Prison Camp: Daily Life
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
The following is another profile from my prison memoir, A Muddled Brotherhood, a collection of portraits of the men with whom I served my sentence in a federal prison camp. Like many of the inmates I came to know, Freddie was far more complicated than the crime that brought him there.
THE BARBER
Freddie was the preferred barber of the camp. He was a former Spanish drug dealer from Puerto Rico who also worked in the kitchen. He was a quiet, low-key person who spoke very little English and always greeted you in the halls with a smile.
There was nothing about Freddie that evoked a life of crime. Although heavily tattooed like the other Spanish inmates, his were all religious or family inscriptions. He had a large headshot of Jesus on the back of his right calf.
When he was cutting your hair, he didn’t even try to converse. He’d ask how you were when you sat down. But that was it.
The barber chair was the only comfortable chair in the camp, a soft faux-leather seat in the traditional barber mold. I would always fall asleep during our sessions. He charged three dollars in commissary items, and visitors used to compliment me on my haircuts.
In the halls, he always greeted me with a smile and a big round “John.” But it sounded more like “Jooohn.”
And in the kitchen, he was always upbeat, kidding with the other Spanish workers and always finding time to help me put away the dishes if I got behind.
Nothing was threatening about him.
But he was a big man, and I saw him working out one day in the exercise trailer doing hundreds of pushups and chin-ups in a row. He was a sneaky powerful man.
Everyone in the camp liked him. I doubt he had any enemies.
He had few visitors. Apparently, his family remained in Puerto Rico. I never did find out his background. I just know that he received a long sentence. He was down ten years when I arrived and had six or seven more to go when I was released.
It didn’t seem to make a lot of sense for the man I knew.
When it was announced that I was to be released, he came by my bunk, proceeded to bow slightly with a big smile, gave me a warm hug, and said the same “Jooohn.”
I think about Freddie a lot.
Such a sweet man, he was.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): More Stories from prison
If you’re new to White-Collar Journal, you can read earlier chapters and essays on incarceration, justice, and reentry at whitecollarjournal.com.
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What a wonderful snapshot of this enigmatic man. Such detailed description of his mannerisms and tattoos make me wonder what he did to be incarcerated for so long!
SL