Prison Camp: Daily Life
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
The following is another portrait from A Muddled Brotherhood, my prison memoir and collection of portraits of the men with whom I served in a federal prison camp. Steve was my closest friend in camp, mentoring me through the traumatic early days of incarceration and the difficult period of adjustment that followed.
THE QUIET MAN
Steve was the quintessential ‘Quiet Man.’ His strength was understated and it was easy to underestimate him. But over time, no one did. Sixty years old, unlucky and unfairly accused, he remained an optimist. He was one of the few I met who seemed legitimately innocent. Most, if not all of the others, me included, sold polished and edited resumes. Part of it was his great faith. He led a bible study group that focused on the bible rather than any religious institution. But I didn’t believe that was the foundation of all his optimism. There was nothing manufactured about him. His was an inherent gift. Nothing could break him. Even prison.
He was respected by everyone, including the Black guys and he had a special relationship with the Spanish guys. I never learned the genesis of it, but they brought him fruit every day from the kitchen. He had few enemies, but those he did have feared him. Even the staff grew to respect him. There was a dog training program at the prison camp and Steve was the most skilled dog trainer in the program. He was the only inmate to train several “certified” dogs—the highest level of accomplishment. He had left the program when I arrived. But all the guys who were still in the program kept coming to him for advice.
He had had a hard life in many ways. You wouldn’t know it to look at him. I would have guessed that he was brought up just like me: a comfortable solid family life. But his father abandoned the family, and he went out on his own at 15. He was somehow able to work and go to school. He was an exceptional athlete, which was the baseline to keep him out of trouble and lure him to college.
He found me, seemingly, from out of nowhere on my second day. He just appeared in front of my bunk. I was barely awake, sitting on my bed, the lower bunk, and freezing cold from the meat-locker that was the dorm from October to May. We said we would always remain friends. We talked about guys who made promises to others, only to bail after being released. Together, we spoke harshly about those kinds of people. But I’m out now. And I haven’t reached out to him. And I don’t think I will. I don’t know what that is. That’s what prison does, I guess. It takes everything you came in with and everything you left behind. I never knew anyone like him. I probably never will.
When Steve was released it was just about the time when the period of adjustment was over. Prison had become what he predicted: “you finally realize that prison is home.”
After he was released, I went back to being the ghost.
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
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