Schooled in Prison

Here in FCI Florence-as with many Federal institutes-we have a pretty wide selection of A.C.E. classes ( Adult Continuing Education Classes) that are taught by inmates in whatever discipline or skill or expertise they might be approved by the education department to teach. There's much to be said about the teachers of these courses- for the most part they are genuine and eager to lead. And many of the inmates who enroll in these 8 week courses go into it with the best intentions toward self improvement. However, either due to the instructor's lack of energy/ expertise or tot he student's lack of commitment, the majority of A.C.E. course certificates are given to students who learned little, participated less, and ended up believing that the certificate itself is the only reason for enrolling. (These certificates amount to evidence of programming and each course brings a certain amount of money to the institution's budget, so inmates are "rewarded" for accumulating certificates.)

I've personally taught and attended many of these courses over the years. Most of the certificates I gained from them were purchased for a book of stamps. And I was less the man for it, no doubt. The few courses I taught were with excitement and I was proud of the students that participated and made the experience better for us both- so it never fails to shame me hen I think of the opportunities I wasted by taking the easy route to programming.

 The latest class I teach-or lead, rather- is based on the program at the end of my most recent book, " It's Never Just One Thing" . I'm growing from it. And the ten guys in the course are all growing from it as well. We all have the chance to speak on issues of race, sex, violence, drugs, addiction, and communication/ relationship issues as they revolve around the presence and absence of various principles. These are men who have grown weary of the masks and ego of prison culture, and now embrace the opportunity to explore some reality with men of the same mind. As I pointed out last week, we are part of a very small minority of people who want to- and have the power to-effect change in lives of people on the verge and in the depths of prison. approximately 40 million American's are directly affected by the 2.5 million behind bars. Another unknowable percentage of Americans will put their toes into the hot water of criminal behaviour- how many millions do they represent? 

By turning the corner in our characters and making the decision to become worthy citizens, we also corner the market on empirical wisdom that can strengthen our communities through examples and mentoring. If we have any moments of doubt to where we might " belong" in a community sense, this is a very obvious and empowering answer. And I doubt that anyone would deny us the opportunity to lead struggling men and women up from the depths into the light of their own potential.

Beau Hansen

The Knockout Game

There is a new game sweeping the nation. It is a Youtube sensation. Here are the rules: You must find a white person who is unsuspecting of any kind of aggression. You must be a minority yourself. And you must try you're best to inflict as much violence as possible in one hit- knocking them out. Consequences to the violation of these rules: If you attack someone who isn't white, the police will probably come after you for gang violence. If you participate in this game and are not a minority( particularly black) then you will be prosecuted under the federal hate crime statutes. (If you are white you will be prosecuted under these laws without a doubt) and receive a 10 year minimum sentence. If you don't try to knock out the unsuspecting person, they may get up and beat youre ass, or shoot you. Have fun with the knockout game, and don't forget to film your exploits so you can post them online. This is what is happening out there right now. Whenever violent black attack white people, the media makes up silly little monikers for them to advertise it with. Remember the Thrill Kill? Stand up for what is right and start calling sh*t what it really is, Why hasn't one news station declared this Knockout Game a racially motivated hate crime? This country has allowed the media to make a mockery of the law, and the law enables that.

Beau/ Shane( Beau's cell mate helped with this)

Changing

I appreciate the fact that many of you out there sympathize with men and women behind bars, doing long stretches time, etc. But my greatest hope in establishing something of a voice from in here is not to wave this banner of justification or call to arms those who see the goodness in those convicted.....though those things do exist, I want it to be clear that most of the men and women behind bars have earned it.

Perhaps not lifetimes, and perhaps not even years, but they have earned it. And most of them continue to prove they deserve nothing better- I speak from experience- because they use this time for gang activity, drug usage, pinochle and dominoes and BET and CMT and TeenMom. The exception to this rule will eventually get out and make big changes in their communities- and for these men and women I would ask that all of you think about the necessary changes that might be enacted within the American prison complex.

The number of men and women who make the decision to change can be vastly increased with a little more available impetus- and an elevated penalty for those who choose not to make the changes society expects. You have the power to create a system that works. And this does affect you- and your families

Patiently Waiting.....

I'd been in USP Beaumont, TX for a few weeks when we were locked down for a multiple group incident( disruption involving various gangs or races). We might have been locked down for a couple weeks, tops, but the tier outside our cells was trashed and dirty from all the fishing lines passing and the officers smoking in the building, flicking their ashes on the floor during counts. The day before we were let up, the unit orderlies were allowed to come out for an hour to clean, and when we were released the next day, piles of trash stood in the corners and mop buckets, brimming with black water, waited by the mop closet doors.

While most of the inmates were shuckin' and jivin', showering or talking on the phone, one inmate- an old black guy who'd spent most of his life on prison basketball courts-was cleaning his cell. When he came to one of the mop buckets and realized that the mop closets were still locked, he went the officer's station where a black female officer was talking on the phone. After waiting patiently for five or ten minutes, her conversation ended and he asked her to come open the closet so everyone could get on with the process of cleaning their cells. She said that she'd get to it. So he went back to cleaning the cell and when he'd run out of things to do-left only with the mopping- he went back to the officer's station where she was, once again, on the phone. Again he waited. When she hung up he repeated his request and was given the same response. So he went and took a shower. With his shower out of the way, he pushed the mop bucket up to the office door to show the guard that the water was, indeed, filthy and needed to be changed if anyone were to clean their cells. But she was busy again, this time eating her lunch.

"Come back in a minute," she said. " Can't you see that I'm eating?"

"My Bad," he answered, stepping away from the desk. He pulled the soiled mop out of the water and turned it in the wringer with a couple good pumps. Then, setting both the mop and wringer unit on the floor, he picked up the bucket and dumped it's dirty black contents over the women's head before slamming the plastic container down on her subway sandwich.

Strips of lettuce and salami, trickling black, ashy water, hung from her chin and shirt lapel. The shocked look on her face-mixed with absolute terror that this was not the end of his attack- will stay with me forever. Not so much for the humor, but because it was a peek into the general perception many in society have of us : animals with no imagination or hope for returning to the grace of thoughtful humanity. In this instance at least, the assault ended with a lost meal and a ruined beehive hairdo. I distinctly remember that, for the longest time afterward, we didn't have a lot of trouble getting cleaning supplies.

The Story of the Six-Man cell- White Knight, Plastic Parrots( Finale)

By the time the Plastic Parrots joke wrapped up and the Stuttering Cowboy came on the scene, even Elkins couldn't resist to "join'em" in the laughter- a frustrated, almost tearful capitulation around 2:30 in the morning. He had already gone through the violent turning and exaggerated flopping phase that screamed everything he was unwilling to actually voice. It was evident that these endless jokes were indeed meant to try him and let him know that if he wanted to flex even an inch, he would be visiting the infirmary long before he made it to the SHU for lock up. It became and hours-long fever for Elkins, and when he was nearest to succumbing to the heat-to snapping and going right over the edge- the fever broke and he laughed. The effort of that laugh cost his ego something and he tried to regain it with a lame , " stupid motherfu**ers," but there was no heart in it. By consensus, we all saw that he was broken, and in my mind i felt the night was a success. In the end we all laughed-as much at Chunk's aggressive, "in your face Elkins" giggling at the stupid, never ending joke.

The remaining worry in my mind was that Elkins would find a way to climb out of bed early in the morning, after so little sleep, and still apply the passive-aggressive armbar of ritual oblations while we tried to sleep an extra 30 minutes. And when his alarm went off at 5:00, i believe that he was earnestly, admirably surprised to find Beau sprawled in the middle of the floor doing yoga. He stared at Beau for a quiet minute before sighing a long, " Jesus Christ....."

Shane-O turned over and peeled the wool cap up from his eyes. His soft laughter was a mixture of such glee and surprise and....understanding that I knew I would never meet guys like this again.

In the end Elkins moved into another cell and i found that his bottom bunk fit me very well, very comfortably, and I slept like a baby every night there after.

Beau Hansen

The Story of the Six-Man cell-Elkins....(Part 7)

Later that afternoon, walking back from the chow hall with Chunks, I decided to try my hand at diplomacy and remedy Elkins frustration before they had the chance to get fired over the edge. When I told Chunks that Elkins was having a hard time dealing with everyone shooting barbs at him and purposely chatting loud into the night , he just laughed. When I told him that his homeboy, Jamie, and the other two that had just come from the USP's wouldn't get two chances if Elkins actually snapped and they beat him up, he just laughed. When I said that Elkins had told me that morning that he was on the edge of calling some people out and getting it over with, he didn't laugh. He only said that everyone would be really happy to hear about that. He said " Thank you". Then he laughed and veered into the unit's common area to sit down beside Shane-O and began the animated retelling of everything I had just said. I wondered if maybe I should have talked to one of the others. I wondered why the hell I imagined I might be a diplomat in any situation. A last glance at the two of them assured me that I should not have told Chunk's anything. Shane-O's face was perfectly angelic and he nodded while looking straight at me. I knew that his amusement was not in the words he heard. His light, generous smile and twinkling eyes forecast a long night of laughter and joking at Elkins expense. I shook my head sadly an went into the cell.

How the White Knight on the Black Horse was born no one ever told me. And how on earth a guy went from buying a few little yellow plastic parrots for his son, to buying a warehouse full of little yellow plastic parrots I never found out, but these things indeed did happen- at least that night they did. An hour after lockdown, and fifteen minutes after we turned out the lights( hours earlier than on any previous night) the cell was eerily silent and I knew immediately that these guys had something terrible and violent planned for Elkins. I pictured the four of them tying him up and torturing him with razor blades and burning wicks. At the very least one of them would taunt hum until he lipped off-then the beating would commence. Instead, just as Elkins made his comfortable turn toward the wall and his breathing settled into a heavy rhythm that leads into the blessed chambers of sleep, Beau's voice filled the silence.

"Whose wants to hear about the White Knight on a Black Horse?"

Shane-O: "OOOhhh...I do, I do, I do!"
Jamie: " Me too! Sounds kinda freaky."
Chunks: "Let's Hear it!"
Me: You know damn good and well that there wasn't a peep coming from me-not yet anyway.

Elkins turned over and heaved a laboring, angry breath at being awakened. His frustration and anger were almost palpable in the moments of silence that stretched out to embrace the beginning of Beau's jokes.

"Okay," Beau started, and I swear that I could hear the big smile on his face in these opening words: "This joke kind of stretches out in parts but hang on for the punch line- Shakespeare wrote this shit back in the day and you know how sleepy that motherfu**er was- everything good in time... Back in the days of knights-errant and sweet Dulcineas and rotten hookers with no teeth, there was a knight that went by the name of "The White Knight on a Black Horse". Obviously he rode a horse that happened to be black.

Regardless of the trouble I caused, no one was hurt . Apparently I was worried for nothing because Elkins didn't blow a gasket like he said he would, and everyone but me seemed to know this long before I did. When the guards came by for midnight count and Beau was just wrapping up the White Knight on the Black Horse, I had given up holding my laughter in. My stomach hurt even though I was so tired that my eyeballs felt like sand dunes, the sheer length and inanity of this joke kept me interested in what the hell this poor knight might be up to next. We were all in and out of sleep, hypnotized by the sing song voice and repeating rhythm in the adventure when the punch line came. I found myself laughing with everyone- and not so much at the punch line as at the heaving sigh given by Elkins.

After we had stopped the laughter (Elkins even threw in a side comment about how stupid the joke was) and there was silence, once again, I felt sleep crush in on me and my final conscious thoughts were that this night hadn't turned out too badly-no fights and it seemed like everyone was going to find a way to compromise their egos....

The Story of the Six-Man cell-Elkins (Part 6)

Jamie and I were the first ones into the Six-Man cell with Chunks and Elkins. There seemed to be a relatively peaceful air about the cell until Jamie and Chunks were introduced and realized they were from the same part of North Las Vegas. Thereafter, Elkins was the target of every conversation he attempted to join. That very first night, Jamie must have told him to "Shut the F**k" a dozen times. I swear that Elkins bald head glowed with frustration and anger all night long in that dark cell. Before sun came up though, Elkins, was moving around the cell and running water for his morning obligations. His passive-aggressive nature assumed that this early wake-up avenged the late night laughter and conversations that kept him awake late into night. But we are generally unaffected by this. It's part of the thick skin thing. No one reacted, no one moved.

And so went the morning conversations as we all rose to get ready for breakfast and work. I rarely said anything, waiting for space at the sink to open up and some bodies to clear out. This way I never became a target of someone's morning grumpiness. On that first morning, I saw that Beau wasn't a laughing, joking type in the morning either. But instead of staying in bed to catch a few extra minutes of sleep or hanging back until Elkins had finished at the sink, he jumped down and easily made the bed, dressed, fixed a cup of coffee, and took a piss before Elkins had put his boots on. He was the first one out of the cell when the door was unlocked.

Thirty minutes later, with everyone mingling out in the common areas and waiting for breakfast, I rose and puttered about the cell. Biscuits and gravy this morning. No big deal, but I like to get up to the chow hall and drink some milk. Sometime in the near future I think I will start to work out and I think milk is a pretty good start to the day for healthy eaters. I'm pretty out of shape and feel like shit most of the time- especially when I think about all the energy and stamina I had as a younger man.

Getting old sucks, getting old in prison REALLY sucks. What a dumbass I was to get into that drug game again and start in on my old addictions. I swear it's going to go down a lot different the next time. I have a boy that needs me in his life and it would be an unbearable agony to know that my example led him into a life of crime he was unable to get out of before coming to prison. Imagine that, doing prison time with my son. Ughh... That boy's got a bright future if things and people just.....

The door opens behind me and Elkins voice follows it closing, "F**king incompetent bastards never call a meal at the same time two days in a row. Worthless morons- and they're telling me what to do all day."

"Biscuits and gravy is a very complicated meal", I point out. "especially when all the meat has to be bagged up and stolen before they pan it up." Elkins and I have been trading negative humor for a few weeks. We are both from Chicago and he really appreciates that connection, regardless the condescending tone he takes with me at least once everyday.

"And the fat, lazy cops up there are too busy trying to find ways around work to create an efficient and effective routine. Morons. And they say that we are a drain on the economy."

I pulled on my boots and watched as he prepped his coffee mug with creamer and sweetened for work. He was such a creature of habit that in a few days I had learned how many cups of coffee he drank at the factory-and I didn't work anywhere near the factory. (five, by the way. He planned it that way-the morning cup, the pre-lunch cup, the post-lunch cup, the afternoon break cup, and the end of day cup.)

"These idiots had me hot last night," he began, and I inwardly groaned because I hate listening to him talk trash about people behind their backs. I seem to be his only audience for this and, somewhere behind my conscience, I feel like I must be ashamed of this. " You think that shit's funny-staying up all night laughing and telling stupid stories about USP's and bit*ches on the street. If they keep it up, I'm going to say something. And I know when I say something they aren't going to like it and one of them is going to get slick at the mouth. I might be almost 50, but I've been places and done some shit they couldn't dream of. I'll surprise ' em"

"What did I do?" There was that uptalk that Beau accused me of before he even knew my name. "Don't look at me like I kept you up all night. I went straight to sleep".

"That's because you're thoughtless, there's nothing getting in the way of you falling asleep doing Ariel flips in a bi-plane. I heard you laughing up there last night, you thought that sh*t was funny. You and Chunks..nothing to say...just a bunch of aggravating laughter." "You sit there like a fly on the wall and avoid their attention. I won't put up with their childishness. If they keep me up all night tonight, I will say something in a way that one of them has to react- then we'll see whose the tough guy with the big mouth."

Did he really say that? I wondered. I remember thinking that, even though Elkins was a big guy and had been in the Marines, and he was probably as intelligent as he always boasted, he was also on the bottom bunk by medical approval for a bad back. He was almost 50 and the only exercise he ever did was run the track. These guys that had just moved into the cell were workout maniacs.

I didn't particularly like Elkins but his strength and decency were evident beneath the negativity and bluster. I didn't want to see him get into a situation with these guys that he wasn't able to walk away from with bruises and disciplinary reports.

The Story of the Six-Man cell- Chunks (Part 5)

In the third set of bunks, Jamie's homeboy, Chunks, slept on the top-an arm's reach from me and Beau. Jamie was the definite alpa dog in their relationship-because he was more aggressive and had done a little more ugly living than Chunks-but there was a level of explosiveness under the surface that Jamie appreciated in his friend. Chunks is the consummate prankster and class clown- with the genetics of a pit bull. Beau said Chunk's retard strength comes from his mother's boobs " which were filled with nitroglycerin". Shane-O is crazy strong and Beau is that big guy with crazy cardio, but both of them can only talk about Chunk's and his strength like kids marvel at the circus freak. "He giggles like a maniac with 405 pounds on his chest," Shane-O said after they came in from watching Chunks bench press. Chunk's entire federal sentence has been spent in FCI Florence, so he'd only heard tales about the action on USP yards, but the wildness of it appealed to him- regardless how much he really wanted to live free and experience life apart from the criminal element. Between Shane-O's stories of the pen across the street, Jamie's reference to Victorville, CA and Beau's tales of Beaumont, Chunks got everything he wanted.

If I am a member of the herd, it's because I have found a way to live non-confrontationally, play D&D, and go unnoticed for the most part. The fellas crack jokes on me from time to time- Beau says I look like an ugly sock puppet version of an Uzbekistani goat herder.- but I know that they'd stick up for me and never let anyone take advantage of me unfairly. However, in the bunk below Chunks was a member of the herd who believed he was a real tough guy; he chose to be herdier because he said that the hardier were simple-minded morons. That's all good and fine, but unless one is willing to smash people's faces and back up those thoughts, it's always the wisest policy to keep them to oneself.

Elkins didn't think that was necessary and, so, found himself in a perpetually defensive state backing down. Even the herd found it impossible not to laugh at him behind our hands and snigger at his know it all dilemmas.

The Story of the Six-Man cell-Beau (Part 4)

Like me and Shane-O (that's what everyone calls Shane-everyone except Beau, that is) Beau came from a USP-"Bloody" Beaumont in Texas. And, like Shane-O, he was a little overwhelmed in the beginning at the difference in attitudes at this FCI. He was use to dealing with people who looked hard because they were hard, and now the people who looked hard in order to create that impression without having to work for it. He, Shane-O, and Jamie once got a great a laugh out of the fact that all the Penitentiary dudes who'd transferred here from violent yards kept a smile on their faces-they had come to a spot where they could relax and not think about drama, drama, drama; yet so many gentle and naïve guys around here carried sneers and scowls for protection against their own shadow.


Beau started out his sentence in a medium and after a couple administrative transfers for group activities like food strikes and work strikes, he ended up hooking a nurse in medical. That might have been all fine and good but he also brought in drugs and it led to another big prison sentence and 10 years in high security. I think Beau went through a lot of changes in all those years. He's become understanding and concerned with character while most people, after so many years of wild prison living become just jaded and cynical and full of wrathful entitlements. He's lucky like that, I guess.

Beau sleeps above Shane-O and a handshake away from me. I sleep above Jamie. Jamie is the most enigmatic creature among us. He has tattoos on his face and talks to people like they are the stupidest creatures he's ever known, yet he has a wonderful intellect covering subjects from religion to science to world history and talks about situations that made him cry and stick up for weaklings. He's from Las Vegas and listens to rappers like Bun-B and C-Murder and Yealwolf..he knows all the lyrics to these ghetto culture songs and has no problem reciting them despite his contrasting allegiances to the white prison gang, Aryan warriors. Jamie has what I spoke of as thick skin, only his thickness is so thick that he no longer possesses the social barometer to care if he is offensive. Anyone he becomes especially familiar with he begins to speak to with regular disrespect-and covers that disrespect with the challenge, -" let me find out you've got feelings..let me find out I'm able to touch on your soft little feelings.."

Shane-O was the only person I ever saw put up with Jamie's familiar speak without feeling the need to respond in kind. Where most people resorted to the offensive-defensive with Jamie-by speaking to him in the same joking and insulting manner-Shane-O just smiled confidently and shot a light, self deprecating barb that Jamie couldn't quite hook into. With Shane-O, Jamie just ran out of steam and found other targets to refuel on. I never heard Jamie speak disrespectfully with Beau, but I don't think it had anything to do with fear or extra care- Beau was just always so damn polite and sensible with Jamie, always so...accommodating to Jamie's intellectual side that Jamie was somehow flattered, maybe. They got along well and never had a cross word- not that I knew.

The Story of the Six-Man cell-Shane-O (Part 2)

Shane is a barrel-chested, big armed Seattle Seahawks fanatic that carries himself with a quiet assurance and careful confidence. He's the kind of person who understands weakness in character because he' failed in life enough times to admit his own, yet he is very unforgiving of the weakness so prevalent in here: that of acting tough and then backing down when someone calls the bluff. Shane laughs quietly and there is always the atmosphere of analysis with his humor. He won't laugh if something isn't funny, and he won't react if he finds himself the butt of a joke. His thick skin is almost disconcerting. It empowers him with time to put his patient response together and, in the event that no response is forthcoming, he appears to humbly state that the victor needn't be a last word freak. Nobody disrespects Shane , and for perfect reasoning: his reputation promises that a response could be violent, if necessary. Of course, humility never broadcast's that fact. Shane had just arrived to FCI Florence, a medium facility, from across the street at the United States Penitentiary High (USP) and was slowly adjusting to the difference in behaviors and habits between FCI inmates and those living in USP's across the country. The difference were stark and, already painfully, proudly withstood. Men in USP's have less to lose, being at the highest security level of general population that Federal prisons provide and, therefor, behave like men who are at the end of the line. MSNBC never shows the Federal USP's and their insanity because, to do so, the American taxpayer would ask "Where the F**k is my money being spent?!" In USP's we drink wine, make moonshine, shoot heroin, and kill one another. We have thicker skin because thin skin mean petty altercations between individuals and groups on a daily basis; however, they cannot tolerate disrespects that expose any weakness related to fear.

FCI medium inmates, on the other hand, are closer to the privileges of visits, education, "tranquility", weight rooms and good time. We want to keep these things, which is natural for anyone who enjoys them for any length of time. The biggest contrast in the USP and FCI personalities is that higher security prisons breed and reinforce an understanding that words and actions carry consequences. When someone crosses a line they get stabbed or beat down, and that instills a sense of careful respect. It creates the Hardier inmate. The FCI inmate has a less awareness of the minimal standards for which he can be held accountable because at all times there dangles a carrot of privilege's before everyone's nose. Almost anything can be over looked, Child molesters walk the yard unmolested; an almost unconscious level of disrespect prevails through individuals and entire races until hardier USP inmate's are overcome with lethargy of defeated men. This FCI mentality isn't always a bad thing, no. Somehow the tolerance and frustration that comes with bearing so much indiscretion and disrespect prepares people for the obstacles they'll face on the street, but that's less a testament to the rehabilitative efforts of prison than to the fading principles of society. This isn't the story about that, though. This is the story about the herdier and the hardier in a six-man cell, and how easy it is for some to get along while so difficult for others in the same space....

The story of the Six-Man cell (Part 1)

A six-man cell is a special place to do prison time. The mathematics is enough to make the point clear : a two man, 8'x 13' cell provides 52 square feet per person. The six-man gives 20% less, for which to experience 3 times the bodily functions, individual preferences, idiosyncrasies, attitudes, and routines. Although the six-man is a temporary housing placement for those just coming onto the compound or out of the hole, these are times of compromise and understanding, humor and thick skin, tolerance and..the odd man out. This is the story of six grown men coexisting in a 20'x 20' cement box.
This is the story of the odd man out:

Prison is full of great personalities. Some of then are dysfunctional for reasons of poor self-esteem while others are the product of an overinflated sense of who they really are. Some are funny; some are aggressive; some are mild mannered and phlegmatic; some are talented and passionate about the talent; some are talented and disinterested in anything but the moment; some are brilliant and arrogant; some are just complex liars and believe everything they've come up with through hundreds of sleepless speed binges; others are humble to the point of quiet ignorance and a meek acceptance that this lifestyle is merely a resting place while transitioning to something more scenic; some think they're super-badass and are looking for every instance to prove it, while others want to be viewed as super badass without ever having to put in the work. In short, the inmates in a six-man cell are the same men in any cell and on any yard in America; they are the same men on any street in any neighbourhood in America...as far as idiosyncrasies and personalities are concerned. However, where matters of the character are measured, most men in prison are troubled and bereft, like retirees with smartphones-they know that the application is helpful, but it seems too complicated and senseless for the lifestyle they've adjusted to. Inmates in a six-man cell can actually be classified in two types- the Hardier and the Herdier.

The hardier have an affinity for jestering and making light of their situation, even if that sometimes includes picking on one of the herdier, or herd-minded, inmates. Hardier inmates will stand up for themselves; they'll often fight for reasonably understandable offenses against their pride, and just as often they will jump out there for no definably good reason. They can always justify the craziest reactions-even those that result in court action and longer sentences- with "I had to do what I had to do." The hardier inmate will back his friends up for almost any reason, as long as they haven't stolen, told or messed with a punk, and although he claims to be an independent thinker, he expects the same from his comrades. The hardier inmate is an enigma of childishness and warrior-mindedness that imitates itself with violent self-expression. The Hardier inmate excels in the six-man situation because, although he'd rather have a double cell for the relative privacy and "permanence" of cell housing, he can make a smiley face in any situation- be it the "hole", an outdoor recreation cage (dog run) in 100 degree weather, or a "drunk tank" covered in pepper spray and blood. The Herdier inmate, on the other hand, can only think of past comforts and a distant future when those comforts will once again be a part of his life. Whether they be food, privacy, or the safety of non-confrontation, the image of these comforts keep the herdier inmate in check, ever obeying fear and hope over the demands for personal respect and consideration. Whenever they have an opportunity to stand for something they profess to believe, they stall-ever measuring the internal rewards against the comforts to be sacrificed-until the moment has passed and removed all hope of progress to either end. They are cautious and careful and observant side of the prison ethos, while the hardier are definitely the action and reaction, impulse and repulse. The herdier inmate rules, they rules by sheer numbers in general population and thus they dictate how the prison's regulations are generally observed.( Otherwise prison breaks would be the norm and caged humans would be responding as caged humans should-with resistance.)
This is not a life of ideals and extremes, and nor is this a story of extremes. It has it's moments though and this is a non-violent example of what happened to one of the herd in a six-man cell with four of the hardier breed....to be continued