The American Jail System
Prompted by my most recent stint in jail, I have decided to narrate my previous two jail experiences:
The first was when I was 19. I had just moved from the country. I had gotten mixed up with the first girl who was agressive enough to get my clumsy ass into a situation with her -- a 32 year old mexicana woman. We proceeded to drive each other crazy, if for no other reason than we simply were coming from too different perspectives. Our arguments were legendary. Once, while screaming at each other, the living room window fan -- one of those big, flat square ones -- decided to make a suicide jump. Before God, I swear neither of us touched it. We stopped mid-sentence, hearing the window screen ripping and popping off the window. We turned to see the fan disappearing from our second-story apartment. Problem: The power cord. Instead of hitting the ground, the fan proceeded to tarzan itself straight through our first story neighbor's living room window. I had to knock on his door and see him standing amidst broken glass everywhere and our fan on his coffee table. Can you imagine?
Anyway, it is my first trip to the slammer that I most regret, for no matter how I tell the story, I was wrong. You see, in an argument, I slapped her. That is wrong. There really is never a circumstance where this is necessary. Curiously though, this was in Pasadena and I spent the least amount of time in the tank for this offense. They just booked me, printed me, took mug shots, and I set me in a six by six cell for a good couple of hours. Then they let me go.
My next offense was in the state of Washington, travelling from Montana to Seattle. My buddy was driving well over 80 and I was smoking weed. We got pulled over, I panicked and overtly stashed my stuff. The officer saw me, searched us, found everything, and gave me court date. The laws for possession in that state are manditory: 2 days in the slammer.
This was my first actual jail experience. I was given an orange outfit and put in the actual jail, where there were about 40 other dudes, living on bunk-beds, watching TV endlessly. The most happy any of them ever got was when they were selected for labor, cause that meant they could leave that damn room.
I was given a cot because all the bunks were already full. This got me cred from the other boys, because how shitty is that? I'm in jail and they don't even give me a bunk?
Everyone expects that you pretty much get raped in jail. I don't know about that, but I can say, one way or another, you get screwed. Here's what it is: With 40 dudes in a room, living together, you can be damn sure the alpha-male strategies are in full-effect. If you are the new guy, you aren't worth the trouble of any of the big dogs, unless of course you ask for it. So it's the guys on the very bottom who are interested in you. A new cat is a way for them to rank just that much higher. Nobody else even wants to talk to you.
So, here's what happened: The Jailer rolls a big mopping/cleaning/trash-can deal into the room and then skidattles. The guys all kinda shuffle around, like, okay, who's gonna clean the fucking bathroom and mop the floor? This jail is dirty as hell, so maybe nobody normally does it? One of the low guys on the totem pole points at the bucket and tells me to clean the bathroom and shower.
Many years later as I reflect on this, and also knowing that I caught something from that jail that made me sick for over two months -- indeed nearly killed me -- I see clearly that by cleaning the bathroom, I became the lowest-ranked bitch. If I'd spent more time in that jail, it probably wouldn't have gone well for me. After all, I am a pretty androgenous guy anyway. My ass probably would have worked real fine as a substitute. Jesus.
That may be the case, but at the same time, my Momma taught me good. So I felt bad for all those guys in there. If you go to jail, you can SEE the injustice of it. You recognize people you have known, mixed up in trouble that has been judged and sentenced by some guy in a black robe. Beyond that subtle perception, there is also the issue of race. Out in the country of Washington state there are a lot more white folks these days than colored folks. But if that jail was any indication, white people don't commit crimes, cause most of them were native americans and latinos. I could see this and I felt compassion.
The fact that I scrubbed their fucking bathroom, every inch of it, left all those boys basically speechless. They knew I was only in there for two days. And when I was done, walked out, and looked around the room, I realized that was my test: Little white boy like me -- they wanted to know if I was the type of guy who thought he was too good to be in jail? If so, then holy shit, I guess they might've felt I needed a lesson in reality.
My most recent stint in jail was, uhm, two days ago. This time I was in Los Angeles Central Jail. I was arrested for being Nude in Public. Why was I naked in public? To understand you must fully understand these two words: Consecrated liberation. If you cannot fathom performing an act consciously and ceremonially that liberates you from fear, then you cannot understand why I would do something like this.
Notwithstanding, I have realized due to the burden it has put on both sides of my family that my act was outrageously selfish. I did not deeply enough consider the consequences or the embarressment it would cause my wife, parents, and relatives. So ironically, in freeing myself from one ball and chain, I have created a new one for myself. ahhhh. I will apologize more directly when the time arrives.
The first was when I was 19. I had just moved from the country. I had gotten mixed up with the first girl who was agressive enough to get my clumsy ass into a situation with her -- a 32 year old mexicana woman. We proceeded to drive each other crazy, if for no other reason than we simply were coming from too different perspectives. Our arguments were legendary. Once, while screaming at each other, the living room window fan -- one of those big, flat square ones -- decided to make a suicide jump. Before God, I swear neither of us touched it. We stopped mid-sentence, hearing the window screen ripping and popping off the window. We turned to see the fan disappearing from our second-story apartment. Problem: The power cord. Instead of hitting the ground, the fan proceeded to tarzan itself straight through our first story neighbor's living room window. I had to knock on his door and see him standing amidst broken glass everywhere and our fan on his coffee table. Can you imagine?
Anyway, it is my first trip to the slammer that I most regret, for no matter how I tell the story, I was wrong. You see, in an argument, I slapped her. That is wrong. There really is never a circumstance where this is necessary. Curiously though, this was in Pasadena and I spent the least amount of time in the tank for this offense. They just booked me, printed me, took mug shots, and I set me in a six by six cell for a good couple of hours. Then they let me go.
My next offense was in the state of Washington, travelling from Montana to Seattle. My buddy was driving well over 80 and I was smoking weed. We got pulled over, I panicked and overtly stashed my stuff. The officer saw me, searched us, found everything, and gave me court date. The laws for possession in that state are manditory: 2 days in the slammer.
This was my first actual jail experience. I was given an orange outfit and put in the actual jail, where there were about 40 other dudes, living on bunk-beds, watching TV endlessly. The most happy any of them ever got was when they were selected for labor, cause that meant they could leave that damn room.
I was given a cot because all the bunks were already full. This got me cred from the other boys, because how shitty is that? I'm in jail and they don't even give me a bunk?
Everyone expects that you pretty much get raped in jail. I don't know about that, but I can say, one way or another, you get screwed. Here's what it is: With 40 dudes in a room, living together, you can be damn sure the alpha-male strategies are in full-effect. If you are the new guy, you aren't worth the trouble of any of the big dogs, unless of course you ask for it. So it's the guys on the very bottom who are interested in you. A new cat is a way for them to rank just that much higher. Nobody else even wants to talk to you.
So, here's what happened: The Jailer rolls a big mopping/cleaning/trash-can deal into the room and then skidattles. The guys all kinda shuffle around, like, okay, who's gonna clean the fucking bathroom and mop the floor? This jail is dirty as hell, so maybe nobody normally does it? One of the low guys on the totem pole points at the bucket and tells me to clean the bathroom and shower.
Many years later as I reflect on this, and also knowing that I caught something from that jail that made me sick for over two months -- indeed nearly killed me -- I see clearly that by cleaning the bathroom, I became the lowest-ranked bitch. If I'd spent more time in that jail, it probably wouldn't have gone well for me. After all, I am a pretty androgenous guy anyway. My ass probably would have worked real fine as a substitute. Jesus.
That may be the case, but at the same time, my Momma taught me good. So I felt bad for all those guys in there. If you go to jail, you can SEE the injustice of it. You recognize people you have known, mixed up in trouble that has been judged and sentenced by some guy in a black robe. Beyond that subtle perception, there is also the issue of race. Out in the country of Washington state there are a lot more white folks these days than colored folks. But if that jail was any indication, white people don't commit crimes, cause most of them were native americans and latinos. I could see this and I felt compassion.
The fact that I scrubbed their fucking bathroom, every inch of it, left all those boys basically speechless. They knew I was only in there for two days. And when I was done, walked out, and looked around the room, I realized that was my test: Little white boy like me -- they wanted to know if I was the type of guy who thought he was too good to be in jail? If so, then holy shit, I guess they might've felt I needed a lesson in reality.
My most recent stint in jail was, uhm, two days ago. This time I was in Los Angeles Central Jail. I was arrested for being Nude in Public. Why was I naked in public? To understand you must fully understand these two words: Consecrated liberation. If you cannot fathom performing an act consciously and ceremonially that liberates you from fear, then you cannot understand why I would do something like this.
Notwithstanding, I have realized due to the burden it has put on both sides of my family that my act was outrageously selfish. I did not deeply enough consider the consequences or the embarressment it would cause my wife, parents, and relatives. So ironically, in freeing myself from one ball and chain, I have created a new one for myself. ahhhh. I will apologize more directly when the time arrives.
posted by Just Greg at Sunday, January 15, 2006
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