learned one important thing from prison life: that he never wants to live it again.
"I miss the freedom," he says. "Every time I look around I see a wall. Every time I look around I see a fence. It's hard to look at that and to know I'm not getting out until 2008. "
Copyright © 2002, Newsday, Inc.