Бесплатный фрагмент - Instructions for Survival in Prison

Chapter 1: Entry Security, or Where Are My Pants?

So, your new home. Not exactly a five-star hotel, unless you count the five stars on the guard’s shoulder straps who will now kindly help you undress. Welcome to the reception, newbie.

Forget your name. They’re calling you Fish right now. Because you’re fresh, you smell of fear and freedom, and all the hungry sharks in this concrete aquarium have already caught the scent of your flesh.

First comes the medical examination. You’ll be asked to “cough and bend over.” Relax, this isn’t an invitation to dance. It’s an initiation rite to ensure you’re not trying to sneak your modest dinner into the most inhospitable of places. Advice: cough genuinely. Fake coughs are not respected here.

Next comes the cloakroom. Your leather boots, Versace jeans, and iPhone go into a large bag labeled “Hopes and Dreams.” In return, you receive the official outfit: pants in orange, lime green, or some other shamefully bright color (the administration is trying to make you easily visible during an escape) and a pair of flip-flops that have clearly seen more footing than the floor of a public bathhouse.

Important life hack: try to get pants that fit. If they fall down, you’ll look like a clown. If they’re too tight, you’ll look like a sausage. And they don’t like either of those here. Your new look should scream, “I’m not looking for trouble, but my pants fit perfectly.”

And so, in your new guise, you walk down the hallway. The sound of slamming steel doors is the soundtrack to your new life. Remember this moment. This is the last time you’ll be taken anywhere alone. Ahead is a camera. And perhaps your future best friend, who stabbed his best friend to death for chewing too loudly.

Relax. It’s just the beginning.

Chapter 2: Who’s Who: Blacks, Mexicans, Whites. Or Who You Shouldn’t Share a Cell With

Remember once and for all, fish: an American prison isn’t a national melting pot where everyone comes to roast marshmallows around a campfire and sing “Kumbaya.” It’s more like a toxic, segregated high school prom where you’re invited against your will, and you can only dance with your own kind. Your race, skin color, facial tattoos, and even your zip code are your ticket into one of three main “clubs.” You have no choice. You’re already in. Realize this quickly, or your stay here will be very short and painful.

So, close-up:

1. The Blacks (African Americans).

These aren’t just guys from the street. Here, they’re structured like a Fortune 500 corporation, only instead of suits, they wear uniforms, and instead of stock, they trade kilos of drugs and contraband phones. Who’s in charge? Often, the Black Guerrilla Family (BGF) or the Nation of Islam. The BGF isn’t just a gang; it’s an army with its own ideology, history, and strict discipline. They can read Mao Zedong and engage in philosophical conversations, and then five minutes later, they’ll stab a goat to death for a debt of two packs of cigarettes. Don’t be fooled by their rhetoric about fighting the system — inside prison, they are the system.

How to identify them? Tattoos of dragons, cobras, the letters BGF, the acronym “Black Power,” portraits of Martin Luther King, Jr., or Mao (the irony here is thicker than prison baloney). They may speak a special slang that white people don’t understand.

What to do? Don’t stare. Ever. Don’t use the “N” word, even if you just sang an entire Kanye West album. Don’t try to fraternize with them; you’re not their bro. Respectful distance is your best friend. If you’re offered something (cigarettes, food), think twice — it could be a test or a debt that will break you.

Example from a police report (M.E.T.A. — Memos, Evidence, Tales & Anecdotes): “An incident occurred in cell 5B. A new inmate (white, 22), trying to be friendly, offered to let an African-American cellmate listen to his iPod ‘together.’ The cellmate interpreted this as an attempt by the white inmate to establish dominance over him and ‘lend’ him his music, which is an insult. As a result, the new inmate received a cut eyebrow and lost his iPod. The incident is closed.”

2. The Mexicans (Latinos).

They are often called “Mexicans” here, even if they are from El Salvador or Honduras. For them, the concept of “loner” does not exist. Their family is their gang, their brothers in arms. Their loyalty to each other is ironclad and fanatical. Betraying your gang here means certain death.

Who are the bosses? Mexican Mafia (La Eme), MS-13 (Mara Salvatrucha), Nuestra Familia. La Eme is the elite, the prison aristocracy, who can give orders even on the outside. MS-13 are ultra-violent guys known for their immediate and merciless violence. Their motto: “Kill, rape, control.”

How to identify them? Tattoos of spider webs, skulls, cemeteries, the letter “M” or “MS-13,” and images of the Virgin Mary (a powerful paradox, indeed). They often speak Spanish among themselves, even if they speak perfect English.

What to do? Avoid eye contact longer than necessary. Don’t touch their things. Not even accidentally. If you don’t speak Spanish, don’t try to show off your knowledge of the words from the show “Narcos.” They won’t appreciate it. They’re closed off and suspicious of all outsiders.

3. The Whites.

Yes, we’re not united either. We’re as disunited as a pack of cats forced into a sack. But in the face of common “enemies,” we can find temporary unity. Don’t expect brotherhood by default. Here, it’s every man for himself until proven otherwise.

·Who are the bosses? The Aryan Brotherhood (AB), the Nazi Lowriders, various skinhead groups. AB is the most powerful and brutal white gang. They’re not just racist; they’re a highly organized criminal organization. They control drug trafficking, gambling, and “justice” among whites. To join, you have to “do the job” — often by killing someone.

·How do you recognize them? Tattoos with swastikas, SS, lightning bolts, the number 88 (H is the eighth letter of the alphabet, HH stands for Heil Hitler), Celtic crosses, and the abbreviation AB. They may or may not be bald.

·What to do? If you’re white, you’ll automatically be put into the “common pot.” But that doesn’t mean you’ll be accepted. You must prove you’re not a snitch, a pedophile, or a weakling. You’ll be tested. They might ask, “What are you doing here?” or “What are you in jail for?” Your answer will determine your place. Don’t admire their tattoos. Don’t utter ideological slogans unless you’re prepared for the consequences.

General rule for everyone: Prison is a jungle where not the strongest survives, but the smartest. Your job is not to make friends, but to seek information. Be quiet, watch, and listen. Remember who talks to whom, who respects whom, who fears whom. Your eyes and ears are your most important weapons in the early days. And the best place for a newbie is in the shadows. Become invisible until you understand the rules of this fucked-up game.

And yes, forget about political correctness. There is none here. Here there is only the right of the strong, the law of the group, and cold, ruthless calculation.

Chapter 3: Prison Slang: From “Fish’ to “Shot Caller’. Or How Not to Screw Up with Your Mouth Opened

Prison isn’t just another planet with its own laws. It’s another universe with its own language. While on the outside you mangle slang to look cool, here you’re required to know it to survive. A misspelled word can cost you your teeth, or more. Imagine being thrown into a remote village where everyone speaks an ancient dialect and the locals are armed with sharpened toothbrushes. Here’s a rough phrasebook for this trip.

Basic Vocabulary for a Short Stay:

·Fish / Newfish: You. A fresh, just-caught catch. You reek of fear, ignorance, and impending vomit. While you’re a fish, everyone else is a shark. The goal is to stop being a fish as quickly as possible.

·Inmate / Convict: A prisoner. But there’s a nuance. Inmate is just a number in the system. Convict is a status. They’re a person who’s accepted the rules of the game, lives by the rules of thieves (or gangsters), and commands respect. You’ll only be called a convict when you prove you’re not a fish.

·Punk / Bitch: The most dangerous words in your new vocabulary. It’s not just an insult. It’s a death sentence. Punk is a weakling, someone who’s being used. Bitch is someone who’s already become someone’s property, someone’s “bitch.” If you’re called that seriously, it’s a declaration of war. You can’t ignore it. Either you respond (risking your life), or you accept this status, and your life turns into hell.

·Snitch / Rat: A snitch. Worse than a bitch. Worse than that. It’s a stigma for the rest of your life, and not just here. They beat him, they don’t talk to him, they can kill him at any moment. If you saw someone do something and they question you, you didn’t see anything. Your memory should suddenly become crystal clear.

·Shank / Shiv: A shiv. Not a knife. A knife is what cuts a steak on the outside. A shank is a work of art, carved from a toothbrush, a piece of metal from a bed, or a sharpened plastic fork. It is the ultimate currency, an instrument of justice, and an argument in disputes. See it on someone else? Forget it. See it pointed at yourself? Fight or flight.

·Five-O / The Man: Wardens, administration, cops. Enemies. Every single one of them. Don’t trust them. Don’t smile at them. Don’t do them favors. Any interaction with them in public will be considered snitching. Even if you just asked what time the library was open.

·Lockdown: A complete ban on movement. Everyone is locked in their cells. Usually means someone stabbed someone, there’s a riot, or the guards are looking for something. Your best friend in lockdown is your bunk and the ceiling to look at.

·The Hole / SHU (Special Housing Unit): A punishment cell. A solitary confinement cell. A place where people are sent for violations or for “safety.” Security there is questionable — the only thing you’re safe from is human contact. And sunlight. And proper food.

·Shot caller: The person who makes decisions. The boss. The gang leader or authority figure. Usually, their word is law for their group. Get to know them. Don’t cross them. Don’t argue with them. If a shot caller orders you to do something, it’s not a request.

A true story from M.E.T.A. (Memos, Evidence, Tales & Anecdotes):

“Prisoner D. (white, 25, first-term) was in the common dining hall. Hearing another prisoner say, ‘pass the salt, man,” he decided to be friendly and quickly grabbed a salt shaker to pass it. The problem was, ‘pass the salt,” in this context, wasn’t referring to salt. It was a code between two gang members, meaning ‘pass the shiv we smuggled.” D., unfamiliar with the slang, made the act of passing the forbidden item publicly visible. A fight broke out involving three gangs, as everyone assumed it was a provocation or a hoax. D. himself was stabbed in the arm, as he was perceived as the middleman in the deal who had ‘blowed the whistle’. The incident was resolved after a two-week lockdown. Prisoner D. now goes by the nickname “Salty.”

Conclusion: Language here isn’t just words. It’s codes, orders, insults, and declarations of war. Be silent. Listen. Absorb like a sponge. Before you speak, run the phrase through your head three times. Better to be known as a silent person than to be the one who said the last stupid thing in their life.

Chapter 4: Solitary Confinement Unit (SHU): Your New Personal Hell

If General Population is a wild jungle, then the Special Housing Unit, or SHU (pronounced “shoo”), is an icy desert in the back of your mind. People end up there for serious infractions. Or just for fun, as a precaution. Or because the guard got out of bed on the wrong side of the bed. Welcome to a concrete cocoon where your only conversation is the voice in your head, and it’s starting to get on your nerves.

Imagine a room. Three steps long. Two steps wide. All you have is a concrete bunk bed set into the floor (sometimes with a paper-thin mattress), a lidless toilet, and a sink, all made of stainless steel. The door is a solid sheet of steel with a small “stern hatch” and a narrow window made of bulletproof glass. The light is on 24/7. You can’t turn it off. It creeps under your eyelids, even when you’re trying to sleep. It eats away at your thoughts, leaving behind only a bright, irritating white spot.

Time flows differently here. It doesn’t march, it trickles, like a leaky faucet. You begin to live by rituals, because they’re the only thing that gives you any sense of purpose.

6:00 AM. Keys scrape against steel, the hatch opens. Breakfast. Cold oatmeal or something incomprehensible that you can stuff into your mouth without looking. You no longer notice the taste. You notice the guard’s hands. White gloves. They always wear gloves when they touch you or your things.

9:00 AM. The only way out. “Walk.” You’re led to the next open-air concrete cage, the size of a dog run. Bars overhead. The sky is a gray square, broken into diamonds by steel mesh. Occasionally, a bird flies past. You follow her with your eyes until she disappears. This is the highlight of your day.

12:00 PM. Lunch. The hatch opens again. Sometimes you try to talk to the guard. Ask what day it is. He doesn’t answer. He looks through you as if you were nothing. To him, you are a bag of bones that needs to be fed and kept clean until the end of your sentence.

3:00 PM. You start talking to yourself. First in a whisper. Then louder. You recall old conversations. Argue with an imaginary opponent. You recount the plots of movies you saw ten years ago. Books you never finished reading. Names begin to float away. Dates get mixed up.

6:00 PM. Dinner. Same procedure. Same white gloves. You already hate this color.

9:00 PM. Trying to sleep. The light is in your eyes. You cover your head with a T-shirt, but then you hear everything else. The pounding of your own heart. The creaking of metal somewhere in the distance. The scream of another prisoner in a similar cell two cells away. He’s been yelling the same word for three weeks now. At first, you were angry. Now you wait for his scream. It confirms that you’re not alone in this concrete wasteland.

Occasionally, a miracle happens. Someone is moved into the cell next to you. And then you can communicate. Not by voice — that’s forbidden. You knock. In Morse code, or in your own, made up on the spot. Knock. Knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock. It’s a risk. The guards don’t like knocking. But it’s worth it. To know someone else is there. To hear someone answer. Even if it’s just a knock on the wall.

One day, the knocking from the cell across from you stops. Forever. And you’re left alone again with the white light and the voice in your head, which no longer seems such an interesting companion. You begin to understand that the scariest thing in SHU isn’t the bars, the cold, or the food. It’s the quiet, methodical whisper of madness that creeps up on you every night and asks if you want to play dice with it.

Chapter 5: General Population: Wildlands

SHU is a quiet, sterile nightmare. General Population, or Gen Pop, is a loud, smelly, chaotic menagerie. If solitary confinement was an icy desert, here it’s a jungle teeming with predators, and you’re fresh meat again. The door opens, and you’re thrust into this new world. The first thing that hits you is the sound. The banging of metal doors, the roar of voices, laughter, shouts, the clanking of locks. It’s deafening after the silence of solitary confinement.

Your mission for the first few days is to become a shadow. An invisible man. You must move without attracting attention, like an Indian in the forest who knows a bear with a shank could be lurking behind every tree. Memorize the routes: from your cell to the dining hall, from the dining hall to the courtyard, from the courtyard to the library (if there is one). No casual strolls. Every step you take must have a purpose. Stand in line, look at the floor, but scan the surrounding area out of the corner of your eye. Sit in the cafeteria, choose a seat by the wall, with your back to the concrete, so you can see everything in front of you. Never sit with your back to the aisle.

Boundaries are everything here. Each clique has its own territory in the dining room, its own tables in the cafeteria, its own corner in the courtyard. Crossing these invisible lines is mortally dangerous. Whites hang out with whites, blacks with blacks, Latinos with Latinos. This isn’t a debate club; it’s a matter of survival. If you’re white and accidentally sit at a table with Mexicans, they’ll politely, or maybe not so politely, show you your seat. If you don’t understand the first time, they’ll explain it with their hands.

Your race is your ticket to entry. You’ll automatically be assigned to one of the “clubs.” This doesn’t mean you’ll be immediately accepted into the family. It means they expect loyalty from you. You may not like all your “brothers of color,” but betraying them is signing your own death warrant. You’ll be tested. You’ll be given minor tasks: passing a note, following a guard, hiding a homemade shank. Refusal is a sign of weakness or that you’re a snitch. Agreement is the first step into a game from which there is no turning back.

A true story from M.E.T.A.:

At San Quentin Prison, a newcomer, a white guy nicknamed “Kid,” decided that the segregation rules were nonsense. He grew up in a liberal neighborhood and believed in equality. On his first day, he approached a group of black inmates in the yard and asked for a light.

They didn’t beat him. They didn’t even raise their voices. The oldest of the group, a seasoned veteran nicknamed “Moses,” simply looked at him with a slight smirk. “Kid,” he said calmly. “You’re like a puppy who approached a pack of wolves and offered to play ball. The wolves aren’t mean. They’re just surprised by your stupidity. They’re wondering if you’re edible.”

The kid was politely given a cigarette and equally politely asked never to approach them again. The next day, one of his fellow white men explained to him, using his fingers, that his liberal experiment could have ended in a visit to the infirmary. The kid understood. He survived not because he was tough, but because he encountered not cruelty, but weary condescension toward his idiocy. It doesn’t always happen that way.

Days at Gen Pop follow a routine: wake-up, roll call, breakfast, time in the yard, lunch, more time in the cell or workshops, dinner, lights out. But beneath this veneer of order, another life rages. Cigarettes, drugs, and phone cards are traded. Bets are made, disputes are settled, destinies are decided.

You have to learn to read the atmosphere. Tension hangs in the air before a fight, like the smell of ozone before a thunderstorm. Voices become quieter, movements sharper, glances more intense. When you see groups starting to huddle together and the guards exchanging nervous glances, it means blood will soon be spilled. Your task at this point is to get as far away as possible. In your cell. In the library. Anywhere away from prying eyes and flying fists.

Gen Pop is a game of survival where it’s impossible to remain completely pure. You’ll get dirty. You’ll do things you’ll regret later. You’ll remain silent when you should have spoken. And you’ll speak when you should have kept silent. The main thing is to walk this path and remain yourself in the only place where it still matters: deep inside, where no one’s gaze reaches.

Chapter 6: Showers: Don’t Drop the Soap!

There are places in prison where the laws of the Gen Pop jungle cease to be metaphorical and become literal. And first on that list is the shower. This is not a place to relax under a stream of hot water. It’s a ring. A battlefield. There are no cells, no guards with batons at the door, no fellow racers ready to lend a shoulder. There’s only you, a slippery floor, steam, and a dozen naked, wet bodies, any one of which could be your latest nightmare.

Rule number one, which should have been burned into the inside of your skull back in quarantine: Soap. Don’t. Drop. Never. Under Any Circumstances.

If your bar of soap slips from your hands and lands on the wet floor, it doesn’t mean you’re going to smell like sweat. It means you just announced an auction for your ass to the entire block. By bending over to pick it up, you expose yourself. You become vulnerable. You lower your head and lift your butt. In a world where every gesture is code, bending over for soap is a universal signal: “I’m ready to become someone’s bitch.”

So the strategy is simple: soap on a string. Or in a sock. Tie it to your wrist, to the faucet, to anything. Make it physically impossible to drop. If disaster strikes and the bar of soap is lying on the floor, forget about it. It’s no longer your soap. It’s bait. Turn around and walk wet and unwashed back to your cell. Better to smell of sweat than blood.