Prison Camp: Prisoners Anthem
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
In keeping with the recent focus on daily life in the camp, this essay captures an unexpected moment of shared experience—drawn from a portrait in my collection, A MUDDLED BROTHERHOOD, a collection of prison portraits.
Prisoners Anthem
In prison, sleep is the only balm. But there’s no more solitary feeling than settling into our tiny beds, in the darkness after lights out. Mine a lower bunk, staring at the steel frame above me and waiting to hear the heavy breathing of my bunkmate after falling asleep. It was at those moments, I’d think about Judge Bolden telling me I was not connected to humanity and disconnected to “everything that makes life meaningfull and worthwhile.” One night changed everything.
Brian Nelson, a long-termer at the camp, walked the track with a guitar. Everyone called him Nelson. He told me that there were three sex offenders in the main prison, named Brian, and he didn’t want to be confused with them. He didn’t walk the track often and only during the summer. A former long-hauler, he was seasoned, having served eight years when I met him, but surprisingly not bitter. He was always on a diet, but none seemed to work. He told me that during his time in prison, he had lost fifty pounds twice and put it back on twice. He was one of the few balding inmates who didn’t succumb to the popular shaved head. He certainly didn’t look like a singer-songwriter. But he was. Every once in a while, you’d see him strumming while meandering around the track, moving from the inside lane to the outside lane in a deliberate stride. Pausing, stopping, and never acknowledging anyone, he seemed oblivious to those passing him by. I’d hear melodies and lyrics that were very familiar. Still, none were anything I’d ever heard, because he made them up as he walked.
I was aware of Nelson from the first day I arrived. He was a big man and had a notable presence—a “been here and figured it out” aura about him. He didn’t greet the newcomers, but he seemed to know everybody, and everybody knew him, even the guards. Like he was part of the furniture or the fabric of the prison. I’d see him passing in the halls, always looking straight ahead and seemingly comfortable with that. Passing in the halls was a serious matter to deal with. We passed each other tens of times each day, going to the mess hall, the bathrooms, traversing the dorm, attending programs, or making calls to the office. Everyone adopted their own protocols. Saying hi each time, waving, a grunt, a “what’s up,” or just looking straight ahead. Most of those looked forced and uncomfortable. But Nelson looked like it was no problem for him. Like he’d been doing it for so long, he wasn’t even aware anyone was with him walking those prison corridors.
For a short period, he relocated to a bunk next to mine. Inmates are often relocated to be near a friend, change bunkmates, or for a perceived preferred location: near the bathroom, a windowed bunk, or distance from a problem. Geography, more than anything, makes friends or enemies in prison. So, Nelson became part of my life. Just before and after the last Count, he’d end up in my bunk or me in his, and I got to know him.
“I had a co-conspirator,” he told me one night. “Mother fucker sold me out. I didn’t get it. I don’t think it even helped him. He got more time than I did. Truth is. I’m not even pissed at him. These cocksucking prosecutors sell you all sorts of shit and then don’t help anyone.”
“What’s a co-consipirator?” I asked. Not really wanting to know. But I wanted to hear more about the story.
“You know. Another guy in it with you,” he said. But paused at first, looking around as if concerned that he was vulnerable to further punishment if someone overheard our conversation.
I had nothing to add, so I changed the subject.
“How did you like long-hauling?” I asked.
“Fucking loved it. Not great for the marriage. But, shit, I loved it.”
“So what got you here?”
He smiled, then began to laugh to himself.
“My buddy. Co-conspirator. What a joke. Believe me. Neither of us could conspire to shit. Two assholes with a dream. Had a scheme to pack some drugs into a haul through Canada. A piece of cake, we thought. Anyway, didn’t work out. We got twelve years. Eight down now. What’s your story?” But before I could answer, he followed up with, “How the fuck did you get 85 months at your age. Jeeze. Kill somebody?”
I didn’t want to get into it. I’d been editing my bios like everyone else. But Nelson’s honesty won me over.
“Long story. But I fucked up, and a lot of money was lost.” Then I changed the subject.
“How’d you start writing songs?”
“There’s a guitar in the workout room. I just picked it up one day. Listening to country songs while long-hauling kept me alive. So, while guys were working out, I’d fool with the guitar. The guys complained, so I took it out on the track and played there while walking. I figured I’d do two things. Learn to play the guitar and exercise. When I started playing, I was in a “put on weight” phase.
Nelson tapped me on the shoulder with a knowing look, like we were comrades, if not new friends. After that, he was in my bunk almost every night.
Then, one night, just before Count, he came into my bunk and told me he was going to organize a camp sing-along of the Inmate’s Anthem, which I had never heard of. He said I might not know it, but I would be able to figure it out and sing along with the rest of the camp. I was skeptical as I don’t have a great ear, but I said I’d try. He had a loud voice, and he was able to surprisingly quiet the entire dorm. The start was intermittent and soft; the Spanish guys weren’t even trying at first. But with each verse, more inmates joined in, and eventually everyone got into it. It was so loud I was afraid a CO would come back and start sending guys to the Shoe.
FIRST VERSE:
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU GO FUCK YOURSELF
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
SECOND VERSE:
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU GO FUCK YOURSELF
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
THIRD VERSE:
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU GO FUCK YOURSELF
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
And on and on. By the third verse, the whole camp was singing loudly, lustily, heartily, and everyone was smiling and laughing. I couldn’t name the melody, but it was familiar and easy to sing along to. One of the best nights in camp. In some ways, the obvious was more nuanced than when I first heard it. But at the moment, I enjoyed the fun, the laughing, and the place. Over time, the words began to sink in. I thought about Judge Bolden and his words about being disconnected from humanity. When I arrived, I entered a community of the disconnected. All wary of each other, none wanting to be connected to each other. As if our connection to each other only confirmed our disconnection from the world we longed to return to. And so, we quickly gravitated to our tribes: Hispanic, Black, and White. But on this night, we were a community. You could almost feel a collective hug. One of the Spanish dishwashers flashed me a thumbs-up while shouting the lyrics. And so I came to understand that, upon arrival, all inmates experience this detachment and are branded as outcasts from society. And this is the anthem of the exiled. FUCK YOU.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
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.
Thank you for reading White-Collar Journal. Subscribing is free, and I hope you’ll continue with me as I explore stories of incarceration, justice, and redemption.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
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