ALL NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED FOR THIS ESSAY
An alarming scream for help, just moments after midnight, had pierced through the unusual silence. A 54-year-old who stood 6 – feet – 2 – inches tall, was being raped by a cellmate who was eighteen years his youth and shorter. He had desperately needed help. He had instinctively searched for a quick escape, but no such thing existed in a deadlocked cell. He wanted help as his trusted friend held a shank to his neck – to render him defenseless and defeated like a hungry mouse lured into a trap with a piece of cheese. The proclamation of him being sexually violated was unimaginable, and created a jittery atmosphere.
Despite the reality that prison rapes occur almost routinely, I could not fathom anyone becoming their cellmate’s personal blowup doll, especially since the universal prison code in Illinois frown fiercely on rape. The following morning just as the sun smiled beyond the clouds, the elder man looked destitute. He had spent hours being robbed of his shame and degradation. When the officers rescued and guided him down the gallery, he was soulless.
This wasn’t my first experience with violence entering into the criminal justice arena. I’ve seen globs of blood from men thumping the floor after being stabbed (I also was stabbed on an occasion), defenseless men being beat unconscious, and people being robbed outside and in view of prison guards without intervention. To hear however, an elder man screaming rape, with each rhythmic invasion was an entirely unexpected introduction to prison life.
The historic and infamous Joliet Correctional Center had the typical television prison appearance. From the outside the prison had a somewhat mythological, Hogwarts appeal. The stone of the perimeter towers and walls whispered their own tales of prison escapes – attempted and accomplished – with its Shirley Temple Curls barbed wire. On approach you would expect stones to magically shift, Orcs to patrol the grounds, Dementors to investigate the latest prison attack, fairies to peek through the corn fields, and Hogwarts Express to speed past and drop off its next batch of students eager to learn how not to get stabbed, watch paint dry and to become enchanted by real killers crocheting and knitting cardigans. This was 1994, a huge difference in the prison atmosphere today in Illinois.
The cellhouse seemed to be two tiers of endless gallery of cells that looked out onto the officer’s cat walk – that the gun tower officer frequently strolled – separated by a few feet and a railing to prevent “accidental” inmate fallings from the upper gallery. The cells were the size of two broom closets and unsanitary. If they were blue-lighted they would reveal the blood, semen, and shit of John Wayne Gacy, Al Capone and the 1850 criminal that stole a wad of chew. Back then, inmates would be issued the typical indigent bag that contained toiletries, beddings, and writing supplies and ordered to report to their assigned cells where you are greeted with a stained mattress of centuries old whatever, that regale you with tales of its rapes, gay sex and rest room experiences. If lucky, you will be celled with a suburban resident whose novelty to criminal life is reflected in his criminal conviction, showing nervousness and a diarrheic mouth.
“Shut the fuck up. Keep your business to yourself, and mind your fucking business if you want to make it out of here alive. Oh, and unless you want to become someone’s prison bitch, I suggest that you don’t let no one run over you, not even these cops” I would tell these dudes.
Inside, we use to refer to this group as ‘stains’ because they typically come from money – at least more money that those of us who come from impoverished communities. It was easy to play to their prison illusions, befriend them and have them pay for protection disguised as homies looking out for homies. Extortion was a constant occurrence and took shape in many forms. Two – for – ones on soap and other commissary items, even though there were property limits on what we were allowed to possess; rent for cells if you were administratively housed in a cell that was territoried, and the cable guy who charged his cellmate for watching news on his television despite inviting his cellmate to watch television with him.
In the free world, Thirty-Eight the rapist was nicknamed, was practically raised by his cellmate. Jimmy, while dating Thirty Eight’s mother would take Thirty-Eight to and from school. He would shoot a few hoops with him, and even disciplined him when he punched the kid next door in the mouth. Jimmy had done all of the things that a father would do with a son, including celebrating his birthday at Chuck E. Cheese.
Jimmy, since Thirty-Eight’s arrival had shown him how to survive prison. Using the same the same tough love tactics, Jimmy had taught Thirty-Eight to be independent by two-for-onening Thirty-Eight on cosmetics that Jimmy had given him. Jimmy had wanted him to learn not to ask anyone for ANYTHING, and to go get what he wanted; to stand firm and not become the prey. But somehow however, Jimmy’s words were lost in translation.
As the critical comments and debates emerged over the years about Thirty-Eight’s and others tyrannical bouts of rape, extortion, assault, stabbing and violent weapon possessions, I often wonder if society has properly rendered judgment in the right direction. If we train domesticated animals to become violent – would they choose to be docile? If we group these very same violent animals together with other animals, would not that also create a psychosis of learned behavior?
Throughout America, states and local governments are passing laws and ordinances requiring dogs to be housed in air-conditioned kennels. When then will society require humane development of their neighbor, family, friends – fellow American?
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