The world is a prison.
– Goethe
If you’ve ever been incarcerated, then you know what it’s like to be placed into a small space with another. At the county jail level, there might be four- or six-man dorms. Two man cells do exist, but they are not common like in the normal prison system, especially here in Texas. I’ve lived in all of them, at one point or another.
In the Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ), two men or women are housed in most population environments, those designated G2 to G5. Older “red-brick” units like Huntsville, Coffield, and numerous others, have bunk beds in smaller eight-by-five-feet cells. The 2254 units, including Michael, Polunsky, etc., have larger cells, over ten feet long and seven to eight feet wide, making them marginally more comfortable. The largest cells in any Texas state prison are to be found on the Special Housing Units, or “High Security” units, like at Estelle, Bill Clements, and a few others. Those cells not only have more floor space for general living, but an in-cell shower as well.
My “adventure” in Texas prisons began back in 2008. I was 27 going on 28, and admittedly scared of what I would have to endure. I had never been in a state prison. The stories were not flattering. I didn’t know what to expect, but I guess like most first timers, I received a crash course.
After leaving El Paso on the “Bluebird” — the antiquated all white TDCJ bus — my first destination was Middleton, a transit unit in West Texas. Once off the bus, we entered a metal building where we were immediately told to “get naked and stand on the line.” About ten guys in birthday suits getting “inspected” was an enlightening experience! The goal? Security Threat Officers were looking for tattoos and other gang related markings. Those found with them were pulled out of line and processed separately. I stayed with the pack and entered a caged area, where I sat and waited in boxers. One cage for in-processing; the next cage over for “the processed,” where the requisite buzz-cut and shower took place. Finally, dressed in whites, I walked in line with other guys into the main building.
While I waited in the office area to have an ID card made, two guards approached me, asked my name, then cuffed and escorted me to my first cell in a Texas prison. I was placed in solitary housing until I caught chain to Byrd Unit, which is where I first experienced being packed into a tiny cell with another. Byrd is “red brick,” so space is limited. Bars formed the front wall and door. I had two different cellies in my time there — both decent guys that I got along with, but we were on a diagnostic unit going through all the preliminary evaluations. I spent a fair amount of time talking to counselors and other staff, outside the cell, so even though the cell was cramped, my in-cell time was limited.
My first “ID” unit was Polunsky, in Livingston. Anyone familiar with Texas prisons knows that’s where Death Row is housed. That was true when I arrived there in April of 2008, and remains true today. As a 2254 unit, Polunsky was more expansive than I expected — but then I hadn’t known what to expect at all. Once off the bus, I ended up in a cage outside 1-Building (which is where the Administrative Offices were). Eventually, I met with UCC (Unit Classification), who told me I’d be going to 3-Building (wherever that was!), and then I returned to the cage, waiting. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? I didn’t know that I could just take off walking, or that I should ask for directions. Instead, I sat and waited, looking out at the central grassy area, buildings, and people walking around, until a guy passing nearby asked me why I was in the cage.
“They told me I was going to 3-Building,” I replied, showing him the paper in my hand, “but I’ve never been here before.” A red chain bag half-filled with my property rested on the ground.
He laughed, “So, you just goin’ to sit around?”
I shrugged and he shook his head then encouraged me to follow him. All the walkways were concrete underneath overhangs, enclosed by chain-link fencing. We passed out of what might’ve been Polunsky’s central square, bordered by 10-Building off to our left.
“Medical, law library and real library,” and the chow halls, “for A-Side, which’s where we are, and B-Side, over there,” which was past the central gated area dividing the sides, facing 11-Building. “Solitary confinement and, if you’re in trouble, PHD.” (Pre-Hearing Detention is where a person is placed in a cell alone prior to a disciplinary hearing that would issue punishment and see a person reclassified.)
Soon we were passing by A-Side chow hall. A gated area before us was the entrance to laundry. Near it was the “pill window.” An access gate, “leads around over to the dorms, but see that?” The guy had stopped near the pill window, around a bend, and was pointing straight down the walkway.
“I’m guessing that’s 3-Building?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “The buildings to the right’ll have commissary and gyms where Church is held. That left walkway goes to 4-Building.”
I limply held my chain bag and took it all in.
“Just head on down there,” he encouraged, “inside to the left is the picket. Check in an’ you’ll be good. I gotta be goin’.”
“Thanks,” I said, intending to ask his name, but he was already on his way. With a brief wave, he was soon out of sight, and I continued on.
I did find it. As I walked, staying to the right of the yellow line (offenders are required to stay outside yellow lines on each side of walkways; the center is for guards), I pondered the black man’s kindness in light of all the stories I’d heard about racial tensions, hate and violence. I never saw the guy again, which is strange to me now because I know how small prisons can be.
Anyhow, once on 3-Building, the Picket Officer had me issued a “roll” (set of clothes, boxers, socks, and a towel), some sheets, and a mattress. C-Pod, 2-Section was my destination, so I followed the indicated walkway (outside the yellow line, of course), passed through the sliding doors, and finally reached the expansive day room that would become my living area. Fear was a living, although suppressed, thing in me. I worried about what others might do, and how I’d react. My life was littered with situations where I’d acted wrongly, or simply overreacted in what most seemed to view as “unreasonable.”
I sat at a table and got drawn into some random conversation because I basically had a neon sign on my chest blinking “NEW GUY!” I waited for…
Well, see, here’s the thing. I walked into the day room, as the cell where I was set to move into was being raided — searched by STG (Security Threat Group) for contraband, etc. I didn’t know if that boded well when it was pointed out to me, but my first ever long-term cellie in a Texas prison, Steve, laughed it off, taking it well. He went by TK (for Texarkana, having family from that region). White, about ten years older than me, facing Capital Life (I learned the full story over the following days) for killing a cop, Steve was laid back, so it was easy to find working compromises over “cell-time” and other routine activities. He introduced me to others, and helped me acclimate to prison.
Which means I stayed in the cell quite often early on because of wariness. I did go to recreation and play handball and volleyball, but my ability to socialize was very much stunted or hindered by everything I’d endured up to that point. Steve seemed to recognize that, giving me space to be me. Moon, Steve’s friend, welcomed me as well. Moon’s humor was infectious, even as sorrow for killing the wife he caught cheating resonated through stories he told about her.
If more structured consistency existed in prison… Well, that would be an excuse, right? I don’t know why they moved Steve and placed Waco (the larger and younger black guy) in the cell with me. Finding compromises with him was more difficult, often because he’d get drunk or high and forget our conversations. I gave him all the “cell-time” he requested, usually, because by then I’d found a gaming group to interact with and keep me distracted. When out and about, Waco was a comedian. When we were both locked in the cell, he could be inconsiderate, but here’s the weird thing: I don’t think he understood. I think back and wonder: did no one ever offer suggestions or correction? Admittedly, I wasn’t as patient as I should’ve been, and instead of addressing problems, I endured until my frustration peaked.
For instance, I was Waco’s cellie in 2008, when the guy on Death Row called Senator Whitmire from a cell phone. In response, the unit was locked down and thoroughly shook down — over and over, because guards kept finding contraband. Guys simply wouldn’t let go! For over a month, I fielded stupid questions or moody silence. Waco liked to look out the window, especially during shift change, so he would lean against the bunk frame and stretch across my bunk, rubbing rank underarms on my clean sheets! Rolling around in my own body odor was one thing I was born into enduring myself. But him? No. I didn’t say anything, though. I waited for him to move, then calmly pulled the sheets off, washed and hung them to dry.
Passive aggressive enough?
Waco noticed. “What are you sayin’? I stink?” Huh… I mean, totally clueless.
I couldn’t help myself and replied, “How about when you want to look out the window, you either use yours down there,” I motioned to the lower bunk area, “or not lay on my bed?”
One night, Waco woke me up, asking a completely random question: “How do you open a bank account?”
It was totally dark and quiet, except for my fan. What was he doing awake?! “What?” I grumbled out in disbelief.
“A bank account to write checks.”
“What are you talking about?” I wondered aloud.
“I’ve never had a bank account,” he offered.
“Okay,” I said, wiping a hand over my face. A deep breath later, “So, when you get home, open one?”
“I don’t know how.”
The whole conversation had me so disoriented that when I got down and stumbled to drink some water from the sink, I misjudged where the edge was and slammed my forehead into it.
“Ow, dammit.”
“You okay?” he asked.
“Bleeding.” I felt at the gash on my forehead and the wetness there. I sighed in disgust, used some toilet paper to dab the wound, finally got my water, and turned on the nightlight.
He was smiling the whole time I grudgingly explained how to open a bank account. Not that I believe he understood my instructions. In fact, I just think he wanted to interact and his social skills were lacking. I wasn’t much better, if I’m being completely honest.
When they let us off lockdown, finally, I exited out the door like a racehorse released from stocks. FREEDOM! I could breathe again. For some reason, tensions from that experience lingered, which probably was my fault. My replies were sharper. I ignored him more, and took every opportunity to stay out of the cell. He, on the other hand, was fine with that, because it gave him more time to play with his girls. He had two photo albums filled with images of various women pulled out of magazines. For hours at a time, every single day, he would move them around. Maybe that was his form of meditation? To me, it was plain weird, and if he didn’t get his “girl time” (because I’m sure he was engaging in extracurricular efforts), he would be more moody.
It helped a lot when I got a job in the kitchen’s vegetable room. Another excuse to stay gone!
A primary contrast between Steve and Waco was that Steve had resources, his own electronics, and we had a nice in-cell balance as a result. Waco didn’t have anything except a radio, and his headphones were secondhand, wrapped and taped. Every time I went to commissary I felt one part bad (for him), but every other part annoyed because I KNEW he was keeping inventory. Waco made the rounds, though. He knew who to ask, the order and how frequent, so he was always able to mooch what he needed. I did feed him. Of course, I did. Even some ice cream a few times.
What I could NOT accept was him seemingly taking my kindness for weakness. One night, during an “in-and-out” (doors rolled every hour), I headed up to the cell to get some hot water for coffee, as I knew Waco would be using my pot. When the door rolled, Waco came out and headed for the shower. I entered the cell and sure enough, the pot was full of hot water, so I made a shot of coffee, refilled the pot and returned to the day room. Evidently, Waco took a quick shower to make it back before the door closed, but I didn’t notice because I was in the middle of gaming and watching TV. I figured out he was in the cell, however, when he hollered at me about using “his” water.
His water. That phrase danced in my skull until I felt an ache, then anger. I abruptly rose, ran up the stairs, and with barely enough time left before the doors needed to be closed (a rover — guard walking around — would pass by to make sure), entered the cell, grabbed and emptied the pot, then stuffed it in my locker and snapped the lock closed.
“If my hotpot is such a burden to you,” I said to a stunned Waco, “then don’t worry about using it.” He didn’t reply, or if he did I don’t remember. I was teetering on a cliff of rage over his audacity.
From that point forward, I never allowed him to use the hotpot unless I was in the cell — unless I was actually using it as well. I set clear boundaries: “I’m not leaving it on all the time. If you want water, then get it while I have it out. Once I dry it, I’m putting it away.” My words were cold, emotionless, and Waco clearly didn’t like the new circumstances.
That event likely set the stage for how we fell out on his birthday. I had told him weeks prior that I was renting a typewriter, and I’d need cell time to do legal work. I don’t remember whether he agreed or not, and I don’t think I would have cared. I needed to get a brief typed up and that was that. Still, I did let him know — it just so happened that my work days (several hours sitting at the desk in our cell typing) coincided with his birthday, when he was out getting high and drunk.
Personally, I didn’t care what he was up to outside the cell. What bothered me was when he came to the door grumbling about, “Why you in there so long?” He sat outside running his mouth, complaining. So, the next time the door rolled and he came into the cell, I vented.
“I don’t know what your problem is.” I grabbed my shower bag, a towel and some clean boxers. “But I’m going to go take a shower and get away from you before we bounce around this cell.”
If he mumbled something, I missed it. I stormed off to the shower, intending to be in there awhile to calm down. Unfortunately, I wasn’t given that chance, because as I was lathering up, Waco walked around the corner fully dressed, boots and gloves on. He got near the door, saw me, and started to turn away, but I’d had enough.
“Oh no, you hoe ass bitch!” I called out to him, wiping my eyes clear. “You took the time to get all dressed up. Bring your punk ass in here!”
And he did just that. All six-feet-and-two-inches of the hulking, red-eyed annoyance came into the shower and I went to boxing him while ass naked. I say that, but in truth, the moment he stepped into the shower I remember nothing. I blacked out, or entered a fugue state, or whatever it might be called. I fought, though. Sometime later, as myself again, I was on one knee watching Waco’s homeboys pulling him out of the shower.
“You dumbass,” they told him. “What’s wrong with you? Tryin’ to bring heat?” They steered him away out of sight.
Finding no real injuries, I finished showering. When the cell door rolled, I went in, dressed and laced up, fully intending to have to face some more action. I didn’t really care if it was necessary. I was tired of Waco’s nonsense. When I reached the day room, I saw Waco sitting in the distance, hunched forward messing with his lip. I soon learned that I’d split it and Waco was pissed off.
‘Old man Cliff,’ a lively white guy with a flat-top of white hair that reminded me of my grandfather, called me over. He whispered about having a shank and not letting me get jumped. I didn’t believe any craziness would happen, but I thanked him nonetheless. Cliff was one of the first people I met when I arrived at the unit. Always up early and alert, he functioned like the neighborhood watch, so I wasn’t surprised by his commentary regarding everything I couldn’t see when I was in the shower.
Across the day room, Waco prowled around and brooded about his bloody lip. Lucky (another black guy I was cool with) teased him mercilessly. “How is it you went in the shower with a naked man and came out wounded?”
Waco had nothing to say, but some of his homeboys did. None of the talks resulted in more fighting, though, which caused Cliff to deflate. Poor old guy was too amped up for his own good! Once his shank was disposed of, he wasted no time advising me to get moved. Lucky believed it was a good idea and agreed to go with me to speak to rank, so on the way to chow he and I fell in at the end of the line.
“What am I going to say?” I asked Lucky.
“I don’t really know, man, but make it good.”
Make it good? What the heck did that mean? How was I supposed to convince someone that I needed to get moved without causing drama? Maybe I should’ve given it more thought, waiting until after we ate, because when we approached the Sergeant about the issue, my version of making it good got me locked up!
“I need to get moved.” I told the Sergeant.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“If I have to go back in that cell there will be a crime scene.” I mean, it sounded better in my head. In the silence that followed, I don’t believe anyone expected THAT.
“Put your hands behind your back,” the Sergeant commanded in a sharper tone.
“What? Why?” That was not at all the result I hoped for!
“You threatened your cellie, so I’m locking you up.”
Yeah, I really made it good! As the Sergeant escorted me away, Lucky said he would speak on my behalf.
Leading up to the disciplinary hearing, I lived in a PHD cell on 11-Building, which was a daunting experience. It had two doors, an interior one made of bars, then the solid exterior one that slid closed, sealing me into what seemed like a vault. By the next morning, my property was delivered, and by the third day, I was seated before a Disciplinary Captain enduring a lecture.
“Did you tell my Sergeant you know martial arts?”
I said, ‘yes’. It had been a different Sergeant at medical when I was escorted there before being taken to 11-Building. While looking through my ID case, and some pictures in it, he — unprompted by me — asked if I knew martial arts.
“I should call him in and get his view of how you were running your mouth. And then I should bust you all the way down,” the Captain said.
I seriously considered telling him to call the Sergeant, but choked on silence instead. I did try explaining my intent behind why I said what I did about the cell, but the Captain didn’t really care. Lucky was there to testify on my behalf, and Cliff had been furiously submitting I-60s, so the busting me all the way down turned into minor punishment — 15 days of cell and commissary restriction.
Free of the Captain’s stern gaze, I was released from the PHD tomb back to 3-Building. My new cell mate was a really cool Mexican guy who worked a lot and was respectful. A night and day improvement, tantamount to winning the lottery! He was a great artist and tattooist, but unfortunately, he got rolled to G4 a week later for fighting on behalf of his gang. It was a shame to see him go, especially after commissioning portraits from him. It took some logistical gymnastics to get the art and pay him, but it all worked out. The only benefit to his departure was finally gaining access to a bottom bunk!
My last cell mate at Polunsky Unit moved in to escape problems. I soon learned why: he was child molester. That revelation initially made me pause because I’d been abused as a kid. Not only was I having to endure the same prison system my abuser was once incarcerated in, but living in close proximity to someone with a similar crime caused me a lot of inner turmoil. It wasn’t something I could talk about, though.
That inner struggle was made worse by a combination of factors. The reality of the beginning stages of serving a life sentence mixed with not being able to resolve another case. Doing legal work opened my mind to a broken past. I did not have the coping skills to process trauma effectively. And seeing 12-Building each day, where Death Row was housed, was a visceral reminder that I could be there for the two people I killed. Would it have been just for me to face the prospect of death? I didn’t feel evil, just mentally not well. I needed help and had asked for it, but so much of what I had tried to express was either ignored or disregarded.
I felt broken, but I only thought I knew what that meant. Retreating into silence, avoidance, or seeking distraction through gaming was the foundation of the “healthy routine” I established. None of it improved any aspect of my life, though. Not being able to relate to my newest cell mate added another layer of disconnect. We communicated in simple ways to navigate our work schedules. He was the diet line cook in the kitchen. I worked in the vegetable room. Often, we were on shift at the same time, but we maintained a drama free routine — at least externally. I listened to his story once, letting him share what he wanted to say, which seemed important to him. I never told him mine. I had no interest in bonding or getting closer than our forced circumstances required. Maybe that was callous of me, but there was still a hurting boy living inside, haunted by the past.
I was actually approached about the idea of escaping shortly before the Mexican guy was rolled to G4. Trying to explain why that appealed to me is difficult. I felt the weight of depression, the sense of hopelessness and abandonment, of course — sensations that were so common to me that they seemed normal. My life had been patterned around them for a long time. Usually I reached a point where a flash of mania around “a great idea” had me fleeing as a self-preservation mechanism. Running from problems only made them worse, though. The escape attempt I participated in — which I wrote about in “No Way Out” — was the latest evolution of how I seemed destined to further destroy myself.
Undoubtedly, I placed my last cell mate in a bad situation when the escape attempt took place. I didn’t consider how he and others might be affected, or contemplate the consequences I might face. I was enduring a tremendous amount of mental pain and stress. I wanted it to stop. Maybe it comes off as an excuse, but only those who’ve experienced the cloud in the mind, where every new sensory input requiring a decision only feels like unbearable oppression, can truly understand. Irregular sleep, uncontrollable mood shifts, and an overwhelming sense that the world would just be better off without me. Unless… unless I could accomplish this ONE thing. To make it a reality, no matter how unreasonable it might seem, would change everything, right? Right?
Two bullet wounds, sliced flesh from concertina wire, and a shredded ACL changed everything alright, but not for the better. What it did do is place me in a cell all by myself, which is when I learned what it really meant to be broken.
While the post-escape investigation took place, I was housed in a solitary cell on a Death Row pod for three days. It was a humbling experience, exposing me directly to the mirror of an alternate reality where death resided. One neighbor sent me coffee and tacos. Another made sure I had hygiene and writing supplies. They didn’t judge me, ask about my crime, or care about my race. My needs were apparent, and they simply addressed them, bringing tears to my eyes. It hurt me to be among them in ways I can’t express. Maybe one of the Texas Seven — who was on 2-Row — characterized it best when he said, “At least you’ll live to fight another day.”
Live. Fight. Another day. What was I living for? What was there to fight for? And another day of what? In the “Are You Hurt?” series, I wrote about my transition into Administration Segregation (now called Restrictive Housing). Back then, my ideas about living, fighting and getting through each day were wrapped in darkness. I had up to that point in my life done just about everything wrong. Contemplating a way forward, how to be better, or whether that was even possible was the crucible I had set myself up to endure.
Over fourteen years later, I sit here and remember when delusions polluted my mind, and all the work I’ve put into overcoming them. The area I’m living in is the exact same one I entered back in 2010. Different paint and smells and neighbors, but the same walls and cell numbers — the same haunted echoes of “Are You Hurt?”
To Be Continued…
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