Office Politics
Day 222 – Office Politics
Word is starting to spread to spread about the Blog, and guys are asking “Can I be in it?” which is sort of flattering. At the same time I am a little nervous that my honesty might come back to bite me, in case some of their friends on the outside read it on the Net and report back on what’s written. So I might be a little more general about certain things…. Nah… An unfettered press is one of the foundations or democracy, right? Although I can’t help remembering how the author of Peyton Place was a pariah after the book came out because everybody recognized themselves in it. Of course, that was before Jerry Springer. Nowadays, nobody cares about how they look as long as they get some attention. 15 minutes of fame and all that. Andy Warhol was a wise man
The latest twist in the Drama of the Incarcerated Gay Male is that inevitably it has been found out by the powers-that-be that my previous dorm before moving here was a Protective Custody dorm. I had gone there because where I was (that horror week in the tiers that was like old-movie prison) was simply not safe for an HIV+ gay man over 40. The mandatory workouts alone were heart attack-inducing, frankly. But in the dorm where they placed me, Birch Hall, there were several inmates who were fleeing drug debts they couldn’t pay, or who had dropped a kite (sent a letter) to the C.O.’s about knives their cellies were hiding (for example) that they did not want to take the fall for and risk seriously extending their stay. These poor guys were branded “snitches” and were afraid to go to Yard, and wary that every new admission in the dorm is really a “plant,” sent in to “stick” them.
So I was advised that when I got here, I never mention where I’d come from, lest it be assumed that I was also a “snitch.” But inevitably, the information leaked. Geez, I’m just trying to survive. God forbid the onus should be placed on those who hide and make weapons instead of those who want to stay out of trouble..
In level I yards (that’s to say, Minimum Security) there is still a prisoner hierarchy, even if is less strict and much less violent than the level IV (Maximum Security) yards. This was exemplified by yesterday’s blog entry, by the admonishments of “Tank..” I made Earl laugh by likening it to the Director of Human Resources calling you into his/her office to intervene in a situation that had “come to his/her attention;” from which you would leave not feeling particularly reassured by his/her reassurances. I guess “friendly warning” is the more appropriate oxymoron (accent on “moron”).
When I take a step back and look at the big picture, I see men in prison simply attempting to duplicate the maneuvers they would practice in an outside workplace; a post office, a warehouse, a wall street brokerage firm. They are jockeying for position, power, prestige, dominance, status. They are practicing office politics.
Well, I know a few things about office politics, having worked in offices for 20 years before veering off onto my wayward path. So I decided it was time to embark on a major charm offensive, armed with humor and shots of coffee. It’s a dicey thing—I’ve learned from the experience that no matter where you are, one must carefully lay the groundwork. As my father advised, “it’s all about positioning.” The wit must be spooned out at first, like sugar in tea; then you can graduate to dinner, and then ladle it out like a refreshing gazpacho. These are actually appropriate metaphors, because I’m finally being invited to join neighbors at chow, at dinner (yesterday) and breakfast (today).
What amazes me is how much gay-related humor straight men employ that I would never dare bandy about. However, once they open the door, it is permissible to follow up with a remark, preferable self-deprecating. (Last night it started with a crack about a buttered roll and ended with my retort about “cross-dressing” on the salad.) At the base of it all is an American society that still, after all these years, seems to simply be just so damn nervous about sex. American men, in particular, seem to make precious little progress from high school on. It’s all so silly that homosexuality should be treated any differently than left-handedness. As if the world could ever be harmed by more forms of love. New Yorker cartoons will probably beat me to it, but it will be interesting to see the first heterosexual couple who claims as ground for divorce the unrelenting strain created on their marriage by the happy lesbians around the corner who just tied the not.
I am also feeling completely conned by all of the supposed offers of work furlough/drug rehab/ early release programs. The doctor told me without a shred of doubt these programs were no longer available for the HIV + because of the difficulty of maintaining the necessary ongoing health care for them on the outside. This is hardly surprising, considering budget cuts, at the same time, the policy goes completely against the Americans with Disabilities Act. So Earl, who by the way, has become a great friend—he has this infectious giggle that alone is worth the price of admission—tells me that I can expect an offer of work furlough around one week before release. Technically, this gives the system a legal “out”. They operate fairly certain that any legal challenge is highly unlikely because very few prisoners have the resources to challenge them, and are released by the time any challenge would ever come to court. The ACLU needs plaintiffs to mount an action, but I’m no different than anyone else; once I get out I want to go on with my life. Besides, the whole process would just feel like putting, at best, a band-aid on a cancer-ridden patient.
MCO 2004
