Read Online Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison by T. J. Parsell - Free Book Online
Authors: T. J. Parsell
Tags: United States, General, Social Science, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Prisoners, Biography, Male Rape, Penology, Parsell; T. J, Prisons - United States, Prisoners - United States, Prison Violence, Male Rape - United States, Prison Violence - United States, Prison Psychology, Prison Psychology - United States
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were like the kind my brother wore before being tossed out of the Air Force. I remembered, sadly, how he'd pay me to polish them and how proud I was that I could spit-shine them so well his staff sergeant could see his own reflection. But the state shoes had a dull shine. They looked downtrodden and miserable. Perhaps it was because inmates were forced to make them in one of the prison industries.
The classification process would take six weeks and would include a physical, educational and vocational testing, a psychological exam, and a hearing with the classification committee. But Inmate Classification should have been called Convict Orientation, considering how we were all being educated. Inmates who had been there before, explained to the rest of us how things were done. The men with older numbers, a B or C prefix, were treated with respect. While we were in the bullpen, however, we were all in the same position, so those who knew something were quick to brag about it.
There were dozens of prisons and camps in the state and tour different levels of security: Minimum, Medium, Close-Custody, and Maximum.
A memo, posted on the inside wall of the bullpen, explained classification:
Security Assignments are made in accordance with severity of crime, perceived dangerousness of inmate, length of incarceration, and past history of escape or violence.
Major concerns for the Committee include: limiting security risks, assessment of rehabilitation needs and maintaining the good order & security of all institutions within the Michigan Department of Corrections (MDOC).
As I read this, an inmate standing next to me translated: "However much time a motherfucker's got?-That's where they're sending his ass." Meaning, the longer the prison term-the higher the security.
I wondered why they didn't just say that, so everyone would understand, but then Rooster stood up and started imitating a southern lawyer.
"Irregardless of what this particular memorandum stipulates," he said, "Convict Classifications-are primarily determined-by the length of your adjudications."
"In other words," he grabbed his crotch, "The longer the dick-the longer the ride." He gave his pelvis a slight thrust, and everyone laughed.
"Man, sit your Perry Mason ass down, fool," the first guy said, smiling. "And mother-tuck all that mumbo jumbo M-D-O-C bullshit." He pointed at the memo. "It's very simple: If you're doing less than two years, you're going to camp. Up to five-medium-security. Anything higher, and you're going inside."
When inmates talked about going inside, they meant inside the walls of a close-custody prison. Inmates with long sentences, up to and including life, were sent there. They were surrounded by walls, motion sensors, razor wire, and gun towers. The older cons went to Jackson, while those of us under twenty-five went to the Michigan Reformatory (a.k.a. Gladiator School). At this point, I didn't know if the name the inmates had given the place was real or not, but I didn't want to find out.
Inmates with terms of up to five years were sent to medium-security. These prisons were surrounded by fences and gun towers, or armed jeeps patrolled the perimeter. Inmates who had been serving longer sentences inside the walls were transferred down to medium as soon as they got within five years of parole. Once they reached within two years, they were eligible for the camp program.
When I was called from the bullpen the second time, I was handed a document entitled, Inmate Outdates. Outdates were the earliest release dates we could be granted a parole. Good Time, time off for good behavior, had already been calculated.
"It don't mean you're getting out then," a guard said, "It just means them are the dates you could get out, assuming you don't lose no good time."
"They do it that way," an inmate with a B-number said, "because when they take the good time back from your ass, they figure you'll miss it more."
But for the moment, I was preoccupied with trying to
The classification process would take six weeks and would include a physical, educational and vocational testing, a psychological exam, and a hearing with the classification committee. But Inmate Classification should have been called Convict Orientation, considering how we were all being educated. Inmates who had been there before, explained to the rest of us how things were done. The men with older numbers, a B or C prefix, were treated with respect. While we were in the bullpen, however, we were all in the same position, so those who knew something were quick to brag about it.
There were dozens of prisons and camps in the state and tour different levels of security: Minimum, Medium, Close-Custody, and Maximum.
A memo, posted on the inside wall of the bullpen, explained classification:
Security Assignments are made in accordance with severity of crime, perceived dangerousness of inmate, length of incarceration, and past history of escape or violence.
Major concerns for the Committee include: limiting security risks, assessment of rehabilitation needs and maintaining the good order & security of all institutions within the Michigan Department of Corrections (MDOC).
As I read this, an inmate standing next to me translated: "However much time a motherfucker's got?-That's where they're sending his ass." Meaning, the longer the prison term-the higher the security.
I wondered why they didn't just say that, so everyone would understand, but then Rooster stood up and started imitating a southern lawyer.
"Irregardless of what this particular memorandum stipulates," he said, "Convict Classifications-are primarily determined-by the length of your adjudications."
"In other words," he grabbed his crotch, "The longer the dick-the longer the ride." He gave his pelvis a slight thrust, and everyone laughed.
"Man, sit your Perry Mason ass down, fool," the first guy said, smiling. "And mother-tuck all that mumbo jumbo M-D-O-C bullshit." He pointed at the memo. "It's very simple: If you're doing less than two years, you're going to camp. Up to five-medium-security. Anything higher, and you're going inside."
When inmates talked about going inside, they meant inside the walls of a close-custody prison. Inmates with long sentences, up to and including life, were sent there. They were surrounded by walls, motion sensors, razor wire, and gun towers. The older cons went to Jackson, while those of us under twenty-five went to the Michigan Reformatory (a.k.a. Gladiator School). At this point, I didn't know if the name the inmates had given the place was real or not, but I didn't want to find out.
Inmates with terms of up to five years were sent to medium-security. These prisons were surrounded by fences and gun towers, or armed jeeps patrolled the perimeter. Inmates who had been serving longer sentences inside the walls were transferred down to medium as soon as they got within five years of parole. Once they reached within two years, they were eligible for the camp program.
When I was called from the bullpen the second time, I was handed a document entitled, Inmate Outdates. Outdates were the earliest release dates we could be granted a parole. Good Time, time off for good behavior, had already been calculated.
"It don't mean you're getting out then," a guard said, "It just means them are the dates you could get out, assuming you don't lose no good time."
"They do it that way," an inmate with a B-number said, "because when they take the good time back from your ass, they figure you'll miss it more."
But for the moment, I was preoccupied with trying to
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