mouth. Now I couldn’t even lift my leg to get on the bus. The guard realized he had to pick me up. Him putting his hands on me “to help” was fucking humiliating. We didn’t even know each other, but he hated me and I hated him. He basically threw me onto thebus. I didn’t know any of the other guys, so I sat by myself with my head pressed against the barred, bulletproof glass. I just stared at nothing as the miles rolled past. The reality crept in. Folsom. Folsom. Folsom.
They unloaded us one by one, and by the time I got to intake, there were lieutenants and corrections officers and inmates with juice gathered around to see me. Word got out that I was coming, and people lined up to stare, point, and whisper. It was a rare day that a Little Person, never mind a Little prisoner, showed up in Folsom. Especially one with my reputation.
My reputation was really just a bunch of bullshit. It was the end product of a combination of things: inmate gossip, straight-out lies, and the way the press had sensationalized my arrest years before by branding me the “Four-Foot Leader of a Black Gang.” The articles should have been long forgotten, but prisoners have long memories and lots of time to talk. Since my arrest in ’88, I’d become the prison version of an urban legend. There were rumors going around Folsom that said I was the “Drive-By Bandit,” meaning the Bloods would stuff me into the trunk of their cars, drive by, pop the trunk, and I’d lean out and shoot everyone. There was one that said the Bloods used to tie a rope to my leg, hang me off roofs, and I’d shoot through the windows. Then there was the ridiculous story that the Bloods would bundle me up in a baby carriage, roll me down the street, and I’d jump up from under theblankets and blast people away. Guys had been watching too many bad movies. They made me into a mass murderer. If I’d actually done any of those things, I’d have been on death row. But the reputation served me well, so I never confirmed nor denied what I heard. Guys and guards could believe whatever they wanted. Me and my homies, we had a good laugh at their expense.
Before they could put me into gen pop, they had to figure out what to do with me. Being four feet tall wasn’t the problem. The problem was, I was a white guy who ran with the Bloods. At Folsom, it didn’t matter which gang you ran with in the past. Once you were inside, you were defined by the color of your skin. Even if you weren’t in a gang to begin with, you still had to fraternize by color. Say you were some guy that chopped up your wife. You’ve never been in a gang, so you don’t come in with any protection. That means you had to abide by the rules of the gang leaders. As long as you stuck to your own kind, got a similar cellie, and didn’t start nothing, then you’d be left alone. You’d be considered a geek. You wouldn’t belong. You’d have to watch where you walked in the yard and only eat at certain tables in the chow hall, but you wouldn’t be killed.
Since I was white, they wanted to put me in a cell with another white guy, but I was very clear: I wasn’t gonna switch over to some racist Aryan or Nazi brotherhood. For me to demand to stay with the Bloods was breaking every rule in the book. I told my intake officer, “I’ve been a Blood for years and I’m not changing.” They’d never seen the likes of me.They stuck me into another two-week isolation period. They put me through more counseling and evaluation. They did everything in their power to convince me to house with the white guys.
Finally, the warden came down and told me I was insane, saying, “They don’t care who you ran with in the past. They just want you to be with your own kind.” I wouldn’t budge. “The Bloods are my people.” They had some Aryan guys come talk to me in front of my cell. They told me, “You’re dealing with your life.” I said, “I’m dealing with my life if I do or if I don’t, so
They unloaded us one by one, and by the time I got to intake, there were lieutenants and corrections officers and inmates with juice gathered around to see me. Word got out that I was coming, and people lined up to stare, point, and whisper. It was a rare day that a Little Person, never mind a Little prisoner, showed up in Folsom. Especially one with my reputation.
My reputation was really just a bunch of bullshit. It was the end product of a combination of things: inmate gossip, straight-out lies, and the way the press had sensationalized my arrest years before by branding me the “Four-Foot Leader of a Black Gang.” The articles should have been long forgotten, but prisoners have long memories and lots of time to talk. Since my arrest in ’88, I’d become the prison version of an urban legend. There were rumors going around Folsom that said I was the “Drive-By Bandit,” meaning the Bloods would stuff me into the trunk of their cars, drive by, pop the trunk, and I’d lean out and shoot everyone. There was one that said the Bloods used to tie a rope to my leg, hang me off roofs, and I’d shoot through the windows. Then there was the ridiculous story that the Bloods would bundle me up in a baby carriage, roll me down the street, and I’d jump up from under theblankets and blast people away. Guys had been watching too many bad movies. They made me into a mass murderer. If I’d actually done any of those things, I’d have been on death row. But the reputation served me well, so I never confirmed nor denied what I heard. Guys and guards could believe whatever they wanted. Me and my homies, we had a good laugh at their expense.
Before they could put me into gen pop, they had to figure out what to do with me. Being four feet tall wasn’t the problem. The problem was, I was a white guy who ran with the Bloods. At Folsom, it didn’t matter which gang you ran with in the past. Once you were inside, you were defined by the color of your skin. Even if you weren’t in a gang to begin with, you still had to fraternize by color. Say you were some guy that chopped up your wife. You’ve never been in a gang, so you don’t come in with any protection. That means you had to abide by the rules of the gang leaders. As long as you stuck to your own kind, got a similar cellie, and didn’t start nothing, then you’d be left alone. You’d be considered a geek. You wouldn’t belong. You’d have to watch where you walked in the yard and only eat at certain tables in the chow hall, but you wouldn’t be killed.
Since I was white, they wanted to put me in a cell with another white guy, but I was very clear: I wasn’t gonna switch over to some racist Aryan or Nazi brotherhood. For me to demand to stay with the Bloods was breaking every rule in the book. I told my intake officer, “I’ve been a Blood for years and I’m not changing.” They’d never seen the likes of me.They stuck me into another two-week isolation period. They put me through more counseling and evaluation. They did everything in their power to convince me to house with the white guys.
Finally, the warden came down and told me I was insane, saying, “They don’t care who you ran with in the past. They just want you to be with your own kind.” I wouldn’t budge. “The Bloods are my people.” They had some Aryan guys come talk to me in front of my cell. They told me, “You’re dealing with your life.” I said, “I’m dealing with my life if I do or if I don’t, so
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