Gumshoe

One of the guards talked to me in a dream lately. In it, I wore the typical green scrubs of the Colorado Correctional System's inmate population, and she wore the white-shirted uniform that the standard guards do. In the real world I've had a crush on this woman since the first day I saw her. She reminds me of someone I still have feelings for. But I have been away from the outside long enough to have become attracted to more than a few of the women who work here.

We sat at a table in the pod's common area (the 'day hall'), exchanging small talk, which, in fact, we've done in real life as well. It was easier now, although I wasn't aware I was dreaming. We were in the future. I had been incarcerated for a longer period of time than I presently am.

For some reason we came to discuss pseudonyms and nicknames. She said that her nick-name as a child had been gumshoe. But then she said that to explain the origin of the name would be to cross a line - in fact that she was already crossing it - a professional distance between inmate and guard that could endanger her job if compromised.

It became clear to me that we were compatible in some way but for our situation. I didn't press the issue. In fact it is very liberating, sometimes, to ponder the gulf and the distance my crimes have put between me and others. I have always felt somehow wounded inside, and in my outside interactions with people it seemed they unknowingly agitated this invisible sore.

We sat in some silence, and it seemed to me that she was coming to a decision -- I psychoanalyze these guards a lot -- many of them are lonely people. And this job, its procedures, and the inmates in their charge, drain them so thoroughly it's obvious. It's easy to demonize and scapegoat the inmate population - they are demanding, after all, and they scapegoat and demonize the guards in kind. But guards don't have much power, or even much of a say in the application of their role in the justice system. And the smarter ones, or perhaps, the more abstract thinking ones, must deal with a kind of envy. It's a low-paying, low-skill gig that affords the workers a lifestyle on par with our own -- much of the staff even eats the same food as us to save money -- but they work these ridiculous shifts; they sacrifice their lives and livelihoods much the same way anyone does at a dead-end job, and they watch us watching TV, sleeping in, sunbathing, exercising, year after year after year. We are free in some ways that society is not. And yet, would you trade your freedom for that? Your freedom to do what, exactly? Meet the girl or guy of your dreams? Spend time with your family? Or merely to eat fast food? Buy things? I hope, for your sake that you are doing things that matter to you, or, believe me, you would be happier here. This is the reality guards face. The ones who do not feel they are doing things that matter exhibit disturbing behavior - almost criminal attitudes. Criminals guarding criminals. They teeter on this brink on a daily basis.

Presently, it seemed, she decided that to bridge that gap would bring her more satisfaction then her job could, and she told me the story anyway.

Her childhood nickname had nothing to do with being a detective, as the term usually implies. As it turns out, her favorite food had been gumbo, and anytime she went shopping with her family she would run to the food aisle that had the variety she most adored. In time, her family began to tease her for this habit.

One day her Grandma had said to her, "don't forget your gumshoes!" while the family prepared for an outing; somehow the name stuck. An old farmer's contraction of 'gumbo' and 'shoe'.

And that was it. That was her story. It was pleasant to hear, and I could tell she felt naughty sharing it with an inmate, just as she could tell I felt special having been her only audience. It was actually sort of romantic.

But only a dream.

Piraton

All the Peisas call me Piraton. so I hear.

"Do you know why they call you Piraton?" S. R. is a Mexican immigrant who is in prison for dealing coke. Everyone calls him Chilango - sometimes I call him Chimi-Chango; in a friendly way, not a condescending racist way. But he is always asking me if I know why I am called Piraton.

And I usually say, "You're the only one who calls me that." He used to call me Bin Laden; everyone here thinks I have some middle eastern ancestry, but really it's my English side - I have in my blood the sort of Englishman who can grow a really mean beard. I suppose my Arabic tattoos throw people off (never mind my Latin ones, French ones, English ones, Japanese ones, German ones, et. al.) - anyway I shortened my beard and now I'm Piraton.

We talk often, but there is somewhat of a communication barrier because our first languages are different. Peisa is short for Peisano. It is a term Mexican natives use here to distinguish themselves from Chicanos (States-born Hispanics). There are cultural distinctions between these groups and sometimes breakdowns in mutual understanding occur. I suppose superficial similarities make it easier for projections to happen, and disappointments, when the projections are revealed to be false.

"No," he says. "All the Peisas, they call you Piraton. Do you know why?"

And I really don't. Piraton, I think, means pirate. When I asked him what it meant, he covered his right eye and grimaced - which seemed a reasonable imitation of a pirate to me.

We have variants on this conversation every week or so.

"Hey Piraton!" I'm microwaving some instant coffee in a common-area when I catch Chilango's eyes as they narrow in contempt and he mutters "Pinche Piraton." But he can never keep a straight face. He laughs as I tilt my head back, widen my eyes, and stare as if looking through him. I take my cup, saunter up to him, and set it on his bald head, which is about 2 feet shorter than mine. (My cut is actually a popular attraction - it's one of the Salvation Army cups they hand out every year [which, honestly, isn't doing anyone any good; why the hell are they doing that?]. Using a toothbrush, I buffed off the Salvation Army logo and in it's place carved PUNCH CHRIST FOR JESUS with a pin, using shoe polish to fill in the cracks. On the other side I carved in an image of Jesus [which bears a strange resemblance to myself] being punched in the face; for the illiterate, I suppose. It is a confusing cup. It is a confused cup.)

I tell him to go minche his Padre, exaggerating my accent, and it's so stupid he can't help but laugh. He imitates me. Tew - Ma - Dray. He starts up again, "you know why they call you Piraton?"

I roll my eyes. "No."

"Because you're crazy, vato loco." He also calls me that.

And I thought it was because I'm a tattooed, tri-lingual international. I've been called Ach-Ul-Arrab by Savehs and Marrocans, Bin Yom (son of Day) by Muslims, and a "brother-from-another-mother." It is interesting to speak about my spiritual delusions with the Buddhists, the mystics, the occultists, etc. Who, ironically, are more Christlike than the Christians here.

I pick up my cup, take a sip, and replace it on his head. It would seem that much of my behavior mocks the "seriousness" of prison, but I feel it brings some much needed joy here.

"Pinche Piraton." He says, laughing. "Why are you so crazy?!"

Thursday, July 14th 2011

I have been sitting on some shorter entries for some time now. I'm not really sure why - June just passed by and I lazed the entire month away. I'm falling into a routine of exercise and reading - which is good. I think - but I'm also sleeping a lot, watching TV a lot; generally acting like I'm on vacation when in the back of my mind I feel I should be writing.

And, of course, I am -- just not so prolifically as before.

I've also been feeling somewhat guilty over the success of my blog: I've been getting a lot of positive feedback lately, and while flattering it is also somewhat dismaying. I still think about Lady X, and I imagine her reaction to my web presence would be less than receptive. I feel it would be better for my self-interest and preservation if I didn't care about her reactions, but I do - to my detriment probably. Perhaps now that I've mentioned it my guilt will abate somewhat.

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We've been locked down for almost a week now. These facility-wide lock-downs occur a few times per year. Usually they are initiated because of a large fight - these do occur occasionally - but sometimes they are random. Either way, they feel random because the staff seems prohibited from discussing reasons for lock-downs (or anything else) leaving the inmates to wildly speculate. Being more helpless, they are more amenable to demands.

I recognize this tactic from boot camp, from history books, even from movies. In District 9 for instance, the aliens are suppressed and kept in a state of complete helplessness - and then blamed for the shortcomings said helplessness fosters. Of course, District 9 was a metaphor for Apartheid and not a commentary on the US correctional system - but the psychological tactics used come from the same book. It's obvious. It seems to be becoming more pervasive in the US government, or parts of it at least. Is this a demonstration of some kind of systems-theory principle? Even the security chief here was in the marine corps. I find it highly ironic that experience managing soldiers translates so seamlessly to managing prisoners. And the irony compounds because I felt so much more imprisoned in the marines than I do now.

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Last night was sort of weird -- power went out in the whole valley for some reason, and all the lights, TVs, fans, and clocks suddenly died. Usually a power-outage prompts a lock-down. But of course, we were already locked down. The facility's generators kicked on, and a few emergency lights became available while the ventilation system reactivated.

For an instant, the prison was calm. Have you ever had the feeling, during a blackout, that the disappearance of all those electromagnetic fields we are surrounded by causes a sort of relief? Like a headache has suddenly gone away that you didn't even realize was there until it vanished?

I don't know how the water systems work here but when the power went out they stopped working as well. The pressure gradually subsided in our sinks and the toilets stopped working. I must admit it's pretty strange sitting in a cell with no power, no water, and no knowledge of when either will return. The staff was pretty helpless too.

"Do you know when we'll have water?" I asked one of the guards as he passed my door. "Well, you see," he said; Morgan is his name, "the whole valley is out of power. No one in Las Animas has electricity." This is a pretty typical response of a Las Animas guard. Never mind the fact that the backup generators had kicked on and I asked about water, not power; the staff is overworked, underpaid, and stretched thin. Half of them don't even know what they're doing, and the other half contradict the first. 9 out of 10 guards don't really understand the delicacy of their task anyway - entrusted to care for the lives of what are essentially children in adult bodies - and many openly complain about how we inmates have it too good; how we don't deserve exercise, television, books, or even three meals a day. And it's funny, because they don't even know what most of us inmates are in prison for, and seemingly forget that most of us will actually see daylight again - free daylight - that only very few in their charge are truly despicable souls. The guards forget that imprisonment is the punishment.

I don't know what I expected when I asked. I kept thinking about the rule of thumb concerning deprivation and death. 3 minutes without air, 3 days without water, 3 months without food, more or less. So I had some time.

Over the course of an hour or two, it became obvious as cell after cell discovered its water was off, the inhabitants would kick at the door, yelling at deaf ears about injustice (there were no guards in the pod to hear them - so did they really make a sound at all?), which prompted other inmates to join in the noise. It isn't uncommon to hear inmates imitating 200 animals - soon the pod was all chimpanzees, toucans, monkeys, asses, and other annoying sounds. I don't participate but I can't say I blame the others for making such a racket. We'd already been locked down for several days. Cabin fever affects some more than others.

Around 8 or so the sun was setting and our reading light was waning. I laid my head back and wondered about the days before electricity. I thought about the lake nearby. I wondered if CCA forgot to pay its power bill - which was unlikely if the entire valley was out, but that could have just as easily been an appeasing lie.

For a little while I thought I would enjoy the first truly dark night's sleep in almost 2 years. But the flood lights came on outside; apparently those were on the generator circuit. This prompted me to check the water again with no luck. Priorities. (Hmmm.)

Eventually the power came back on - and the water with it. We were trapped thus for 4 hours. I've since heard that it's illegal for a prison to do this. At least nothing serious happened.

But I am glad I can write about it in a public forum.

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This morning everyone in the pod was strip-searched, then taken to the large gym, where we waited for just under 4 hours while a black-uniformed set of guards held paintball-guns filled with pepper balls. Rumor had been spreading for days that a facility-wide shakedown would occur. These happen about once or twice a year as well, but this is the first time we've been taken out of our living area while it happened. Normally the security isn't like this either. It is an exercise in the utter ridiculous. They wore bullet-proof vests, like we can buy guns.

Hours passed and the 100 degree heat crept into the gym. We were allowed to stand up to walk to the water fountain or to pee, but that was it. Even so, it was all bearable. What was strange was when, upon returning, my cellmate and I noticed that all electronic appliances had been removed from our room. My cellmate's TV was gone, as was my typewriter, my lamp, and my headphones.

Danny Salazar, our unit manager, addressed our pod as follows, "I don't want to hear anything about property until Monday! We're going to lock you down now serve you lunch, then go on modified lock down! If any of you act up, we'll go on full lock down again!"

It's a bit stupid. My appliances have been confiscated because the guards think I stole them, despite the fact that I have the receipts for them in my cell. The typewriter cost me $139.12, the lamp cost me $13.36, oh an what do you know, I've misplaced the headphones receipt. Never mind that the facility insists on defacing our appliances by beveling our names and inmate numbers on them. New headphones will cost me 25 bucks, too. Good for canteen services I imagine. Even better for them next year when they take them away from me again. What a business model.

But the dumbest part is that this blog entry will be online almost before I can even talk to anyone about getting my stuff back. Amazing. Simply, utterly, amazing.

-fin-

Thought

I often marvel at the sheer variety of human faces and body parts. It seems to me that there would be an even greater variety of human minds. One can scarcely perceive another person's mind fully and must project a significant portion of their own to fill the inevitable holes and gaps in understanding that arise. It is an easy mistake to assume that all humans are, more-or-less, "alike-under-the-surface." At least, it was an easy mistake for me. We share languages and thoughts, but are vastly different from one another. That being said, compared to, say a fly, humans are very similar. But common sense, justice, equality, fairness; these concepts vary from person to person. It took me a long time to learn that. -B