Sorting Hat, DOC Edition

From Taylor to Butler to Lawtey, and the thin line between surviving and becoming what the system wants you to be

Walking into the transfer area, I have one thought on my mind. Am I transferring to Lawtey or Wakulla CI. The officers don’t ever tell you where you’re transferring, for security reasons. Trying to figure out which prison I’m going to is driving me nuts. I don’t want to go to Wakulla because it would be further from home. I’m hoping Lawtey’s my destination.

Glancing into the room, I see about fifteen guys waiting to be transferred. I hear an officer saying he can tell us that thirteen inmates are going to Wakulla and only two are transferring to Lawtey. My heart starts to beat rapidly. I know one of the orderlies and decide to take a chance.

I whisper, “Bruh, can you tell me which spot I’m going to,” and he says he’ll try. About fifteen minutes later, he comes up behind me and whispers one word.

“Lawtey.”

My heart fills with relief.

I know where I’m going now. Not only am I thrilled, but I know my family will be also, especially my mom. After nearly four years at maximum security institutions, I never thought this day would become a reality. I was sure my bid would be at Main Unit maximum security institutions. To be transferred to a faith or character-based program requires you stay out of trouble for at least six months before you can even sign up for a transfer. For whatever reason, they kept me on the list of inmates throughout the state who signed up for the opportunity for transfer. I signed up when I first got to Taylor. I thought going to the box and the walking DR would cancel the transfer. Thank God it didn’t.

Taylor’s a living hell.

My family has supported me through it all. The transfer isn’t only something that’s good for me but is, more importantly, beneficial to my family. This is big news. I can finally relax a little.

I’m anxious to call home. Lake Butler’s my first stop before Lawtey because everyone has to go through the sorting hat there first. It feels like a new year at Hogwarts. I can’t wait to hear what my parents will say about me leaving Taylor. I know Mom hated Butler, but I’ll only be there a few days. I know what Dad will say about the whole thing. The same thing he always says. “Do good, be good.”

I plan on it.

What will Lawtey be like.

The bus pulls up to Taylor’s prison transfer area, a fenced off section with guards, where buses can safely load or unload inmates without the risk of escape, an hour and a half later. Our ankles are shackled. I grab my property, which is secured in my canteen bag. The bus is crammed with prisoners, most of them smoking and yelling out the windows. The Bluebird looks like a giant dragon breathing smoke. This is a real transfer, alright. I’m about to enter the dragon like Bruce Lee.

Stepping onto the bus is like walking through a sweat lodge. It’s sweltering, filled with smoke from tobacco and K 2 joints and a bunch of sweating bodies. There are guys gooking (not the Vietnam racial slur, but prison slang for being extremely messed up, not sure why?) from K 2, flopping around on the floor like they’re having a seizure. It’s amazing the transfer officers are sitting up front talking to each other as though we aren’t even there. Stepping over the bodies, I’m able to find a seat in the back.

Around this time, the prisons are full and overcrowded. The Florida DOC stopped putting people to death for some legal reason and Closed Management is being emptied because the state shut down a few prisons. Closed Management is basically long-term isolation for guys the DOC says are too dangerous for the compound. That means the guys on the bus with me are being transferred from death row or are fresh out of CM. It’s chaotic. We have a real recipe for a wild, memorable ride.

It turns out that two really close friends of mine are on the bus. Stew and Bosnia.

I’d worked with Stew in the hospital at Lake Butler. We transferred to Suwannee together during the supposed riot. Left Suwannee together. Were transferred to Taylor together. Now, we are leaving Taylor to go to Lawtey together. Wow. It’s a small miracle in the DOC. We laugh like crazy and give each other daps and a huge embrace.

Bosnia.

I get to see him again after all. He’s being sent to Columbia CI.

Columbia has a holding area in the prison for Immigration and Customs Enforcement. After dapping him up and another embrace, the three of us vibe out. We’re laughing about all the dudes smoking K 2 and gooking out. We are listening to the death row inmates talk shit. These guys are amazed to be off death row and can’t believe guys are rolling cigarettes with toilet paper wrap and brown paper towels. They’re shocked they now have to buy a piece of a cigarette for two dollars, only to roll it in toilet tissue.

“What kinda toilet ass, pussy ass, fucking toilet paper ass shit is this.”

One death row inmate’s pissed he’s off the row.

“Man, we had TVs and motherfucking real cigarettes and weed. All you young motherfuckers smoking this crazy K 2 spice bullshit. Look at that brutha over there. He’s fucked up.”

He points and we all look.

Sure enough, this guy’s in between the seats, flopping all around with drool hanging out of his mouth, pooling on the floor, covered in vomit. In a way, it’s crazy, but at the same time, it’s funny and ridiculous. No wonder people have a negative opinion about prisoners.

The transfer bus stops at four different prisons before we pull onto Lake Butler West Unit’s compound. All of us still on the Bluebird are going to be housed here.

From Lake Butler, the buses drive to certain areas within the state on certain days. Even though a bus might be heading toward Lawtey, that doesn’t always guarantee you’ll be on that particular bus. You might have to wait. The powers that be decide when you leave. When you get to the West Unit or any other transfer area throughout the state, you never know when you’ll really transfer. There’s a list or some shit. You might be there anywhere from a day to weeks or even months. Not knowing makes for a shitty experience and is really one of the worst things about prison.

Transfers suck. The West Unit always sucks. The police at Lake Butler, in most cases, are serious assholes. You almost can’t blame them. Many of these officers have had ties to the prison system for generations. All of them have seen every type of situation and every type of game played by an inmate. They’re hardened, rusty nails, basically doing time too. They spend so much of their time in prison that some become convicts themselves.

As the bus pulls to a stop and its cargo is unloaded, Bosnia and I get lucky. We’re both going to C dorm. Stew’s sent to G dorm, but we’ll see him on the rec yard. It’s enough to have one close friend with me. Walking to C dorm with one of my closest road dogs is a hell of a great feeling.

Being here is like déjà vu. Listening to crazy officers go ballistic.

“Get in that fucking yellow line, boy, or I’ll come smack fire from your ass.”

Being at Butler, you never know what to expect and you should never expect anything. Just be ready for whatever. Things happen so fast.

We enter C dorm, and the dorm’s straight. Dudes are gambling and just chilling, taking it easy. Nothing seems out of the ordinary and nobody is laced up.

Rec’s about to be called. Bosnia and I want to work out and hit up some dips and pullups. We get dressed to hit the yard. Once out there, I see a bunch of guys I know from all over. We catch up a bit on prison politics, which are about as much bullshit as regular politics.

Once we return to the dorm, Bosnia, who loves to gamble, gets in on some hands of poker. Me, I pull out a book and start to read. I’m reading the series Beautiful Creatures.

The only problem I have is a dude named Chino in the dorm with me. I know him from Lake Butler RMC and from Suwannee CI. Back then, I used to hook him up with razors, not really knowing who he really was. Later at Suwannee, I learned he was deep in the boy game, preying on and exploiting weaker guys. He tries to get cool with people and twist that into power. He’ll manipulate them, force them to do things, push them into shocking, horrible situations. What he can’t get by asking, he’ll try taking. Inside, there are a lot of Chinos, but this Chino is a really bad dude. His act fools people. He’s quite the performer. Straight up… fuck this dude.

“Yo, homie. You remember me, bro. You gave me razors at Butler and I saw you in the box at Suwannee,” he says as he comes up to the side of my bunk while I’m reading.

In these situations, you have to really let the individual know the vibe is not necessarily an unfriendly one, but that some things aren’t appropriate. It isn’t even the undercover shit that bugs me most. It’s just his whole demeanor and vibe.

Some guys are just snaky.

It’s all a game to these dudes. Next, he’ll be asking for a cup of coffee or a soup. They really want to test and discover any little thing they can use to play up under you to get something. It’s a fucked up game and one I’ll not tolerate under any circumstances. I can handle a homosexual telling me I’m sexy, but a sick fuck who’s playing his own game thinking he’s clever, smart, or badass, fuck that.

“Dawg, you see me reading, right. You see me on my bunk, bro. Just transferred, homie. I’m trying to relax. Not trying to talk, bro.”

In moments like this, it can go one of two ways. Either he’s going to feel disrespected and the outcome can be violent, or he’s going to feel disrespected and inside calculate the risk, assess the situation, and conclude it isn’t worth it. Maybe he can try something later. Nine out of ten times, the person in this game already has some type of hustle going, so why fuck it up.

He steps off and the rest of the time he’s in the dorm with me, I barely say more than a “what’s up, homie.”

I give Bosnia a heads up about him, so he stays away too.

Bosnia and I hit the rec yard all the time and bullshit in the dayroom. Occasionally, he gambles, but mostly we talk about the future. Both of our futures are unknown and for us, the unknown is frightening. He’s going to live in Bosnia and has hardly even been there. I wonder how can you just be deported like that. How’s it possible to begin a life from nothing.

The answer was always obvious. Whether you were in my situation going to a new prison, or in Bosnia’s, leaving the USA for another country, you have no choice in the matter. When the choice has been taken from you, it is what it is. You can only choose how you’ll respond. And only worry about the things you have the power to control. Whatever happens from now until the end of time, you can do your best. You have to adapt to any situation, rely on your abilities, and keep it moving.

I get along with most everyone really well and handle most situations with wit instead of raw emotion. Becoming emotional in a fucked situation can get you or someone else hurt, emotionally fucked up, killed, or land you in a worse situation than where you started.

In our cases, we’ll both find out more about what we were made of.

I love what Tim Allen’s character says in Galaxy Quest and I quote it all the time. “Never give up. Never surrender.”

I love that shit.

It’s corny as hell, but it’s positive.

After a week stuck at Butler West, waiting to see which bus I’d actually end up on, I finally get the word I’m leaving for Lawtey. Leaving the following week for Lawtey has me feeling like I’m finally going back to the planet Earth. I choose to leave out many things about Taylor in this tale. Some memories are still too raw, even now. I’m just now beginning to see all of the trauma and its effects on me from that period, even from then until now.

At Taylor, I felt like I was in some foreign, warring country. I began to realize I’d become a local. It was a fucked up feeling because I never wanted that, but I had to accept it came with the territory. Leaving Taylor, I feel it will remain in my rearview mirror, but its effects are omnipresent. Later in my bid, if someone gets aggressive in the dorm, walks by me too fast, a sudden quiet occurs, or if police rush a dorm, it brings it all back like it never left. Those sense memories are imprinted on my being like cold steel. Flashes of the past, three and a half years at maximum security prisons, will suddenly reappear like phantoms, following me no matter how much I pretend they aren’t there. The strangest thing’s that sometimes I welcome their presence. It’s like when you listen to a song that puts you in a certain zone. Sometimes, that zone is negative, but you like it anyway. A feeling grows inside of you until it takes you over completely.

I’m very thankful for my mom and twin brother, who I talk to almost every day. I want to get to this medium custody camp and not have any problems. I want to do good. I still haven’t smoked or hustled at all since my transfer from Lake Butler. I’m working out almost every day and trying my hardest to remain calm, patient, and positive.

The thing is, how do I stay positive 24/7. How do I keep moving forward with guys being disrespectful and police putting us down all the time. It’s easy, actually. Don’t think about it too much in those moments when everything comes back in a flash. Battling your instinctual reaction, all you can do is hope you can control your emotions.

I wish I could say I always have my shit together, but it’d be a lie. As prepared as I feel I’ll never lose my cool, it happens occasionally. My only hope is I won’t do anything to fuck it all up when I get to Lawtey. I hate the feeling I let my parents and loved ones down. Prison, though. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right. Sometimes it just makes you harder, and hard isn’t always the same thing as strong.

I have a strong spirit, but I know the only way I’ll do my best is if I keep my family in the forefront. I need tunnel vision to blot out all the bullshit. Maybe then I won’t get into trouble. Maybe then I’ll be able to handle situations with a strong mind and keep it moving. That’s a lot of maybes.

Bosnia and I are told to pack it up the same morning. The thing is, we’re going to be put on different buses. All of the buses are making runs up north, but I’m getting on the bus running to Union CI, Florida State Prison, Lawtey, and then onward. Bosnia’s getting on a bus heading to Columbia CI. We’re waiting in the outside transfer area, where there are hundreds of inmates sitting at tables under a huge pavilion.

“Inmate Johnson.”

A row of officers are yelling out names, waiting for the inmate to call out their DC number for verification. The inmate’s then ordered to a line of more inmates, where they’ll wait to be loaded like cargo and transported to their new destination. It’s a long, verbally abusive process. I don’t think anyone gives a fuck about the yelling from the officers, unless you’re an inmate new to the prison system. It’s so normal. Being honest, if the officers don’t yell at everyone to shut the fuck up, nothing will get done. With hundreds of guys sliding from table to table to talk to their friends from other camps, it can get loud under the pavilion. Maybe they’re trying to find dope or cigarettes or using the time to get a last minute kite. A kite’s a message, note, or instructions for a gang buddy, sent to someone they know who’ll be at a different prison.

So yeah, the police yell like crazy and even have to rough up a few rowdies, hardheaded motherfuckers. I’m feeling some type of way because I know I won’t be seeing my homeboy Bosnia again. Not ever, most likely. I’m sad. Can’t lie. I’m glad he’s being released and will be free. I know I’m going on to the next leg of my journey and anything can happen in a day, much less the years left on my sentence. There have already been moments when I think I’ll never make it home. I’m not even halfway through my bid.

“Bosnia, here’s my information, bro. Call my mom whenever you can or shoot a kite my way, bro. You know I’ll miss you, bro. I’m honored to do these last days with you. Stay strong out there in the unknown. You’ll be fine. You’re a smart motherfucker with your head on your shoulders tight. Love you, homie. Take care.”

His last name’s called and then he’s gone. Getting on a bus, shackled up, heading to his home country. I see him turn around and he looks back toward me one more time and shoots me a head nod.

I yell out, “Sayonara, maaah fucka,” and we start laughing.

He’ll be all right. I know it, but as I sit there at that table, watching him leave, I feel like the little mouse from Fievel Goes West, when he’s separated from his family. We’ve been through a lot together and I’ll miss him.

It isn’t long until I hear my name called.

“Tatter, yell out your goddamn DC number,” an officer says, jolting me from my reverie.

“V19743.” I head toward the line of inmates waiting on the next bus to fill up. This is it. It’s on now. No turning back and no choice, no matter what. When choices are taken from you, it all becomes really easy. You just do what the fuck you gotta do. You keep going. Fuck it.