Superman

Superman

Walking around this place, you are always wondering, “Is this guy going to attack me? Am I going to have to defend myself?”

One incident in particular stands out as a particularly instructive case in point.

I was walking from the living unit on my way to college one day, and as I looked across the large field in the center of the institution, I saw another inmate, charging as fast as he can across the field, heading right for me. They call this stunt a “superman”, probably because you’d need that kind of kryptonic speed to actually reach ones intended target. At the same instant, I look over and see the security patrol realize what’s happening, and also start charging through the field on foot and in vans, in an attempt to cut superman off before he can reach me and the crowd I was walking with. Knowing this place, and seeing that superman is Latino, I quickly calculate that, I, being white, am not the intended target. The target is walking directly behind me, a group of African-Americans, also making their way to college. They see superman too, but, simply wanting to get to college, they just keep walking, shifting their books in case superman succeeds, but clearly banking on the security patrol to intercept him before he reaches them. Between his target and superman is a row of bleachers and a low masonry wall, which slows him down, allowing the security patrol to easily intercept him. They knock superman to the ground, dousing him in the face with pepper spray, and tackling him and putting him in cuffs. And all the while, all we can do is keep walking…there’s no sense in doing anything else, nor much of an incentive.

If you defend yourself, you’re likely to find yourself, like superman—hemmed up, sprayed, and sent to a “holding room”, which is a kind of isolation cell-block in the bowels of the regular living units. Though a lot of the guys will tell you that the holding rooms “ain’t nothin”, meaning they aren’t afraid of spending time in them, I think everyone for the most part is afraid of them—they are a powerful tool used by the institution to punish offenders through isolation. The holding rooms are absolutely dreadful places; dark, filthy, and depressing. Before the reforms began, offenders would languish for weeks in these cells.

Such is life in a youth prison. It is a life where anxiety and fear become permanent parts of ones own personality. Despite the fear of being a target from an unknown predator—whether it be a superman or a staff—you just keep on walking, keep on living as best you can a normal life, hoping someone or some turn of events will continue to intercept the threats, real or imagined, before they bear down on you.

After awhile, after years, the anxiety and fear normalizes. But in brief moments of safety and familiarity—like visits with family—the normalcy of your former life comes rushing back. And then you remember where you are.