Tattoos

One thing you soon discover about prison is almost everyone has tattoos and they almost all were done inside “the walls”. With the exception of “Big S”, almost every guy I know has a tattoo.



Guys’ tattoos come in all shapes and sizes. A lot of young-mostly back guys get their area code or “hood” name tattooed on their arms or neck. Then there are the gang tattoos. Dozens of Hispanic guys sport “MS13” tats; “bloods” and “crips” gang signs adorn hundreds more.


Prison security tracks your tattoos. When you arrive here you strip down and every tattoo you have is recorded on a sheet. Gang tattoos? You make the investigator watch list. Every six months or so, the officers come in and get everyone to line up by their bunks strip down to their underwear and then they check for new tattoos.


Tattooing is illegal in prison. Yet every day guys show up with new artwork. Good tattoo artists in prison can make hundreds of dollars a month for their work. One of my GED students – Scottie – is a regular Picasso. He can do tattoos on your back that look like the Sistine Chapel ceiling. He built a tattoo gun with a smuggled in cell phone charger, a BIC plastic pen, and replaceable staples.


His artwork is incredible – and in color! He does nudes – women (again a highly priced item, a beautiful naked woman on your arm, leg, or torso) – that resemble airbrushed “Playboy” centerfolds.


Ink and tattoo needles? Glad you asked. Old school artists melt down chess pieces then create a “chimney” where the melted piece is burnt further. The “chimney” is then scraped and the residue mixed with hair grease to make black ink. Red and blue? Ink from pens mixed with hair grease.


Today, art supplies are allowed to be purchased so new tattoo artists just buy the ink colors they need.


Needles are another matter. Hepatitis C and HIV are epidemic in prisons for a whole host of reasons, not the least of which is tattooing. Many IV drug users end up in prison already infected. Needles for tattoos usually consist of a staple, straightened and filed sharp (with a nail file), then heated with a match or lighter to sterilize. The staple is “melted” into the tip of a plastic BIC pen. Wires run through the plastic and make contact with the staple. The staple is dipped in ink and the skin pricked (after the design is laid out on the body).


Scottie did an entire family tree on one guy’s back – 11 grandchildren as branches with their names and birthdates engraved. Another guy – 2 naked women in an embrace that move when he flexes his forearm.


Guys get tattoos everywhere. They shave their heads and get their skulls tattooed. Some guys get tear drops tattooed below their eyes. Depending on who you ask, those either me (1) a tear drop for every person you killed; (2) a tear drop for every friend who’s died violently; or (3) you “belong” to another inmate (one guy in my building has a heart tattooed on the back of his neck from an earlier “bid” at a maximum security prison. His tattoo fits into category number 3).


Guys get tattoos for good reasons, bad reasons, because they’re bored, and yes, because they’re stupid.


I tutor a young guy, actually quite bright. He quit school and stayed in and out of trouble until 18 when he got busted for dealing crack. He’ll earn his GED within the next few months then, if he stays motivated, move on to working on his Associates Degree.


I asked him one day what he wants to do after prison. “I want to work in sales. I’m good with people. Maybe start my own business.” I looked at his knuckles on his right hand: “F--k”; on his left “you!”. On his neck – above the collar, a globe that says “F--k the world.”


I asked him who he thought would hire him with those tattoos. His reply: “they can’t deny me a job because of my philosophy. That’s discrimination!” “Yes it is”, I told him. “But, it’s not illegal discrimination.”


I have my own tattoo story; two actually. One “BA” – before arrest: one “AJ” – at jail.


In 1999, when my youngest son was two, I ran a marathon in November. Three weeks later I was at a company meeting. A group of managers went out that night for dinner and drinks. One manager “Bonnie” was busy drinking shots. She ended up fairly drunk; she looked at me and said: “Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?”


Me: “Yeah. My wife and I talked about getting them.”


Bonnie: “If I find a tattoo parlor tonight, would you get one with me?”


Me: After checking my watch and seeing it was 11:00 pm on a Sunday night, in Roanoke, Virginia “Sure.”


What happens? We walk out of the restaurant and immediately across the street is Roanoke’s finest tattoo parlor, open 11 to 11.


One hour later I’m the proud owner of the Japanese symbol for courage on my left shoulder (or as my then wife liked to call it “the Japanese symbol for I’m a dumb ass”).


Fast forward to spring 2009 in the Henrico County jail. I had befriended a Brazilian guy named Manny. Manny had gone AWOL from the Brazilian army and made his way to Richmond. He met a local woman; they married and had two sons. He also started a construction company. Business was slow so Manny started dealing cocaine. He was arrested, convicted, and threatened with deportation.


I tutored Manny in the jail GED program. He told me about his deportation and his fear of having to leave his wife and kids (all American citizens) behind. I explained he had a right to meet with representatives from the Brazilian embassy. I put the request in and the embassy staff met with him and arranged to get him an immigration attorney.


Manny was a great tattoo artist. He also cleaned the medical unit, which gave him access to packaged needles. He told me he wanted to do a tattoo for me and since he always saw me sitting on my bunk reading the Bible he had a great idea for a cross.


“What the hell”, I thought. I was already locked up, already been served with divorce papers. What would a tattoo matter?


He designed a Celtic cross, about 5 inches in length. Wrapping around the cross is a banner. On it he put my favorite Bible verse: Isaiah 40: 27-31.


I started reciting that verse multiple times each day shortly after my arrest. I still start each day with it. It is all about God’s omniscience, omnipotence and omnipresence. It’s Isaiah telling a questioning people to look around; God created all of this, everything, on His own. If He could do that, He is capable of handling our problems.


It closes with a charge to be patient and let God be God. “Yet those who wait for the Lord will be given new strength; they will soar on wings like eagles, they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not get weary.”


It doesn’t look like it was done in jail. In fact, most guys think I had it done outside. It’s on my right shoulder. I regret the first one, but not the cross.


So, I get to receiving and the investigator – a cute blond – is interviewing me because my legal background is in my file. She has to make sure I have no enemies.


Her (sarcastically): “Any tattoos?”


Me: “Yes.”


Her: “This I’ve got to see.”


I roll up my sleeves and show her.


Her: “Damn, that cross is beautiful. What shop in Richmond did that?”


I just smiled.