Jail is a bad place. LA County Jail is no exception.

What’s taking place behind those bars is a microcosm of what’s taking place on the streets.

Nevertheless, I was astonished at the racial division inside the jail. A division that is promoted by those in charge. A division that’s become, over the years, ingrained in the system. Everything is set up around it.

The history of the LA County Jail system is not unlike LA County itself. And the whole nation knows about the deadly riots that have taken place over the decades…like the Watts riots of the 60’s and the Rodney King riots of the 90’s.

So, I guess this systematically enforced racial division does help to maintain order. But it just seemed wrong. And many of my fellow inmates, of all races, expressed similar sentiments.

I spent the largest amount of time during my three weeks in the jail in Dorm 611 of Wayside, aka, Supermax. This dorm housed around 70 or so inmates of all races. About 10% were white. The rest were evenly divided between blacks and latinos.

The racial division was very much a part of day to day life in this dorm. Everything was divided racially, from the bunk areas, eating places, showers, toilets, phones, to cleaning duties, use of the exercise area, etc., etc.

You weren’t supposed to share food with other races, or make gifts of food, or other items to them. You could talk to them, but you weren’t to get too friendly.

These were the rules and it didn’t pay to disobey.

Sounds pretty ugly, doesn’t it? Like another world…

well, sort of.

But, even though all that was like an overlay on life in the dorm, underneath it, I witnessed a racial harmony that belied this division fiction.

I say division fiction, because, even though the rules were certainly a reality of your everyday experience, the unspoken truth that everyone realized was, hey, we’re really all in this boat, shit-hole, or however you might want to refer to it, together.

Please, thank you, excuse me, were words spoken repeatedly throughout the day. That seemed kind of odd, considering the circumstances.

I never would’ve thought prison could be so, well, polite. Even to a greater degree than life on the outside.

I write in this blog about this concept of the Big US. That the reality of things is that even though society is divided along racial, ethnic, cultural, political, socio-economical, religious, and other such lines, we humans really are all in this boat together.

That’s the reality behind the overlay of the division fiction.

When things get bad, really bad, that sense of togetherness tends to rise to the surface…as it did on the tough streets of New York in the immediate aftermath of the 9-11 attacks.

And prison is definitely a place were things are bad for everyone, no exceptions. There’s no one, I repeat, no one, in there who wants to be in there.

So, despite the division fiction, there’s truly a sense of togetherness, of brotherhood, of unity.

The point of this post is that if the division is indeed a fiction on the inside…

I would surmise that it’s also one on the outside.

And if we could just step back and take notice of that fact…

maybe all the idiocy behind racial strife and tension would just melt away.

image credit: Ryan_Brady via Compfight cc

In Part 1 I wrote about some of the characters I met during my 3 weeks in LA County Jail.

However, I didn’t mention one in particular who deeply impressed me…the indomitable Flaco…

I’d been pacing the concrete floor of the holding tank adjacent to Division 30 of CCB (criminal courts building) for hours. Lunch had already come and gone and my hope was building for a release at 5:00 PM when the court finally closed for the day’s business…

In walks a young latino dude, medium height and build, close crop hair and a stern look.

You always size people up in jail. Are they a threat? I guess it’s because we’re conditioned to believe everyone you meet in jail is.

But, they’re not.

This dude walked around the tank, not speaking a word to anyone. He seemed to be lost in thought. He would study the graffiti on the walls and occasionally would scratch at them as if trying to make his own personal mark.

I’d struck up a conversation with another guy who looked Mexican as hell, but didn’t speak a word of Spanish. At some point the new dude walked over and asked us something…I can’t quite remember what…maybe if we knew the time.

“What they get you for?”, asked my new friend.

The young guy told us he was there for a preliminary hearing regarding his charge of attempted murder. He told us that he was defending himself, as he had zero faith or confidence in the court appointed attorneys that were automatically assigned in all cases.

OK, now that’s interesting.

He told us he was known as Flaco. He’d been studying the law diligently while inside and felt quite prepared to take on “the system.”

Then what ensued was sort of a jailhouse soapbox diatribe by Flaco about the system and its evils.

Flako told us that the entire criminal justice system of LA County was designed to trap and hold young black and latino men. That they had strong economic incentives for doing so.

It kind of goes like this, according to Flaco…

They get you for something stupid, like drugs, or perhaps gang related violence. That’s your entry point.

They may give you a light sentence as a first-time offender. Then you get put on probation, or maybe you do you a short stint and then get released. But released as an easy mark for future capture.

The second time, your sentence will be longer. Definitely will involve probation. They assign you to classes, maybe for anger management or drug addiction. The classes are weekly and cost about $30 to $40 a pop, no small sum over the years you’re required to attend them.

If you miss a probation meeting, or a class, skip town for a romantic fling, or to see a family member, or any other of the myriad ways to violate probation…bang!…back in you go.

And this cycle will continue for years, perhaps for the duration of your life.

So, Flaco had had enough. He vowed to fight the system.

Our conversation steered towards the politics of LA County Jail…the racial division.

Flaco told us that such nonsense was supported by the system. It started decades earlier, but it had been perpetuated by the system.

He told us that the system had an incentive to keep inmate groups at odds with each other. It had an incentive to foment hate, perhaps even violence. Because violence again was an assurance that those trapped in the system would stay there.

That racial division was carried to the outside…to the streets. So that latino gangs would hate black gangs and vice versa.

He told us of the real truth…that we were all in this together. That the racial politics was a fiction imposed by the system. It was a blanket that shrouded and obscured the real truth.

That the system was designed to oppress, to dehumanize, to rob one of hope.

But why Flaco?, we asked. What purpose does all this serve?

It serves an economic purpose. There was money, big money to be made by the system. Prisons make money…pure and simple…and in order for that to happen, jails need inmates and prisons need prisoners. Otherwise, the system runs out of steam.

Poor black and latino communities of LA County were breeding grounds for a continual supply of what makes the system hum like a Ferrari engine…fresh young inmates that can be recycled through again and again…

robbed of hope and given the incentive to resort to a life of crime that would guarantee recidivism.

Flaco was one impressive dude.

About that time, Ms. Griffith entered the tank. My heart sank as her entrance was an indication that my nightmare had yet to end.

I left and said goodbye to Flaco. I hoped I would see him again.

About a week later, I was on my way to the bus, chained to three other inmates, and once again being transferred to somewhere else in the system…

when I saw him.

I yelled out “Flaco!”

He looked at me and smiled.

I won’t soon forget Flaco.

I wish him well.

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