"No man's education is complete unless he has served time in a penal institution,"

Sir Stafford Cripps..

The main feeling I had when the steel-barred cage door slammed behind me with the clang that was going to announce all my movements for the next three years, was relief. At last the long months on remand in Brownsville’s tiny county jail was over. The court, in the shape of Judge Darrel Hester, had made its ruling; with the help of collusion with his buddies in Texas State law enforcement and the FBI. I had been sentenced to 12 years in the Texas Department of Corrections, or TDC, and I now found myself in the Wynne Farm Unit of the infamous Huntsville State Prison complex, historically one of the most severe and cruel penal institutions in the United States.

Everyone is glad to get out of county jail. The accommodation is basic, dark and hot, especially on the Texas/Mexico border. More than half the population were the worst kind of Chicanos: violent, drugged and practically mindless. Only good thing was you had your own “peter,” cell. Only half an hour exercise every day in a handkerchief-sized area with a steel mesh roof and one basketball hoop. On my first day, an idiot booted a basketball (heavy!) straight into my face; I saw red and tried to catch him, but he was too fast for me. Having seen how angry I got and I weight 250 pounds, they left me alone after that. It was just sheer provocation.

The sheriff gave four of us a ride to the “Joint” (state prison) after the 8 months it took to sentence me, a wearying and boring time which entailed going to court time after time.; we were shackled for the journey, but no leg braces.

We were booked into TDC, showered and issued jailhouse blues. I had hardly chucked the few bits of personal possessions I had brought with me from County: toothbrush, toothpaste and some medication I was taking for high blood pressure, when, with a sound like a train pulling into a station, the doors all along the landing slide open again. “What now,” I asked my cellmate-to-be, a Chicano, or Mexican American, by the name of Johnny.

“Wee gonna eet, vato,” he announced, the Mexican accent pronounced. In truth, Chicanos speak neither English nor Spanish well, but seem to communicate in a sort of patois composed of both languages amongst themselves. As I had lived in Mexico and spoke fluent Spanish, I got on well with the “Texmex’s” And being British was a bit of a novelty.

The third landing’s steel grating vibrated and rang to the sound of about 60 marching feet as the cells emptied; we joined the other prisoners from 4, 2 and the ground floor landings, proceeding down the iron stairs and headed along the corridor to the dining room. This was a huge, noisy cavern, painted starkly white, with about 200 fixed stainless steel tables and wooden topped stools. There was a guard on each corner. On the right there was the servery where about 10 inmates in white were dishing out the lunch for the day. I remember my first meal there: leg and thigh of chicken, mashed potatoes, peas and some pie in custard for desert. It was actually tasty, well cooked and a generous portion. I was to find out that food in TDC was about the only pleasure in life and unfailingly good.

After lunch, it was back to the cell and the walls began to close in as I waited for exercise. During this period, a slip was passed under the door telling me I had been assigned to the typing pool. Rather mysterious, as I had never mentioned typing and, in fact, was hopeless at it..

You are lucky in state prison if you a) get a compatible cell mate, or b) you get one with an IQ larger than his belt size. Johnny, for a Chicano - they are notoriously proud, hot-headed and quick to take offense at a perceived slight - was OK. He was scrupulously clean, a trait Chicanos tend to share. But he smoked: nearly all convicts smoke, and this was before the days when it was forbidden in the cell-blocks. The state gives out free tobacco, universally hated but used by all indigent prisoners (those without money on the books to buy “tailor made” cigarettes and other treats in the prisoner’s stores). The state tobacco, called Bugler, smells like dried camel shit, this smell was to be a constant part of my life for the next three years - after a while, I got used to it, of course. What I never got used to was the noise. American prisons generally don’t have rooms with doors which close like British prisons do. They are just large, barred rows of cages with a solid floor and rear wall. They are open to people passing in front and to the neighbours at both sides. There are four floors of these cages, housing some 250 convicts in each block. Wynne Farm had, if my memory serves, 8 cell blocks and 4 dormitory blocks. So there was something like 2,500 men serving sentences from about one year to 300 years (life without parole of course) for serious felonies ranging from armed robbery to murder-with-mayhem. There was also a death -row with 60 inmates on it during my time, several of which were put to death. When a prisoner was due to be executed, we were all locked down in case of trouble. No one, even the guards, like death by lethal injection. (Rather ghoulishly, Texas has recently released the last words of those put to death in the “death chamber.” They were previously held to be confidential)

The dorms have a day room at the end of each level where cons can go and watch TV - places to be avoided I found. Prisoners were allowed small TV’s and large ghetto-blaster radios. They were turned down at night, but the warders (called bosses) weren’t happy about leaving their comfortable central control nacelle and calling on individuals to turn the radio down. So there were radios playing night and day; mainly black prisoners calling to each other from cell to cell or even over the landing to the next level. We all got well used to hearing, “Heeeey, muthafucka! The blacks also called each other “Niggah” But if a white boy said it, fight was on. The noise was intolerable; most of the cons had spent most of their lives in institutions, so they treated Huntsville like a holiday camp, or their second home.

The first thing I got hold of was a pair of ear plugs and kept them in for so long, I got severe ear infections, one needing a scraping, which was one of the most painful things I have ever had done to me. The ear is very sensitive inside.

You learn very soon to keep away from a) drugs (freely available at a price 2) pruno (jail hooch) likewise 3) homosexuals (There are many gay men in prison and homosexuality is not greatly discouraged. They freely had sex in the communal showers, even in front of other cons. You learned to turn a blind eye to it, because the “sugar-daddies” fiercely protected their “bitches,” and talked of “wives” and “husbands;“ it was better to not even be seen talking to them). Many of the “bitches” tried to get re-sentenced after release to get back to their “old man.”

Other things to be avoided were borrowing anything: tobacco, drugs (especially) or money (illegally carried). Most injuries and deaths in the general population of prisons are behind unpaid loans or homosexuality. It is far rarer for convicts to be judgemental about each other’s crimes. The information is not available; no one discusses it and no one really cares. You have to “get on to get on.” You walk a straight line, keep your own council and stay uninvolved. The one word you hear all the time is “Diss,” as in disrespect. A hardened con, in prison for life for knifing his wife to death, for example, has to be respected, no matter what. To loose face in there is to be called a “Pussy,” and to be avoided at all costs.

You do hear a lot about gangs, or racial divisions in prison, a lot of it true or nearly so. There are three main groups: the Aryan Brotherhood - white, mainly rednecks. The La Nuestra Familia. Mexican Mafia, or La Raiza, The Race. Chicanos and Mexicans from Mexico. And the Black Guerrillas, or the Brothers, the black gangs, most of whom are Muslims these days. More have been added recently, I know nothing of these. To a certain extent, gang affiliation was not strong in Wynne and it was to keep well away from.

I had only been working in the typing pool for a few weeks and could get around the keyboard slowly. We were, among other things, typing applications for Texas state driving licences and birth certificate copies! This by 50 hairy-assed cons, half of which were in there for some kind of white-collar scam. I wonder to this day how many phoney licences and ID’s originated in the Texas Department of Corrections typing pool!

I had changed cell mates, Johnny having gone on to a pre-release program. Also called John, my new cellmate had shot both his parents to death He was also one of the most highly educated and intelligent people I have ever met in my life; he had several degrees, including two master‘s degrees. John was an urbane, polished and charmingly serious gentleman. He was only slightly built, but I knew then that there was a strict limit on how far you could go in funning with him. I liked John Indo… a whole lot. He eventually married a prison visitor and the last I heard, he was out and making a life for himself somewhere in Texas. He was locked up for 17 years, from the age of 18, all his early promise destroyed by that one moment of madness and he was refused parole so many times. (Please note that I have now heard John is doing well and is an established author and lecturer based in Houston. He makes no secret of his incaceration and you can find him on the internet under John L. Indo and see his books on offer. Well done John! I knew you would turn your life around; congratulations to you both from me).

I had just become more or less resigned to serving a part of this 12-year sentence (you never knew how long you would serve until the parole board, after your yearly meeting, decided to give you a chance and set your release date - I was to be there 3 years as stated). The job was easy if monotonous, the food was OK, and I had signed-on for various activities, including AA, college and weight lifting, all which would help me and possibly impress the parole board. I also discovered I had some talent as a poet, which would result in an anthology some 20 years later., much of it written in my TDC “garret.”

I could get books, my mainstay throughout life, and was reading one on my bunk one day, when I heard a scuffle outside on the landing. I ignored this with the usual policy of keeping my own council, when a voice groaned “Help me!” I went to the bars and saw a someone we know well and liked, “Tattoo,” as he was nicknamed, the cell block cleaner, sprawled on the landing with blood beginning to spread out around him and fall through the grating to the landings below. Despite us all from several cells yelling for the guards, the lazy uncaring pricks took 20 minutes to get up there. Poor Tattoo had uttered not a sound since his weak call for help and had bled to death as he laid there, his heart, liver and other organs pierced by 30 shiv thrusts. It had happened so fast, we had not even seen the assailants, not that we could have snitched if we had and become the next victims. Shivs are jailhouse knives, made from anything that will take a point.

They caught the two Aryan gang members who killed - murdered - Tattoo (I can’t remember his name - or theirs). It was over a small gambling debt I heard. They got life, to be added to the life sentences they were already serving. Which is why prison can be so dangerous when you are surrounded by killers who have nothing to loose by putting another poor soul in the ground.

You have to have a job in Huntsville, or be kept in Seg. (segregation) with no canteen or other perks.

I was lucky and snared a job working on the trustee’s weight area, finally escaping the tedium of the typing pool. The trusties were just that, cons who had behaved for a while and got the top jobs, some of which meant they had to go outside the walls (actually 20-foot, double wire fences with razor wire on top. Dogs and armed guards patrolled between the outer and inner fence). Mine was a plum job and just involved polishing the equipment and sweeping around the concrete pad. I could use the weights and stay out all day in the fresh air, only having to remain in place for the count (every couple of hours), for food and for lock-down in the evening. Then I would come out to school, so I was never in the cell for long and in fact had now been transferred to a dormitory, I was to keep this job and billet for the remaining 2 1/2 years of my stay..

Dorm life was a little different. You felt less like a caged animal, but you lost the security and peace of your own cell. This was especially missed when it was time to take a dump. Sitting on a cold, porcelain toilet rim in the middle of several other hairy cons, farting, straining and smoking Bugler rollups has to be experienced to really be felt. Well, I could never manage it, and used to sneak out at night and do my best. My sojourn has left me with life-long constipation from the days of having to hold it until I was alone!

I suppose a year went by, counting the days, seeing the parole board and been turned away for another year; having no idea when it all would end.

We had been let out for the evening meal one day and were walking past the cell blocks, when a huge crash sounded with a noise like a melon hitting concrete. I learned that day that this is the sound a head also makes when it hits an unyielding surface. Some con had been thrown off the fourth landing and literally bounced off the wire safety net on the first floor and hit the ground, passing the edge of the net. Before we got hurried on, I could see the bloke, covered in blood again and not moving. As it turned out, he wasn’t killed but was made paraplegic. They said he had criss-cross scars all over his face from hitting the wire safety net. Some good that was!

Apart from these two major violent incidents, there was some fight or disturbance going on most days. I had a couple of fights, in one I dislocated my back, in another, got kicked in the, ahem, privates…that does hurt, chaps and makes you sick. But I managed to get a strangle hold on my opponent until we were separated, so honours were about even. And there was no need (or ability) to, er, relieve yourself for a week or so. That, incidentally, was another disadvantage of dorm life. You just got settled for a good one, Pamela Anderson floating dreamily in your minds eye, when you sensed movement. Who’s peeping at me!? The old Hampton obeys gravity mighty fast I can tell you. In Mexico, you can have sex visits from your girl or a prostitute. Even California and other states allow weekend visits from wives, but not Texas, buddy! “Y’all heah to serve your goddam punishment.” (I heard this has changed in 2009 and the so called “f--k visits“ are now allowed).

And so went my life for three years. During the last part of the third year, I visited the parole board for the third time. After an anxious wait, I was given my parole date in about two months time.: October 15^th., 1986. This was an exhilarating time for convicts: knowing it was nearly all over. Most would return again…and again. Recidivism is very high, mainly due to drugs and alcohol, plus low IQ; no real education, non-existent home lives and little economical prospects. In many ways, prison just becomes an expensive way of housing society’s misfits. There was one convict who also said to the jibes of prison officers, “No way, Jose, you won’t see me in one of these places again.” And I never will by conscious act.

I shall be adding to this story as more events occur to me and I add notes about TDC, etc., etc. It’s not a gripping account. In real life, these places are more sad than entertaining. But if Sir Stafford Cripps was right, “Every man should spend some time in penal servitude,” then I will have gained. I “did the crime and I did the time.” Plus earning 99% of an Associates Degree at Lee College; writing a lot of articles, contributing to the prison paper and trying to get something from the experience so the time wasn’t completely wasted.