Shackled and handcuffed, I made my way up the old stone steps and entered the Washington State Penitentiary for the first time. It was incredibly hot, and the twelve-hour bus ride to Walla Walla had been miserable. I had recently received a forty-plus-year prison sentence and was about to experience what it was like to be confined within Washington’s most dangerous prison. I was terrified.
I would—along with everyone else who enters this prison—be forced to make choices to survive this experience.
The main building was constructed in the 1800s as a fort for the U.S. Army. Its castle-like structure clearly marked it as being from another era, with large stones stacked high with circular towers on each corner. It’s a piece of architecture that I would likely find fascinating, if not for how I came to enter it.
After passing through the stone archway, I was quickly brought back to reality: “Get along the wall and put your knees on the bench,” a guard yelled.
There were more than a dozen guards in the small room. All of us newly arrived prisoners did as we were told. Our chains and shackles were removed, a relief to my wrists and ankles, which were bright red from the grueling cold steel that bit into them the whole ride. We were then handed a small bag with instructions of basic prison rules and toiletries. Then we filed into a line and were made ready to enter a world where many of us would reside for decades—or possibly the rest of our lives.
As we made our way deeper into the interior of the prison, my eyes darted around, trying to absorb details. For years, I had heard rumors of this notorious prison and what took place behind its walls. I was not naive, and I knew that it was everyone for themselves inside a place like this. No one leaves its grasp unscathed.
I would—along with everyone else who enters this prison—be forced to make choices to survive this experience. Each choice would matter, and even the smallest of them could drastically affect my life inside these towering walls.
The first rule I learned was that everything in this place was segregated—by race, religion, and culture. This is the first big decision I had to make upon entering the prison’s general population: Where do I belong? Some prisoners go to extremes to fit in with the groups they choose to identify with. Some devote their lives to the idea of community behind these walls.
As the years passed, I watched friends of mine make horrible choices so they could find a place to belong. A friend of mine named Reggie, who hung around gang members while on the streets but never officially joined a gang, ended up joining one in prison. I remember seeing him one day in the big yard with fresh tattoos all over his face.
Over the years, I came to understand that all prison groups are the same. All of them are structured like gangs.
“Reggie, what the fuck did you do to your face?” I asked him.
He looked at me with pride in his eyes—like he was showing off a brand-new car—and said, “This shit looks dope, right?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Fuck no, you’re a dumb ass, puttin’ that shit on your face,” I said. “Why would you even do something so stupid?”
Reggie looked at me with a blank stare. I could tell that he was annoyed.
“What does that even say?” I asked.
Again, with a look of pride, Reggie pointed to each word as he read them. Over his forehead and under his hairline it read, “one in the chamber,” in fancy cursive. This was a warning to others that he carried, at least metaphorically, a loaded gun with a round in the chamber—ready to be fired if you tested him.
On the side of his face was tattooed the name of his new gang. “You’ll regret doing all this to your face,” I told him.
Reggie left prison after a couple of years, but not long after, he was shot and killed at a party by a rival gang member. I couldn’t help but think that the tattoos on his face played a role.
As the years went on, I came to realize that everyone who comes to prison has to make a choice about identity. To be on your own in prison is dangerous, so most people find somewhere they fit in.
For some, the transition is easy; they belonged to a gang on the streets, so that is who they hang with in prison. Others “find” religion or culture, as they do not have anywhere else to go. Those who cannot stomach religion and are not involved with a gang generally end up with a cultural group by default: Native American, Asian, Black, Russian, Mexican, et cetera.
Some of my friends ended up joining white supremacist gangs. They weren’t racists, and I’m sure that the second they get out of prison they will regret all of the choices they made while in here. But they had to fit in somewhere. And since some were white, teaming up with the white supremacists was their best chance to survive within the system—or at least that’s what they thought.
I chose to group with the Native Americans. I have Native family and had Native traditions in my life growing up, so this seemed like a natural fit. I thought that by joining a cultural group and staying away from gangs, I was making a smarter choice.
Yet, over the years, I came to understand that all prison groups are the same. All of them are structured like gangs, and all are trying to accomplish the same goal: to make sure we are not taken advantage of by creating strength in numbers.
After a while, I started to realize that I was not part of a family, as our group liked to portray itself. When I took a step back and tried to reassert my own identity—I stopped hanging out, meeting up at the “group” tables, and even ceased going out to religious activities—men who had said they loved me like a brother, and whom I had known for years, turned their back on me as if I had caused them grievous harm.
Over time, I decided that I didn’t care what others thought. I would not let any other human decide how I would live my life or the morals I live by. I spent too many years educating myself—through college and other classes—to follow others down a path of destruction.
I know the choice to leave the group was the right one. These ways of living can only function within these prison walls; they serve no purpose in society. And my goal isn’t to fit in inside prison: It’s to prepare myself to return to the real world. Letting others guide my beliefs is exactly what got me into prison in the first place.
I do not need a group to follow, to tell me how to live, or to critique who I am. I simply need to follow my path and set my own morals. This is how I will best serve myself and those I love the most.