This morning was occupied by a visit to the doctor’s office for a standard follow-up, but also one in which I hoped to discuss my aching arm. I stupidly did not bring a book, but this led to unexpected conversations with unexpected gratifications.
In prison, one often has the best encounters not with bunkies, or neighbors, but in transit, in holding tanks or in waiting rooms. Sort of like the conversations one has while traveling or on vacation out in the “real” world.
I had two conversations of note this morning. One was with a young, studly type about whom I’d entertained a fantasy or two, to be honest. His name is Robbie and although he was fairly well-tattooed, I hadn’t seen any gang insignias or a dreaded swastika. He was considerate too, when I introduced myself and extended my hand he apologized for not shaking back for he had a wicked cold and probably had all manner of transmissible fluids on his hands. He certainly sounded horribly congested, which is of course why he was seeing a doctor.
There are some people who like to be listened to and don’t need much prompting to talk. Robbie is one of them. He likes to be liked, and has learned, as far as prison personalities go, how to be likable. He started telling me, unprompted but for a question or two, about the trade of drugs and tobacco in prison beginning with his initial prison experience, 10 years ago, as a young 18 year old.
Robbie told me a few interesting stories, but what struck me was that none of them involved his life on the outside . I didn’t ask how long he’d been “down” but he mentioned extending , even doubling his stays in prison due to penalties on infractions committed while incarcerated. I suppose a large part of this reflects the impulsiveness of youth, the feeling that your life is where you are at the present, the inability to see the long term consequences of one’s immediate actions. But over time, I would say it also reflects a gradual shift in perception. These guys come to view their incarcerated life as their primary lives, and their time on the outside as their vacations, their parentheses from their “real” lives inside..
I am not the first one to observe this syndrome. It’s called institutionalization.
Later, when we were all forced to squat during a “Yard Down” alert, I had a second encounter with a guy I found myself sitting next to. He was a very affable older black guy nicknamed “Doc,” who told me he specialized in getting Motrins, Ibuprofens and the like for a fraction of the price it costs going through the prison infirmary. (The drugs are dispensed free, but the doctor visits themselves cost a whopping $5.00 deducted from one’s canteen account. I can afford the expense, but many can’t. Such is the third-world economy that is prison.)
“Doc” and I bonded almost immediately. I don’t know why. We each just recognized another who looked at The Big Picture. I couldn’t even reconstruct the brief conversation that led up to this, but he told me: “There’s a lot of angry people here. Most of them because they don’t know who they are. They don’t know who they daddy is and a lot of them they don’t know who they momma is neither. I had this girl on the streets, her momma left her in the hospital when she was on crack, and this girl cried and cried in my arms and said to me: ‘I don’t even know who I am, I don’t even know who I am.’”
Doc and I talked about a few other things in the next 15 minutes and I couldn't help but think how many people could not find, as I do, their identity in the hearts and minds of those who love them, because they had so few who loved them in the first place. Instead I just said to Doc: “You’re right, you’re absolutely right,” because he was and because with all my educated ability to articulate, I couldn’t have said it any better.
I actually never saw the doctor, we had to return to the dorm for count and must request another visit. So I think I’ll have to search out “Doc” and trade a soup for an ibuprofen.
But first I wrote this poem:
Here
Here’s to all the babies
Who get left in cribs alone
Who cry for hours
The saddest of songs.
Here’s to all the toddlers
Who get slapped and snapped at,
Instead of missed and kissed.
Here’s to all the kids
In foster homes or juvies,
Who end up in prison
Or mental hospitals,
Behind bars
Or drinking at them.
Here’s to all the people who don’t know who they are
Who don’t know how to say:
“I am in so much pain,”
Except on Jerry Springer or Cops,
Screaming at a uniform.
Here’s to all the guards
Who should be teaching,
To all the dealers,
Who should be healing.
Here’s to building schools
With walls that support hope
Instead of enclose it.
Here’s to a world
Too full of jails,
Of injured men
With tortured tales.
Here’s to making here, there,
And then, there, a place farther away.
Here’s to me, here’s to you,
Here’s to being heard.
MCO 2004
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