Gang Training

School was cancelled last Monday so all the teachers could attend gang training.  “Learn to spot gang signs and tattoos”, the teachers were told.  Gangs are, and will continue to be a major problem in prisons.  Looking at it from the inside there is nothing DOC is doing that is effectively challenging gang influence.  Asking teachers to be on the lookout for gang evidence is no solution.

Gangs exist and their prominence in prisons is a given.  Even at a low level facility like this you can’t help but be walking to chow and see two young guys pat their chests as they pass on the boulevard (three taps on your heart with an open hand signifies blood connection).  You hear expressions, catch phrases, thrown back and forth.  And you wonder, if a 50+ year-old white guy with no exposure to gangs pre-incarceration can spot it, why can’t the officers?

You then realize the prison knows who’s in and who’s not.  The investigators’ office has a “gang board” with pictures of members by rank.  So why is it tolerated?  I’ve written before about the young gang leader “Live”, recently indicted for ordering hits on wayward gang members from inside the facility.  Everyone knew Live was a high-ranked blood.  Once a week he found himself talking to investigators.  And yet, at least monthly, new members were brought in.  What does the facility do about it?  Nothing.  It appears the status quo is easier to deal with than aggressively challenging them.

Things are worse at higher levels.  Extortion, robbery, attacks, these are common place at higher level prisons and the parties responsible are the gangs.  You want drugs, cigarettes, gambling? It’s the gangs who control it.  And for all the talk of “gang intervention” DOC officials spout, they are virtually impotent when confronting it and defeating it.  Gangs are thriving in prisons.

When I was in Virginia’s despicable Powhatan Receiving Unit, I was housed with a high ranking member of the Crips.  In the cell next door, a blood leader.  Both men knew my legal background and asked if I would review their guys’ pending appeals.  Frankly, doing legal research helped pass the time and kept me sane as I struggled daily with 23 hour lockdown and living in filth and despair.

“How much you charge us?” the blood captain asked.  “Nothing,” I said.  “Well we need to show our appreciation,” my Crip cellmate said.  “What kind of food do you like?”  I thought a little bit then said “pretzels and ginger ale” (both items were available on commissary but I hadn’t been to the store yet).  That afternoon, two six packs of ginger ale and three large bags of pretzels showed up on my bunk.

That night, it was my floor’s turn for 30 minutes out of our cells.   I grabbed a ginger ale, my cup and a bag of pretzels and headed down to the first floor to sit by the fans.  After grabbing some ice for my cup, I poured my soda and sipped on it savoring the drink and the salty pretzels.  A guy I’d met on arrival sat down with me.  Ernie was my age.  A white guy back in prison for drug use, he’d been at receiving a month before I arrived.  He was noticeably upset.  “What’s the matter Ernie?” I asked.  “The gang bangers,” he said.  “They came in my cell and took all my commissary.”  Sodas, cereal, snack foods.  Fifty dollars worth taken and there was nothing he could do.  You can’t tell.  Snitch and get beat, or worse.

I realized the ginger ale and pretzels I was enjoying had been stolen from Ernie – and some other “non-affiliated” guys.  I couldn’t prove it, but I knew.  I went back to my cell, got a six pack and bag or pretzels and gave them to Ernie.  Then, I told the two gang leaders I didn’t want anything else from them.

DOC could break the gangs.  But, prison fosters gang life.  All the training in the world for DOC teachers won’t stop gangs from flourishing in here.  Gangs survive because this environment feeds them.  Change prison culture, kill gangs.  Or, keep doing what you’re doing and the cycle continues.

You don't get women

I was having a conversation with “L” the other day. That’s a bad way to describe it. Really, I was drug into a conversation L was having with four other guys in the college IT program.



L is a 27 year old convicted drug dealer. He’s also the highest ranking member of the “Bloods” street gang here on the compound. He doesn’t meet your normal idea of a gang banger. He’s extremely respectful and polite (“Heh, Mr. Larry, could you please review my essay?”) and is working hard in the college program (“I have two little boys that don’t need their father locked up.”). But, he is a gang leader and could, if need be, act ruthlessly.


As I do with most guys on the compound, I move easily in the gang’s circle. Four of the members were listening as L was telling them “so and so’s girl” is “nothin’ but a ‘hood rat’ (i.e. she’ll hook up with a dealer who’ll get her an apartment, drugs and a yorkie). “No”, one of the other guys said. “She’s a ‘duck’ (that’s a girl that has slept with every guy in the crew until she settled on the one dopey guy who’d take care of her).”


I chimed in and said “in my world, women aren’t like that”. They all laughed. So I had to tell them a story.


It involved a trip to Vegas. I was out there with my two closest friends. I had hit a big win one morning at the craps table (largest I ever hit - $70,000 plus). I called home and told my wife. I then spent the rest of the day drinking, eating and spending my winnings.


That night, after a huge late dinner with my two buddies and way too much alcohol, I headed back to the craps table. As I was gambling, a young lady tapped my shoulder and asked me to explain the game. I’m an extrovert. I’ll talk to anybody, plus she was beautiful. She looked like Halle Berry. I still know exactly what she was wearing and how her perfume smelled.


I spotted her a few chips and we started winning. An hour or so passed and I was ready to unwind with a drink. I wished her well. “Mind if I tag along” she asked. We headed to a well-lit bar and I ordered a few drinks. I found out she was 23; told her about my wife and kids.


A little while later, I told her good night. She placed her hand on my leg and quietly whispered “I’d love to come upstairs with you”. She then “offered” to be my girlfriend for the weekend for $1500. She was a “working girl”.


What did I do? All the guys sat there waiting to hear about my wild night. I disappointed them. I went up to my room, alone and then three hours later called home and told my wife.


I then heard a rousing chorus of “you dumb ass. You coulda had her.”


Prison warps your mind about relationships with women. Guys read and re-read pick up books. They exchange porn. A guy with a subscription to “Playboy” or “American Curves” (an amazing magazine with nothing but hot women in bikinis and lingerie) is a hero.


Now, I don’t profess to know a great deal about women. The one meaningful relationship I had I blew by lying (a no no with women). But, the vast majority, I told the guys want the same thing we do. “Sex?” they said. No, sex isn’t as important as love and commitment.


I know this: one of the best days of my life was when I looked down the aisle that November afternoon as the woman whom I loved walked toward me to become my wife. I thought that I was the luckiest guy alive. Nothing that has happened since has changed that memory.


“You don’t need money or drugs or pick-up lines, to connect with women. You just need love.”


L looked at me and smiled. Then he said “you’re the smartest man I’ve met, but you don’t get women”. All the crew laughed and agreed.

Great Calculator Caper

Nothing is worse in a prison dorm than stealing. 96 guys are living in close proximity to each other. Metal lockers are easy to “peel back”; combination locks can be pried open. You have to trust who you’re living with. It’s ironic that trust is so important to inmates given that so many of us are locked up for breaches of trust and snitches run rampant. Yet, a thief in the dorm stirs more hostility than shakedowns or bad medical care. A thief in the dorm destroys everyone’s comfort.



Guys have been moving in and out for weeks as the college dorm takes shape. Everyone is suspicious of the “new guys” coming in. The building I moved from never had any stealing. The building I moved to was the same way. So, imagine my surprise when I came back from work the other day and E announced “some a—hole got my calculator.”


It was the night before commissary day and E was putting his order together. He finished the form and calculated the cost. Then, he set the calculator beside his TV. The next morning he went to work. When he came back he looked at his TV and discovered the calculator was missing.


We looked everywhere around his cut. We went through his book shelf and under his mattress. The calculator was nowhere to be found.


We start looking at “the new guys”. There were a couple of young gang members – “bloods” – who had moved in. Fairly nice guys, polite by prison standards. But, they were new and they belonged to a gang so chances are they were responsible.


Rumors started flying through the building. “Bed 19 heard a guy in the rec yard tryin to sell a calculator.” “Bed 40 is missin $70 worth of stamps from the parlay.” Bed 22 had a state shirt stolen”


I tried to keep my perspective. Perhaps, I wondered, E just misplaced it or let someone use it.


“No f—in way! It was on my bed.”


Every guy we didn’t know became a suspect. Locks were checked and rechecked. Suspicions were running rampant.


That evening I returned from work. E had a big, goofy grin on his face.


“I found it, but it’s not my fault.” He explained he had given a friend of ours – Biades – a few CDs to check out. He had the CDs on his bunk while he was folding t-shirts. He “accidently” folded the calculator in a t-shirt.


All I could say is “dumbass!”


There are no thieves in our building. In fact, the guys preparing for the college program are enthusiastic and, well, decent.


I learned something. You can’t jump to conclusions in here. Things aren’t always what they appear to be. Too often I would react, take a position and run with it. “I’ve got to do something” I’d think. I’d act impulsively, blindly weighing pros and cons without having all the facts.


Patience matters. Being thoughtful, not reactive, getting all the facts and carefully weighing options beats going out hell-bent.


It’s a lesson I should have learned years ago. It might have kept me out of here. It’s a lesson I apply each day as I struggle with my incarceration, my divorce and my sadness over my separation from my sons. Patience matters; it’s crucial. Faith, hope and endurance are built on patience.


E learned a lesson also. Check your clothes thoroughly before accusing someone of stealing your calculator!

This ain't prison

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.