Luke
09-10-2002, 01:03 AM
Michael G. Santos
I was not expecting to receive the Southern hospitality for which Atlanta is famous when the bus turned into the penitentiary's large circular drive, but neither did I expect to see a dozen uniformed prison guards -- all carrying machine guns -- surround the bus when it stopped. A month in transit already had passed by the time we made it to the U.S. Penitentiary in Atlanta, the institution that would hold me (along with over 2,000 other felons) until either we were transferred to other prisons, we were released, or we were dead.
I left the jail in Tacoma, Washington on the first of August, but I didn't see the huge gray walls that surround USP Atlanta until the first of September. That month was spent in a bus operated by the U.S. Marshall Service as it moved across the country, picking up federal prisoners in local jails and dropping them offat various Bureau of Prison facilities.
As I crossed the country, I listened to tales from numerous prisoners who sat beside me on the bus. There wasn't much to discuss except what was to come. Each of us was chained, both at the hands and feet. There were neither magazines to read nor was there music playing. Mostly people spoke about a riot that had taken place behind USP Atlanta's walls a few months earlier. A lot of the men had been to prison previously, and Atlanta would be nothing new. Those prisoners either were talking about reuniting with old friends, explaining prison routine, or sitting like stone-cold statues waiting for what was to come. I'd never been confined before, so it was hard to tune out the stories that others were telling. While I was listening, though, I remember telling myself that I would survive this sentence. No matter what it took, I would survive.
I was in my early 20s, younger than perhaps every other prisoner on the bus. Pimples spotted my face as I began my term, but I was certain my black hair would be white by the time I finished it. I had been sentenced to 45-years by a U.S. District Court Judge in Tacoma on charges related to cocaine trafficking. I was expected to serve close to 30 years before release. It was hard then -- just as it is hard now -- to believe the sentence is real. The best thing I could do, I reasoned, was stay to myself. I'd heard the same rumors that every suburban kid hears about prison. I was anxious of what was to come, but I was determined to make it out alive and with my mind intact. It was now time to begin!
After the bus stopped, the guards began calling us offby last name and prison number. It is not easy walking with a 1 2-inch chain connected to each ankle, and wrists bound to a chain that runs around the waist, but when my name was called, I managed to wobble through the bus's aisle, hop down the steps, then begin the long march up the stairs leading to the fortress. As I was moving to the prison's doors, I remember glancing over my shoulder, knowing it would be the last time I'd see the world from the outside of prison walls for a long time.
Once inside the institution, the guards began unlocking my chains. About fBy other prisoners arrived with me that day, so the guards had plenty of chains to unlock. But their work didn't stop there. They also had to squeeze us through the dehumanizing admissions machine. The machine begins with photographs, fingerprints, and interrogations. Then comes the worst part, the strip search, where each prisoner stands before a prison official, naked, and responds to the scream: "Lift your arms in the air! Let me see the back of your hands! Run your fingers through your hair! Open your mouth! Stick your tongue out! Lift your balls! Turn around! Bend over! Spread your ass! Wider! Lift the bottom of your feet! Move on!" The strip search, I later learned, is a ritual Atlanta's officers inflict on prisoners every time there is contact with anyone from outside the walls, and sometimes randomly as prisoners walk down the corridor.
There was a lot of hatred behind those walls. Walking through the prison must be something like walking through a jungle, I imagined, not knowing whether others perceive you as predator or prey, knowing that you must remain alert always, watching every step, knowing that the wrong step may be the one that sucks you into the quicksand. The tension is ever present; I felt it wrapped all over, under and around me. I remember it bothering me that I didn't have enough hatred, because not hating in the jungle is a weakness. As the serpents slither, they spot that lack of hatred and salivate over a potential target.
Every prisoner despises confinement, but each must decide how he or she is going to pass the time. Most of the men run in packs. They want the other prisoners either to run with them or run away from them. I wasn't interested in doing either. Instead of scheming on how I could become king of the jungle, I thought about ways that I could advance my release date. Earning academic credentials, keeping a clean record, and initiating projects that would benefit the communities both inside and outside of prison walls seemed the most promising goals for me to achieve. Yet working toward such goals was more dangerous than running with the pack; it didn't take me long to learn that prisoners running in herds will put forth more energy to cause others to lose than they will to win themselves. Prison is a twisted world, a menagerie.
I recognized that in order to meet my ultimate goals, I would have to earn my way out of prison before too much of my life withered away; I had to develop a strategy. The first thing I did was set a time period. Although my sentence dictated that I would spend nearly three decades in prisons, I set a ten-year plan in mind. During the first ten years, I reasoned, I would exert all of my energy to work toward my goal. Then, I reckoned, if things had not changed and I remained in prison, I could set another plan in motion. In the beginning, though, I focused on the accomplishments I would make before the first ten years passed. Throughout all of this, it would be imperative for me to maintain an impeccable prison record.
I found that a highly-structured schedule would not only move me closer to my goals, but also would limit potential conflicts inside the prison. There is a pecking order in every prison, and prisoners vying for attention don't want to see others who are cutting their own path. I saw that bullies generally look for weaker targets, so I began an exercise routine that would keep me strong physically. If I was strong, I figured, others would be more reluctant to try me. Through discipline, I found, I could develop physical strength. Yet I've never figured out how to develop the look of a killer, or the hatred off which that look feeds.
I don't know whether the strategies I have developed for doing time are right for everyone. But they are working for me. I'm coming closer to achieving my first goal. Still, I know that I may spend many more years in prison. The only fear I have -- and as I'm working on my eighth year in prison, it's still here -- is that somehow, someone will try me and drag me into an altercation that may jeopardize my spotless disciplinary record. I've been successful in avoiding the ever-present quicksand on my walk through the jungle so far, but I know that on any given day, something may throw me off balance, or I may take a wrong step. And one wrong step in this jungle can drown me in quicksand, sucking me into the abysmal world of prison forever. That wrong step also could mean the loss of life, mine or someone else's.
In prison, more than anywhere else I know, it is vital to understand that some things are beyond an individual's sphere of control. No matter how much preparation is made, the steel and concrete jungle is a dangerous place in which to live.
I was not expecting to receive the Southern hospitality for which Atlanta is famous when the bus turned into the penitentiary's large circular drive, but neither did I expect to see a dozen uniformed prison guards -- all carrying machine guns -- surround the bus when it stopped. A month in transit already had passed by the time we made it to the U.S. Penitentiary in Atlanta, the institution that would hold me (along with over 2,000 other felons) until either we were transferred to other prisons, we were released, or we were dead.
I left the jail in Tacoma, Washington on the first of August, but I didn't see the huge gray walls that surround USP Atlanta until the first of September. That month was spent in a bus operated by the U.S. Marshall Service as it moved across the country, picking up federal prisoners in local jails and dropping them offat various Bureau of Prison facilities.
As I crossed the country, I listened to tales from numerous prisoners who sat beside me on the bus. There wasn't much to discuss except what was to come. Each of us was chained, both at the hands and feet. There were neither magazines to read nor was there music playing. Mostly people spoke about a riot that had taken place behind USP Atlanta's walls a few months earlier. A lot of the men had been to prison previously, and Atlanta would be nothing new. Those prisoners either were talking about reuniting with old friends, explaining prison routine, or sitting like stone-cold statues waiting for what was to come. I'd never been confined before, so it was hard to tune out the stories that others were telling. While I was listening, though, I remember telling myself that I would survive this sentence. No matter what it took, I would survive.
I was in my early 20s, younger than perhaps every other prisoner on the bus. Pimples spotted my face as I began my term, but I was certain my black hair would be white by the time I finished it. I had been sentenced to 45-years by a U.S. District Court Judge in Tacoma on charges related to cocaine trafficking. I was expected to serve close to 30 years before release. It was hard then -- just as it is hard now -- to believe the sentence is real. The best thing I could do, I reasoned, was stay to myself. I'd heard the same rumors that every suburban kid hears about prison. I was anxious of what was to come, but I was determined to make it out alive and with my mind intact. It was now time to begin!
After the bus stopped, the guards began calling us offby last name and prison number. It is not easy walking with a 1 2-inch chain connected to each ankle, and wrists bound to a chain that runs around the waist, but when my name was called, I managed to wobble through the bus's aisle, hop down the steps, then begin the long march up the stairs leading to the fortress. As I was moving to the prison's doors, I remember glancing over my shoulder, knowing it would be the last time I'd see the world from the outside of prison walls for a long time.
Once inside the institution, the guards began unlocking my chains. About fBy other prisoners arrived with me that day, so the guards had plenty of chains to unlock. But their work didn't stop there. They also had to squeeze us through the dehumanizing admissions machine. The machine begins with photographs, fingerprints, and interrogations. Then comes the worst part, the strip search, where each prisoner stands before a prison official, naked, and responds to the scream: "Lift your arms in the air! Let me see the back of your hands! Run your fingers through your hair! Open your mouth! Stick your tongue out! Lift your balls! Turn around! Bend over! Spread your ass! Wider! Lift the bottom of your feet! Move on!" The strip search, I later learned, is a ritual Atlanta's officers inflict on prisoners every time there is contact with anyone from outside the walls, and sometimes randomly as prisoners walk down the corridor.
There was a lot of hatred behind those walls. Walking through the prison must be something like walking through a jungle, I imagined, not knowing whether others perceive you as predator or prey, knowing that you must remain alert always, watching every step, knowing that the wrong step may be the one that sucks you into the quicksand. The tension is ever present; I felt it wrapped all over, under and around me. I remember it bothering me that I didn't have enough hatred, because not hating in the jungle is a weakness. As the serpents slither, they spot that lack of hatred and salivate over a potential target.
Every prisoner despises confinement, but each must decide how he or she is going to pass the time. Most of the men run in packs. They want the other prisoners either to run with them or run away from them. I wasn't interested in doing either. Instead of scheming on how I could become king of the jungle, I thought about ways that I could advance my release date. Earning academic credentials, keeping a clean record, and initiating projects that would benefit the communities both inside and outside of prison walls seemed the most promising goals for me to achieve. Yet working toward such goals was more dangerous than running with the pack; it didn't take me long to learn that prisoners running in herds will put forth more energy to cause others to lose than they will to win themselves. Prison is a twisted world, a menagerie.
I recognized that in order to meet my ultimate goals, I would have to earn my way out of prison before too much of my life withered away; I had to develop a strategy. The first thing I did was set a time period. Although my sentence dictated that I would spend nearly three decades in prisons, I set a ten-year plan in mind. During the first ten years, I reasoned, I would exert all of my energy to work toward my goal. Then, I reckoned, if things had not changed and I remained in prison, I could set another plan in motion. In the beginning, though, I focused on the accomplishments I would make before the first ten years passed. Throughout all of this, it would be imperative for me to maintain an impeccable prison record.
I found that a highly-structured schedule would not only move me closer to my goals, but also would limit potential conflicts inside the prison. There is a pecking order in every prison, and prisoners vying for attention don't want to see others who are cutting their own path. I saw that bullies generally look for weaker targets, so I began an exercise routine that would keep me strong physically. If I was strong, I figured, others would be more reluctant to try me. Through discipline, I found, I could develop physical strength. Yet I've never figured out how to develop the look of a killer, or the hatred off which that look feeds.
I don't know whether the strategies I have developed for doing time are right for everyone. But they are working for me. I'm coming closer to achieving my first goal. Still, I know that I may spend many more years in prison. The only fear I have -- and as I'm working on my eighth year in prison, it's still here -- is that somehow, someone will try me and drag me into an altercation that may jeopardize my spotless disciplinary record. I've been successful in avoiding the ever-present quicksand on my walk through the jungle so far, but I know that on any given day, something may throw me off balance, or I may take a wrong step. And one wrong step in this jungle can drown me in quicksand, sucking me into the abysmal world of prison forever. That wrong step also could mean the loss of life, mine or someone else's.
In prison, more than anywhere else I know, it is vital to understand that some things are beyond an individual's sphere of control. No matter how much preparation is made, the steel and concrete jungle is a dangerous place in which to live.