Luke
09-10-2002, 02:21 AM
A Bus Ride To Prison
Have you ever had a time in your life where you just wanted to die, where you just thought death would be easier than facing the problems that you know are awaiting you? That was the feeling I had when I was 23-years-old, just after the judge sentenced me to serve a 45-year prison sentence.
I remember my thoughts and experiences clearly as I was beginning that term. I had already been detained in jail for about a year--during my trial--before the judge sentenced me. A few weeks after my conviction and the imposition of sentence, I knew that I'd soon be on my way to prison. It would be a new experience, and one that I wasn't looking forward to begin.
My journey began when one of the guards from the jail came by my cell door early on a Saturday morning to wake me. "Roll up!" he hollered. "Roll up" is jail vernacular ordering a prisoner to pack all belongings and prepare for movement. The moment he said it, I felt it. His words were hanging in the air, like a threat, letting me know that I was on my way to a place from where some don't return. "Okay, let's go," I said to myself as I tried to pump up my heart.
I didn't have much, as the jail really limits the amount of personal property a prisoner can keep. The guard marched me to a smoke-filled room in the jail where my ankles were chained together and my wrists were cuffed to a chain wrapped around my waist. There were several other prisoners in the room, as we were scheduled to ride the bus that would deliver us to prison.
I didn't know where I was going, not for several hours anyway. Then I found out, I was going to the United States Penitentiary in Atlanta. "Damn," I thought. "Why would they be sending me to Atlanta? I'm from Seattle."
It didn't much matter what I thought. I was beginning to realize that my thoughts didn't matter to anyone but me. When I was arrested, I pretty much lost my identity and became chattel, the property of the U.S. government. Prison guards regulated everything in my life: the clothes I wore, the food I ate, the time I slept, and the mail I sent or received. Lawyers even spoke for me. All I did was go through the motions of being human, but authority was always directing me. That's what it means to lose freedom.
What I did begin to think about was my own mortality. What was I going to be after release? I was a young man then, but I wouldn't walk the streets again until I was well over fifty-years old. I'd been an adult for only a few years before I got locked up, now prison was going to be my life. Who would I be after release? An old man with nothing: no home, no automobile, no assets. A couple of friends might buy me a Big Mac and a cup of coffee, but I'd have nowhere to go. I'd have to start my life from nothing, and that was a chilling feeling.
Anyway, the bus ride was hell. I was chained during the whole trip, and the people sitting around me were--for the most part-guys who seemed like they'd been doing time forever. Most were covered with tattoos, and most of the tattoos were combinations of designs that included demons and skulls and snakes and flames. I guess the tattoos were supposed to be frightening or something, like they were going to make the prisoner scarier or somehow meaner; they worked. I was learning that everyone had their own way of dealing with time. Yet I had enough experience after my year in the county jail to know that I'd do my time alone.
While riding the bus, I was calculating how long I'd be in prison. I realized that even if I received all of the possible time off for good behavior, I still would remain in prison for nearly three decades. But I also knew that I was alive, and as long as I was alive I could make my own decisions. I made a commitment to myself to stay alive and to do everything I conceivably could-while building integrity--in order to advance my release date. I later found that prison wouldn't give many opportunities to help me reach my goal.
When the bus finally approached the huge penitentiary in Atlanta, I was eye struck by the enormous wall that enveloped the entire prison. It stood forty feet high, clearly separating the prisoners inside from the community. And the heavily armed guards standing outside the bus made it clear to me that there was nothing nice behind that wall.
I was scared, but I was determined to do whatever it took to make it through. I told myself repeatedly that I was ready, but now, in retrospect, I realize that I could never be ready. All I knew was that I was going to do whatever it took to make it through and to make it out of there alive. There was no room for fear, but it was everywhere. I could smell it on the bus, on the men. We all waited, looking outside of the windows in silence. I knew the only way I was going to make it was to stand up and face it, to go through it: it was with this absolute resolve that I was determined to return to the world.
Once I was escorted inside, the plain concrete walls reminded me that my time was not going to be easy. As I was getting settled inside the walls, walking through the crowded halls, staring at the desperate faces, I felt like I was on the road with a million drunk drivers all at once. They were angry, but with no apparent reason, as if they woke up in the morning and didn't even know why they were mad themselves.
Standing in line to eat breakfast is like going through a busy intersection where the traffic lights don't work; it's easy to crash, to get into a wreck without any warning. Bam! That was how fast things happened in the penitentiary. I learned that killers run five-six to five-eight. People who appear harmless are frequently the most dangerous men in the penitentiary. And, there is no such thing as a fair fight in prison. You see guys over six feet tall, 200 pounds, hit guys that are five-eight, 150 pounds, with a pipe when the smaller guy isn't looking. They get respect from the other prisoners for this kind of thing, that is, recognition for doing 'the right thing." I've seen people stabbed and piped in the showers, chow hall, the yard, the theater. People wore phone books taped to their bodies to protect themselves as they walked to the yard. Shanks were planted everywhere. Prison is really a battle zone; an expanse of desperate men were no one wants to be.
I remember reading somewhere that there were no atheists in foxholes, as every soldier placed in that situation is praying to God. Similarly, there really are no pacifists in prison, as every prisoner is capable of violence. All prisoners feel the tension. No matter where a man walks behind the walls, the threat of death is ever present. Seasoned prisoners want newcomers to either run with them or to run away from them. They want to mold the way a prisoner behaves, who his friends are, and what he does. I refused to let the other prisoners dictate the kind of person I would be, so I pursued my own goals, and decided to keep to myself while inside.
Prison is a consuming experience, and I didn't want to be consumed, I didn't want to become the people I saw around me. Instead, I committed myself to working on my goals and focusing on the future.
Ever since my time in prison began, I knew that my road would be long. And although I was certain that the prisoners around me could make the road longer, none of them could make it shorter. And that's why I've always structured my time to help me avoid them.
Have you ever had a time in your life where you just wanted to die, where you just thought death would be easier than facing the problems that you know are awaiting you? That was the feeling I had when I was 23-years-old, just after the judge sentenced me to serve a 45-year prison sentence.
I remember my thoughts and experiences clearly as I was beginning that term. I had already been detained in jail for about a year--during my trial--before the judge sentenced me. A few weeks after my conviction and the imposition of sentence, I knew that I'd soon be on my way to prison. It would be a new experience, and one that I wasn't looking forward to begin.
My journey began when one of the guards from the jail came by my cell door early on a Saturday morning to wake me. "Roll up!" he hollered. "Roll up" is jail vernacular ordering a prisoner to pack all belongings and prepare for movement. The moment he said it, I felt it. His words were hanging in the air, like a threat, letting me know that I was on my way to a place from where some don't return. "Okay, let's go," I said to myself as I tried to pump up my heart.
I didn't have much, as the jail really limits the amount of personal property a prisoner can keep. The guard marched me to a smoke-filled room in the jail where my ankles were chained together and my wrists were cuffed to a chain wrapped around my waist. There were several other prisoners in the room, as we were scheduled to ride the bus that would deliver us to prison.
I didn't know where I was going, not for several hours anyway. Then I found out, I was going to the United States Penitentiary in Atlanta. "Damn," I thought. "Why would they be sending me to Atlanta? I'm from Seattle."
It didn't much matter what I thought. I was beginning to realize that my thoughts didn't matter to anyone but me. When I was arrested, I pretty much lost my identity and became chattel, the property of the U.S. government. Prison guards regulated everything in my life: the clothes I wore, the food I ate, the time I slept, and the mail I sent or received. Lawyers even spoke for me. All I did was go through the motions of being human, but authority was always directing me. That's what it means to lose freedom.
What I did begin to think about was my own mortality. What was I going to be after release? I was a young man then, but I wouldn't walk the streets again until I was well over fifty-years old. I'd been an adult for only a few years before I got locked up, now prison was going to be my life. Who would I be after release? An old man with nothing: no home, no automobile, no assets. A couple of friends might buy me a Big Mac and a cup of coffee, but I'd have nowhere to go. I'd have to start my life from nothing, and that was a chilling feeling.
Anyway, the bus ride was hell. I was chained during the whole trip, and the people sitting around me were--for the most part-guys who seemed like they'd been doing time forever. Most were covered with tattoos, and most of the tattoos were combinations of designs that included demons and skulls and snakes and flames. I guess the tattoos were supposed to be frightening or something, like they were going to make the prisoner scarier or somehow meaner; they worked. I was learning that everyone had their own way of dealing with time. Yet I had enough experience after my year in the county jail to know that I'd do my time alone.
While riding the bus, I was calculating how long I'd be in prison. I realized that even if I received all of the possible time off for good behavior, I still would remain in prison for nearly three decades. But I also knew that I was alive, and as long as I was alive I could make my own decisions. I made a commitment to myself to stay alive and to do everything I conceivably could-while building integrity--in order to advance my release date. I later found that prison wouldn't give many opportunities to help me reach my goal.
When the bus finally approached the huge penitentiary in Atlanta, I was eye struck by the enormous wall that enveloped the entire prison. It stood forty feet high, clearly separating the prisoners inside from the community. And the heavily armed guards standing outside the bus made it clear to me that there was nothing nice behind that wall.
I was scared, but I was determined to do whatever it took to make it through. I told myself repeatedly that I was ready, but now, in retrospect, I realize that I could never be ready. All I knew was that I was going to do whatever it took to make it through and to make it out of there alive. There was no room for fear, but it was everywhere. I could smell it on the bus, on the men. We all waited, looking outside of the windows in silence. I knew the only way I was going to make it was to stand up and face it, to go through it: it was with this absolute resolve that I was determined to return to the world.
Once I was escorted inside, the plain concrete walls reminded me that my time was not going to be easy. As I was getting settled inside the walls, walking through the crowded halls, staring at the desperate faces, I felt like I was on the road with a million drunk drivers all at once. They were angry, but with no apparent reason, as if they woke up in the morning and didn't even know why they were mad themselves.
Standing in line to eat breakfast is like going through a busy intersection where the traffic lights don't work; it's easy to crash, to get into a wreck without any warning. Bam! That was how fast things happened in the penitentiary. I learned that killers run five-six to five-eight. People who appear harmless are frequently the most dangerous men in the penitentiary. And, there is no such thing as a fair fight in prison. You see guys over six feet tall, 200 pounds, hit guys that are five-eight, 150 pounds, with a pipe when the smaller guy isn't looking. They get respect from the other prisoners for this kind of thing, that is, recognition for doing 'the right thing." I've seen people stabbed and piped in the showers, chow hall, the yard, the theater. People wore phone books taped to their bodies to protect themselves as they walked to the yard. Shanks were planted everywhere. Prison is really a battle zone; an expanse of desperate men were no one wants to be.
I remember reading somewhere that there were no atheists in foxholes, as every soldier placed in that situation is praying to God. Similarly, there really are no pacifists in prison, as every prisoner is capable of violence. All prisoners feel the tension. No matter where a man walks behind the walls, the threat of death is ever present. Seasoned prisoners want newcomers to either run with them or to run away from them. They want to mold the way a prisoner behaves, who his friends are, and what he does. I refused to let the other prisoners dictate the kind of person I would be, so I pursued my own goals, and decided to keep to myself while inside.
Prison is a consuming experience, and I didn't want to be consumed, I didn't want to become the people I saw around me. Instead, I committed myself to working on my goals and focusing on the future.
Ever since my time in prison began, I knew that my road would be long. And although I was certain that the prisoners around me could make the road longer, none of them could make it shorter. And that's why I've always structured my time to help me avoid them.