Forced to Fight

Written December 16, 2008

Happy Birthday Jacob!

With that out of the way, I had quite a crummy day, but whatever.

First I had to miss work so that I could wait an hour in 42 degree weather to find out that an error was made and I didn't even have transportation to get my wisdom teeth taken out. So I was home from work all day. The deputy volunteered me to cut hair again all day, which I did. For six hours.

There was one guy who wanted me to cut his hair in a certain way that was against regulation, and I didn't respond well to his attitude. Now keep in mind that I had been cutting hair all day against my will, with everyone asking me to do something special for them that would get me in trouble. And this fatass with an afro is getting upset at me because I am not willing to lose my goodtime/worktime to help him out.

So I tell him straight out:

Look man, this is not my job, this is not Fantastic Sam's or whatever ghetto salon you go to. I am not getting paid to do this and I can yell you right now that you are in no way, shape, or form worth staying here for another minute longer than I have to. Who do you need to look good for anyway? You're in jail. With a bunch of dudes. You're not special. You get the same haircut I gave the 20 guys before you and the same haircut the next 20 guys are going to get. If you don't like it, don't come to jail.

After my monologue, I realized this guy was probably like many here. They are bigger than me, not faster, but bigger, dumber, and it doesn't take a lot for them to feel "disrespected" by an articulate white person. This turned out to be true I found because of the threats he issued to me, over a haircut. We will come back to him.

So I end up doing many more haircuts, then as a "reward" for doing such a good job, I am forced to select a friend to cut my own hair. Damn it! I wanted so badly to try and make it through my last month without getting a haircut, but I am too much on the radar here. And should I choose to refuse a haircut, it would result in a housing change to the main jail and about 12 extra days. I got a haircut y'all. I had my best buddy Robinson do it.

Flash forward. Everyone is back from work. My crew tells me that they were fed steak sandwiches for lunch in my absence. Of course, the one day I am not there! We go to chow and I am called out (to fight) by the fat Mexican guy who didn't like his haircut!

Now, I hate this fact, and have chosen not to write about it till now, but this is the third time I have HAD to fight since I have been here. I am not a person who looks for fights, or enjoys them, or is proud of the fact that I have had to sink to that level. But in jail, it really is (for me) a HAVE TO thing as opposed to a WANT TO thing. The two other fights have been in groups and were stopped quickly (by me) before they could get bad.

What can I say, I have always been a peace keeper and a lover not a fighter. All of these events took place in rapid succession within a matter of days and I did not have the heart to tell my Mom about it for fear she would worry.

But I will let you know that I have never egged a fight on and have always done everything in my power to diffuse any hostile situation. And I have never been beat up either. I am almost always bigger than the people that want to fight and more than anything just don't want to hurt anyone. I went nearly three months without any violence and would have been glad to go the whole way without it.

So later during compound this guy ended up coming over to the tent, his petty anger fueled by his friends. I did everything I could to talk him out of it, but he was too stubborn to understand how stupid his reasons were. And with the mob mentality around here lately I was made out to look scared (which I was) if I didn't fight him.

Mom, you did not raise me to handle disputes with my fists, and I am sorry. You did not raise me to give into situations like this, and I am sorry. You taught me to settle things with my words, and I tried, but here that's not enough sometimes, and I am sorry.

I am very much ashamed of what I had to do, and I am sorry. We went to the showers (where all fighting is done). I beat this misled fat Mexican guy who was angry about, of all things, a mandatory haircut. I received no injury except a small bruise on my right shoulder. And we shook hands and squashed the beef.

I feel ashamed, but that's why I had to write about this. I want you all to know that outside of here, I can't find good reasons to fight, and two out of three times I have fought here were to protect someone smaller than me who was in danger. I hate the pettiness of fighting. It makes me feel like a neanderthal. Like I am stupid. I hate what I had to do and I am sorry to everyone.

After the fight, I just moped around, depressed. I got a really great letter from my friend Lana at night. And I went to sleep. Another day down. We got a bunch of new Woods today and I am the rep. I still have work to do here.

I want to go home.