October 17

Ten Pounds in a Five-Pound Bag

Power is gained by sharing stories, not hoarding them. Click away...Share on FacebookTweet about this on Twitter
Share on LinkedInEmail this to someonePin on PinterestPrint this pageShare on TumblrShare on Reddit


Prison is just society’s colostomy bag. People who’ve never been here, who live relatively successful lives, survive life’s peristalsis, moved along by the muscular contractions of education, work, marriage and offspring until they get pushed out life’s back end. Prisoners can’t even make it to the ass. Some authority siphons us away so that it can house all of the turds together.

Improvements to the bag don’t change its appeal. Any wearer wants to lose the bag, sew up his wounds and sit regally on the toilet like everyone else.

The United States Supreme Court’s recent ruling in Brown v. Plata that Yes, Governor Brown, you must empty your colostomy bag by at least 10,000 prisoners revealed something I never knew. In order for a prison to be considered officially, legally overcrowded, it has to be filled to 137.5% capacity. One-hundred and one percent, 110%, 125% – not overcrowded. You can’t fit ten pounds of shit into a 5-pound bag, but apparently you can squeeze in 6.875 pounds. Who knew?

This is a “boat” or “canoe,” as inmates call them. When a prison is overcrowded, these are placed on open floor space as beds. This one happens to be upside-down.

We get overcrowded here now and again. But maybe we don’t. The population is about 1000 women, so to be overcrowded we’d have to have approximately an extra 375 inmates. I don’t think we’ve had that many extra bodies, so I guess we’ve never been officially overcrowded. Maybe we’ve had 40 people in “boats” in the gym, perhaps 20 more in these makeshift beds in the medical unit. I know this only because I had to pack and deliver their meals from Main Dining and everyone called the people I was delivering to “overflow.”

I’ve never had to face our unofficial overcrowding myself as I’ve always had a dedicated bed. I really resent that I should be grateful for something that’s ruined my life: permanent, undeniable inclusion in a prison population.

No one wants a colostomy bag. Aside from the odor, the wearer has to watch his waste come out of him, a gruesome sight by itself but also a reminder that his body isn’t working. He’s sick. In the same way, the best prison is an empty prison, one that’s been drained by completed sentences and true rehabilitation. One that was never needed would’ve been better, but society’s sick.

This might just be a numbers game. York might have been designed to house 750 women and they just keep bumping up the capacity, buying bigger bags to show that we’re not too full. Maybe I’ve been living in overcrowded conditions since I got here – I came in when Governor Rell remanded all parolees after the Cheshire murders – and everything I see as unacceptable and just a part of ‘regular prison life’ – (stuff like bad medical care) – is just a part of ‘overcrowded prison life.’

Maybe conditions are different, livable, comprehensible when fewer women are here. Maybe we have less recidivism when the population is what it’s supposed to be and the colostomy bag doesn’t balloon and backup.

And that green thing has become someone’s living quarters. Welcome to my house.

What is the safest number of people in a certain area? Do we even know? A prison, by its nature, overcrowds itself. People were meant to live in community, but not so many people in a proscribed area. Even if the challenges of early civilization required people to gather closely to protect themselves and sustain the human race, I doubt they defecated two feet away from someone else’s head like we do in these cells. Maybe they did. Maybe they were into that.

But a modern society, one benefitting from social science research and PhD dissertations spread out across the land on the effects of overcrowding, that continues to pack human beings and their bodies into small spaces it gutless. Hence the bag and the presence in it that makes them waste, on display.

Whenever we have women sleeping in the canoes in the gym, rumors spread: “They need to get 200 people out by March” – “Warden has to approve 300 people for T.S. [transitional supervision or short-term parole] before November 1st” – “At least 150 have to be out by July or we get fined.”

“The state will fine itself? We’re not under any reduction order or anything. No one can do anything to York [CI] for not letting people out. Who’s going to fine us? ” I ask when they dump this crap on my lap.

And they always answer the same way, because they realize the rules governing their bodies are elastic and stretch to meet agendas that aren’t their own:




Republican Presidential Candidate Donald Trump unloaded a drug reform plan in New Hampshire on Saturday which kind of isn’t a plan. He will  stop drugs from coming into the United States by implementing his immigration plan, getting Mexico to gift us a southern border wall and closing shipping loopholes. He also promised to get the Food and Drug Administration to approve drugs that prevent abuse – like Vivitrol –  more quickly, ignoring the fact that we have these drugs now, they’re just too expensive for widespread use. He also said both candidates should be drug-tested. Donald, if Hillary is as crooked as you say, then she knows how to beat the piss-test. Do you?

An inmate in a federal facility in Beaumont, Texas has refused the clemency granted to him by President Obama because it required him to move into a residential drug treatment program before his release. Arnold Ray Jones figures he’ll be released 8 months later than Obama’s scheduled release date when he gets “good time” – time off for good behavior – applied to the end of his sentence.  The exact reason for rejecting the clemency is unknown – people speculate that it’s because he thinks drug treatment is a waste of time (I say it’s because he prefers his prison job to a bunch of group therapy situations). No matter what his reason is, this guy’s got guts. I think he’ll be okay, regardless of when he gets out.

Every 25 seconds someone is arrested for drug possession in the United States according to a report released on Wednesday by Human Rights Watch. Chew on that.



What do you think of this post?
  • Awesome (0)
  • Interesting (1)
  • Useful (0)
  • Boring (0)
  • Sucks (0)
Power is gained by sharing stories, not hoarding them. Click away...Share on FacebookTweet about this on Twitter
Share on LinkedInEmail this to someonePin on PinterestPrint this pageShare on TumblrShare on Reddit
October 10


Power is gained by sharing stories, not hoarding them. Click away...Share on FacebookTweet about this on Twitter
Share on LinkedInEmail this to someonePin on PinterestPrint this pageShare on TumblrShare on Reddit

vagina-flower-photo_burned-2The word “bitch” has lost all its sting in a prison.   Even “cunt” doesn’t cut it anymore. The verbal gauntlet for me?  The P-word:  “pussy.”

I’ve always hated the word “pu**y” – along with its wrapper, the word “panties.” They always sounded like something an aging, perverted chiropractor would say to a female patient as he convinced her to don a paper gown for an adjustment that could be done through her cable-knit J. Crew sweater. I doubt many chiropractors used the word to patients since it isn’t the target of treatment, but the image endures. To me, the words “pu**y” and “panties” are used only by people who shouldn’t be allowed inside either one.

In here there’s no other word for vagina except “pu**y.” Even when the C/O’s taunt an inmate that her “man” is probably cheating on her, they don’t say he’s getting laid, they say he’s getting pu**y. I think everyone in here’s been convinced that it’s a clinical term.

In the hallway of the medical building, Dr. Fetal Pig was instructing someone who works in Food Prep with me to avoid using commissary soap to wash her private parts – HIPAA and any common law respect for medical privacy be damned – when I walked past.

“It’s a self-cleaning oven,” the physician advised. “You don’t need more than water.”

“If you think that, then your pu**y must really stink,” the inmate said, thinking she was a polite patient.

“Can you not use that word?” I asked her when we got back to Food Prep.

“What word?”

“The P-word. You know…” I looked around. “Pu**y.”

“What’s wrong with pu**y?” She looked at me like I asked her not to say “is.”

“It’s, you know, derogatory.” Ever heard of another P-word? Propriety?

“What the fuck is that?” she asked.

“Never mind.”  I let it go.

I can run any number of theories on why inmates talk about their genitals so much and use the word “pu**y” to do it. They’re undereducated so they don’t know the difference between slang and acceptable language. High school science programs are on the wane so they’ve never heard biological terms. They like sounding irreverent.

They use “pu**y” because they’ve internalized the misogyny around them along with the most common word they’ve heard to reference their genitals. They become obsessed with what’s between their legs from living in here where a shower is never guaranteed.  When you haven’t washed and you start to waft, the essence of your femininity becomes your problem, not what you did or what was done to you. Your hole becomes your Achilles heel.

Of course, that’s how it is for many women, whether they bear an inmate number or not. But women on the outside aren’t psychotic about washing away their scent. Anyone who thinks cats dislike and avoid water should head in here, where someone’s constantly dunking one and trying to drown it.

Women on the inside go to great lengths to make sure they have no smell at all, which is impossible. They pour empty Fluff containers filled with soapy water on themselves on the toilet to wash after they’ve showered. Rub solid deodorant on between their legs. It isn’t primping. It’s pathology, in response to feeling dirty, being called dirty, being dirtied by men in the past.

I like to be clean, too and I have never smelled as bad or as often as I have in here. But I also like to exist. Sometimes the only way I’m sure I still do is my filth.

“I hate being a woman!” my roommate shouted from the toilet. She actually asked one of the inmate janitors for contraband bleach to use on her vagina. I motioned to the janitor from behind her to ignore the request.

“You know your scent is how you attract men. It’s called pheromones,” I tell her. Another P-word. Explain to her how Napoleon wrote to Josephine to tell her to stop bathing before he got home.

“Who’s Josephine? She on this tier?” she asks in all seriousness, furiously scouring her crotch. “I wish I could wash away my pu**y!” She almost has.

“You’re wasting your time washing away what makes you human, a woman,” I advise her. “This place will do a bang up job on that without your help.” Another P-word: punishment.

Pussy. Panties. Perverted. Pig. Privacy. Polite. Patient. Propriety. Problem. Psychotic. Primping. Pathology. Pheromones. Place. Punishment.





HUGE BUST: Eighty people took a collar – including 18 guards and 35 inmates – in a corruption probe into a Maryland prison that found C/O’s were arranging to smuggle contraband like opiate-substitute Suboxone and cell phones from outside. The C/O’s then tried to get inmates to stab other inmates who reported the ring. I am floored.  – Only 80 people?

HUGE LIST: 102 more sentence commutations by President Barack Obama. It fits. First black president frees the second largest number of people in history, after Abraham Lincoln.

HUGE HIT: Ava DuVernay’s documentary “13th” premiered to the public on Friday on Netflix. Two things I learned from the film: 1) the Ku Klux Klan never used burning crosses until the movie “Birth of a Nation” used one as a cinematic device; and 2) getting arrested at civil rights rallies was never a by-product or accident of the protest. It was the purpose, black people’s meeting their worst fear: being arrested by white people. It’s a worthy watch. I thought I knew most of the history of incarceration but I don’t. Also, the juxtaposition of clips of Trump supporters beating black protesters with clips from years ago of mobs beating up black men says too much about this election.

What do you think of this post?
  • Awesome (2)
  • Interesting (1)
  • Useful (0)
  • Boring (0)
  • Sucks (0)
Power is gained by sharing stories, not hoarding them. Click away...Share on FacebookTweet about this on Twitter
Share on LinkedInEmail this to someonePin on PinterestPrint this pageShare on TumblrShare on Reddit
October 3

Power of One

Power is gained by sharing stories, not hoarding them. Click away...Share on FacebookTweet about this on Twitter
Share on LinkedInEmail this to someonePin on PinterestPrint this pageShare on TumblrShare on Reddit


“Did you see that R.M. is back?” another inmate asked me.  R.M. was one of my roommates in 2008.

Then I remember why I started a list of all my cellmates/cube-mates back in 2008. The reason for the list mirrored my view of my departure. At first I just wanted to remember their names because I thought I was leaving any day in 2008; I would send them cards as they wasted in jail. They left before I did.

Then I thought I might need their names as witnesses when I thought I might sue this shithouse back in 2009.

Then I knew I would need their names for fact-checkers for a future memoir when Orange Is the New Black came out in 2010.

Then I grudgingly accepted that I needed their names to track their movement in and out of the facility if I was going to convince anyone that recidivism is out of control and we need reform. I realized that only someone in prison would understand the truth behind reported recidivism rates; they range from 50 to 66 percent around the country.  Those numbers emerge at the far end of Mark Twain’s spectrum of falsehood as lying statistics. I’ve lived with 114 cellmates so far.  Eleven remain here; they never left.  Seventy-one have cycled through.  That’s a real recidivism rate of 69%; 70% with R.M. on the scene.

Translucence is overtaking the paper from the moisture on my skin from the number of times I’ve handled it.

Then I told Ms. D, the counselor, about the study when we waited silently in her office for a fax.

“The recidivism rate is much higher here than is reported.” She would understand. She has master’s degrees in forensic something on her walls.”I’m conducting my own recidivism study, using my assigned cellmates as the study sample.”

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” She wasn’t angry, but incredulous.

“Well, it won’t be replicable and certainly won’t have any statistical significance, but I want to document what’s happening,” I conceded. She looked at me like I was the inmate who had just been digging in the carcass of a dead bird she found in the garden. Disgusted by the unfathomable.

Then a woman here told me to react to to abusive guards’  insults and humiliation with politeness. “Kill ’em with kindness,” she said in justification. I think this is bad advice. I’m sure someone here has a gun or a chainsaw at home she nicknamed “Kindness” and she’ll really do it.

Then I remembered prosecutor character, Jerry Kramer, in Tom Wolfe’s A Bonfire of the Vanities called crime’s eternal parade “The Chow,” the human flesh that grinds through the criminal justice system.

So I suggested an alternative.

“Deny them the target.  Starve the system. Just don’t come back.”

Then she looked at me like I’ve suggested the impossible and told me:

“J.P. just came back from a halfway house.”

71 percent on white

Then I watched that filthy, forlorn parade of tight skinny jeans and glitter T-shirts snake its way into the prison and recognize many faces from living with them and modern correction strikes me as internally inconsistent; if wardens and guards do their jobs and successfully rehabilitate women, then the lack of returning inmates – the recidivists, the ones who boomerang back inside after they leave to constitute the majority of the general population – will put them out of business.

“Did you see A.L.?  She’s here but she might bond out.”  A.L. split in April 2009.

72 percent on white

Then, as I await transport to court one morning, my soft parts static against a metal bench, I realize that rehabilitation is largely mortician’s work:  the job only begins after the stiffs land on your doorstep and then what do we expect to be done with them?  It would be much easier and more efficient to prevent crime in the first place but zero percent of people want to do that.

Then a voice came from below the bench, a woman, bent over, rolling up too-long pants.

Hey, weren’t you my roommate?”  It’s R.T.  Same cube in the dorms.

73 percent on white

Then she went to court with me and, when we returned, V.O., another of our roommates from South Dorm in 2008, sat in lockup. Came back to Niantic with us.

74 percent on white

Then I saw P.G. and C.J.’s names on the “move list” on the officers’ desk the day after my court trip.

76 percent on white

Then I decided that I am almost starting to enjoy this study, the fact that I’m documenting trends no one else has. I predict high eighties by the time I leave, even 90’s, which are numbers I’ve loved since high school. This endeavor tickles me a bit too much and I think it’s because I’m now seeing the other women as less than human. It was too much for me to see women rebounding from reentry so often and so quickly. The flow of failure tells me too much about my chances when I leave here; the commentary that recidivism provides on human potential is devastating. Prison is the real Hotel California. Check out. Never leave.

So I have conveniently reduced them to numbers to numb myself to the fact that prison for any amount of time is probably a life sentence.

Then S.D., my cellmate from 3 South, came back and moved onto the tier.  While she dragged garbage bags into cell E3, I asked her what she thought because she’s bright, a former nurse who’s decade-long downward spiral was started off by a drug addict husband who had her stealing narcotics from her work for him until the D.E.A. caught on. She agrees with me. The study makes my peers subjects rather than real people and this is how I’m getting though my sentence.

“Don’t ever think you don’t matter S.D.. You make difference in my life,” I told her and it sounded like I was thanking her for listening to my theory on how recidivism has calcified my soul, but then I realized I meant it in terms of percentages. She just bumped my study numbers up one notch. 77




The Pennsylvania Supreme Court held that “county governments have a constitutional responsibility to provide counsel to poor criminal defendants and ensure that their defense is adequately funded.”  Define adequate, people. To provide decent representation, you’re looking at 5 times the current cost. I wonder if Pennsylvania’s Supreme Court would have decided the case this way if they knew how much money was actually in play. This isn’t a situation where another ten million dollars will solve it. The truth is that we can’t afford to prosecute as many people as we do.

The Department of Justice’s Office of the Inspector General released a report this week on the Drug Enforcement Agency’s use of confidential informants. It’s  An example: one confidential informant was paid over $400,000 for information even after

Instead of taking a knee or standing up, Green Bay Packer Ha Ha Clinton-Dix took a seat…in class. He re-enrolled at the University of Alabama to complete a degree in criminal justice as his answer to the growing problem of police brutality. Refreshing.





What do you think of this post?
  • Awesome (0)
  • Interesting (1)
  • Useful (0)
  • Boring (1)
  • Sucks (0)
Power is gained by sharing stories, not hoarding them. Click away...Share on FacebookTweet about this on Twitter
Share on LinkedInEmail this to someonePin on PinterestPrint this pageShare on TumblrShare on Reddit
September 26

In Low Places

Power is gained by sharing stories, not hoarding them. Click away...Share on FacebookTweet about this on Twitter
Share on LinkedInEmail this to someonePin on PinterestPrint this pageShare on TumblrShare on Reddit

Orange Is The New Black S4

The Parole-Officer-In-Residence was giving a speech to people who were supposed to be going in front of the parole board soon. I have no idea why I was included in the group. I missed work for it and everything.

“You can’t make friends in jail. Don’t make friends in here. Imma tell you a story. Once there was an inmate, a young man, and he left jail and he was doin’ good, doin’ real good, got a job, an apartment, and a car. His own car! One day he ran into another inmate who just got out and that inmate asked him for a ride around the corner.”

Insert a dramatic enough pause for anyone listening to know that the ride wasn’t just around the corner. She continued:

Unequal standing.

“So he decided ‘This guy was my friend inside, so I’ll help him out’ and he drove him. Do you wanna know that the man who just got out went and killed somebody and the boy who drove him went back for being an accomplice for murder. That’s why I tell people when they parole ‘Don’t make any friends in jail. Leave them here.'”

I decided to leave her there. I handed her the intro paper.

“Thank you for this, but I’m not going to parole.” I should have added:  “But don’t worry, I can’t make friends in here so I’ll be okay.

The difference between me and the others is palpable to almost everyone. Being different in some prisons can get you killed, but when you’re different because you know the Hôtel de Crillon in Paris the way the other inmates know the Department of Social Services, it gets you alone.

I don’t speak like the other inmates (aside from avoiding the N word, I use verbs; other inmates drop them to say things like “Michael Jackson dead,” “Brianna pregnant” or “the warden corny”). I don’t look like the other inmates; overtweezed brows sit in semicircle at the tops of faces with few teeth. Dentition separates me. The others get pissed when I point this out.

I don’t know anything about this, still. Never asked.

I know different things (that the word ‘supposedly’ doesn’t contain the letter ‘b’ and toxic shock syndrome doesn’t entail electricity). And I don’t know different things (Like what a 2.8 is – a weight of crack cocaine – and that there are ten bags of heroin in a bundle and ten bundles in a stack). I’ve never been in a fight and, quite frankly, had no clue what I’d do if and when violence opportuned itself. Best advice: “Karate chop to the neck, kick to the groin and then scratch her face.” I never knew.

To say that I’m better than the other inmates? That isn’t true. To say that I’m just like them? That’s a lie.

And most of them know it, too. The differences pop out in questions and fascination that turns me into an exhibit.

Friends and family plan in jail.

“You ever live in a motel?”


“You got a license for a car?”

“You mean to drive? Yes.”

“You ever been on Food Stamps? Your fridge always stocked up, I bet.”

“No… I guess.”

“What kinda car you drive?”


“Your family decorate their house all nice, Victorian and shit up in there?”


Still, I call them friends and they return the label. I get along with the other prisoners; I’d even say I have the least conflict with others of all the long-termers. I get one or two letters from departing buddies, but not more than that. And that’s why the term friend gets redefined for me in here. The only thing over which I can relate to other women over is this place and the fact that we’re both here at the same time.


I bond with them when I’m drowning and whirling in melodramatic victimization, thinking that my life is harder than other prisoners’ paths. I can connect with them only when I go to some low places, emotional nadirs. If friendship must be borne of equal standing, it’s the only way I can get there.

Sure, I wasn’t denied much of anything in my life but I know what it’s like to feel pressured to live up to impossible standards or be told that nothing I did was good enough. And I have been berated by an alcoholic father and a co-dependent mother. All of my dysfunction happened like it was in a snow globe: encased, unreachable, looking pretty and serene to people outside it when, really, someone shook up my world all the time. I’ve been through a lot of shit, too, you know! More than you! Only when I start thinking this way can I feel like I’m not unreachable in here.

But if I count my blessings and humble myself, I end up valuing my sociological singleness a little too much and my feelings for the other women draw a little too close to pity.  Sympathy brings distance. If it doesn’t, then it’s empathy. And if I empathize with them, then I have to admit that I’m like them. When I’m not. Except for the times that I am, like when I’m here.

Later that night, hours after the parole officer’s order to stop and drop your friends, we cleaned our cells, propping open our doors for sweeping and mopping.  I pulled down the book wedged in my doorway.


A library’s worth of literature has been destroyed in this prison because women cram books between the corners of the cell doors and the jambs to keep them open. It was a scholastic Webster’s, one with red linen covers that had been ripped off through years of cell cleaning, not overuse by injuring inmates. This is another thing that separates me from the others: I think books are for reading. That’s the last thing that so many of the others will do with them.

“You can’t use a dirty T-shirt or something else? You’re destroying and ripping the cover of …what is this?…The Secret Lives of Bees. You’re ruining the bees’ secret lives. You are killing the bees,”  I told the first cellmate who did it in front of me. She didn’t care about the bees, the book or bond that we could never have.

Orange Is The New Black S4

I might have looked up ‘amity’ or ‘unity’ but those letters had fallen away from the dictionary due to repetitive cell cleaning. I was lucky to find ‘F’ intact to look up ‘friendship.’ I won’t even say how bad my life must be that I had to look up this word at age 38 and get pissed off when I found: “the state of being friends.”

Up a few lines, ‘friend’ informed me that the women I called friends were people “whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection.” Basically, someone you know and like – and who likes you back – is your friend.

But that’s not true. Friendship is more than affection because, face it, that shit’s temporary, much like my time at York CI. Look at the parole officer’s story. The guy with the car – his own car! – had affection for the dude who went and killed someone, and the killer dude probably had affection for him, at least at one point, but I can’t say they were really friends because true friends don’t bring you to low places even if that’s the only place where you connect. Not just for their sake, but for yours, prison friends have to leave each other behind, leave each other here. Only the disconnect can save you both.



After police shootings in Tulsa, Oklahoma and Charlotte, North Carolina, one city stayed calm and the other exploded. The difference between the two cities? Accountability. A Tulsa sheriff who shot a someone when mistaking his firearm for his taser gun was convicted of second-degree manslaughter and sentenced to four years in prison this summer whereas the trial of a Charlotte-Mecklenburg police officer Randall Kerrik for shooting football player Jonathan Ferrell ended in a hung jury last year. Look at what this means if you follow the logic of the situation: an effective way of keeping the peace is prosecuting and incarcerating police who engage in brutality. An effective way of keeping the peace is putting more people in prison. I am not sure I like that.

The Supporting Youth Opportunity and Preventing Delinquency Act of 2016 passed the House of Representatives by a vote of 382-29 on Thursday. It’s a proposed retooling of the Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention Act, which was first passed in 1974. Florida Republican Representative Carlos Corbel’s bill promotes “trauma-informed” care for at-risk children and their families, which means it can actually work.

Fusion reported that Michael Leatherwood, an inmate at Lawton Correctional Facility in Oklahoma, a private facility, is successfully suing the prison for disproportionate pricing of commissary items in private prisons as opposed to the state’s public facilities. For instance, the much revered chili-flavored ramen soup is $0.26 in public prisons but a whopping $0.60 in private ones. The fact that any pro se inmate litigation can still proceed now that the Prison Litigation Reform Act is in effect is astounding, but Leatherwood pulled off a real coup; on May 12, 2016 he deposed his own warden in the prison’s visiting room about the price differences, which are approved by prison administration.  Prison strike supporters take note: this is how you effect change. Kudos to Inmate Leatherwood. The report can be found here.


What do you think of this post?
  • Awesome (3)
  • Interesting (0)
  • Useful (0)
  • Boring (0)
  • Sucks (1)
Power is gained by sharing stories, not hoarding them. Click away...Share on FacebookTweet about this on Twitter
Share on LinkedInEmail this to someonePin on PinterestPrint this pageShare on TumblrShare on Reddit
September 19

See How They Run

Power is gained by sharing stories, not hoarding them. Click away...Share on FacebookTweet about this on Twitter
Share on LinkedInEmail this to someonePin on PinterestPrint this pageShare on TumblrShare on Reddit














A. CODE PURPLE                                 ____ 0 M.P.H.  Always simulated. Thank God.

B. CODE BLUE                              ____ 8-12 M.P.H., panicking, hyperventilating, often
(INMATE FIGHT/ALTERCATION)              crying.

C. CODE GREEN                           ____ Never seen one. Stopped at ORANGE.

D. CODE YELLOW                         ____ “I don’t run no matter what color they are.”

E. CODE ORANGE                         ____ 8-11 M.P.H., unrelenting waves of guards 
(ASSAULT ON D.O.C.                             inundate the area, each additional one is
PERSONNEL)                                        useless, waiting to who gets dragged out.

F. CODE RED                                 ____ 2 M.P.H. Circles, back-forth-back, shrugging.

G. CODE WHITE                            ____ 5.5 M.P.H. One from every unit because
(MEDICAL EMERGENCY)                        someone needs to bring the camera.

H. CORRECTION OFFICER              ____ 3 M.P.H. Except for guard who sprints from  
(250 lbs.)                                             Disciplinary Board, beating everyone else.




The country’s largest prison strike has turned to riots and it was revealed on Friday that a correction officer at William C. Holman Correctional Center in Alabama was stabbed – before the strike – and died. Tell me again how prisoner insurrection is about solidarity. That’s like saying gang rape is good teamwork.

Washington University in Saint Louis, Missouri released study results that demonstrate the total cost of incarceration for one year –  when we figure in social costs like lost wages ($70 billion), reduced earrings of formerly incarcerated persons ($230 billion), shortened life spans ($63 billion) increased crime ($285 billion) and other costs – is one trillion dollars.

Jay-Z released a video about the war on drugs. Nice effort, but the reports about how many people with drug convictions fill our prisons and jails are wrong. Read why here.










A. CODE PURPLE  (SUICIDE/ATTEMPTED SUICIDE) – 8-12 M.P.H., panicking, hyperventilating, often crying.

B. CODE BLUE (INMATE FIGHT/ALTERCATION)  – One from every building because someone needs to bring the camera.

C. CODE GREEN (ESCAPE/ATTEMPTED ESCAPE) – 2 M.P.H. Circle, back-forth-back, shrugging.

D. CODE YELLOW (HOSTAGE TAKING) – Never seen one. Always stopped at ORANGE.

E. CODE ORANGE (ASSAULT ON D.O.C. PERSONNEL) – 8-11 M.P.H. Unrelenting waves of guards inundate the area, each additional one is useless, waiting to who gets dragged out.

F. CODE RED (FIRE) – 0 M.P.H. Always simulated. Thank God.

G. CODE WHITE (MEDICAL EMERGENCY) – 3 M.P.H. Except for guard who sprints from Disciplinary Board, beating everyone else.

H. CORRECTION OFFICER (250 lbs.) – “I don’t run no matter what color they are.”



What do you think of this post?
  • Awesome (2)
  • Interesting (0)
  • Useful (0)
  • Boring (1)
  • Sucks (0)
Power is gained by sharing stories, not hoarding them. Click away...Share on FacebookTweet about this on Twitter
Share on LinkedInEmail this to someonePin on PinterestPrint this pageShare on TumblrShare on Reddit