When I began serving my sentence in 1987, I didn’t know anything about confinement. I didn’t know the difference between jail and prison, and I certainly didn’t know anything about security levels. I began serving my term inside a high-security penitentiary. That was a volatile environment, as I’ve described in books I’ve written and articles available on www.criminal-indictment.com. Most new prisoners, however, serve their time inside less volatile prisons.

Despite the environment, I was able to serve my sentence inside the high-security penitentiary and inside lower-security prisons without a single physical altercation. Some prisoners are not so fortunate. Yet I would estimate that more often than not, prisoners can serve their time without violence. The choices a prisoner makes will have the most influence on his adjustment pattern.

In my case, I thought the essential choice was to work toward clearly defined goals. As a consequence of the goals I wanted to pursue, I knew that I had to minimize my exposure to situations that could disrupt my progress. To that end, I was courteous and respectful to other prisoners, though I was careful to minimize contact. I chose not to watch television with a group, not to play team sports, not to engage in any table games. I did not use drugs or drink, and I did not gamble. I gave the prison gangs a wide berth. Those decisions kept me away from a lot of activities that have the possibility of erupting in violence.

Despite the long sentence I was serving, I was willing to focus on how I would emerge from prison. That meant I had to accept a lot of solitude. In fact, I searched for niches within the penitentiary that would give me space alone. For example, I found a work assignment in an office. While I was working in that office, I was separated from the general population. I worked as many hours as possible there; when my duties were complete, I focused on my school work. Besides the office job, I volunteered to work as a suicide-watch companion. That job allowed me to spend several hours each day in the infirmary. For several years, the only time that I was in the general population of the prison was in the early morning, and I used that time to exercise alone.

By staying to myself and focusing on my goals, I felt as if I were in the penitentiary, but not of the penitentiary. I created a niche that allowed me to study and work toward goals without disruption or interference. Anyone who made the level of commitment could adjust in the same way. Most prisoners, however, struggle with confinement. When they adjust inappropriately by forming alliances with others, they sometimes invite disruptions and problems.

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In books I’ve written about prison, and articles published at www.criminal-indictment.com, I’ve described how a different set of values pervades higher security prisons. The values differ from law-abiding society, where people respect those who strive to educate themselves, contribute to society, and live in socially acceptable ways. In higher security prisons, individuals concern themselves more with developing power on a primal level inside the penitentiary. Those types of prisons are like failure factories that seethe with hostility.

As a consequence of my work, some have asked how it was that I earned respect from violent, predatory prisoners. After all, I do not have a history of violence, and the goals I pursued differed in significant ways from most of my fellow prisoners. The truth was, I was not so sure that other prisoners respected me. Frankly, I never showed much concern or sought approval from other prisoners.

I was courteous and respectful to everyone around me, yet I purposely sought to minimize my contact or interactions with all the chaos of the penitentiary. That may seem absurd to some, as I have lived in prisons for more than 21 years. Yet I always found it possible to avoid activities and interactions that could expose me to problems.

My strategy was to find employment or volunteer opportunities that kept me away from the violence. At the crack of dawn, or in the early morning when doors opened, I was on the weight pile exercising to keep in top physical shape. I worked as an administrative clerk for many years. That job kept me in an office with a typewriter that was far removed from the general population. While other prisoners were rioting over trivial issues, I was absorbed with schoolwork or writing projects. When the office closed for the evening, I packed up my books to report for volunteer duties as a suicide-watch companion; that job kept me in the infirmary for the evenings.  By the time I reported to my room, the doors were about to be locked for the evening.

By keeping busy working toward my goals, avoiding television rooms, table games, drinking, contraband, gangs, gambling, and anything else that interfered with my progress, I was able to reach the goals I set. After I had more seniority, I built relationships with other prisoners. As a consequence of my working toward prison reform, I found others who would share their experiences with me so that I could write about them. Still, I don’t know whether other prisoners have ever respected me.

The post Does Anyone In Prison Respect Nonviolent, Goal-oriented Prisoners? appeared first on Prison News Blog.

As a consequence of my having a very clear vision of how I wanted to emerge from prison, I avoided interactions that could lead me into trouble. I did not gamble. I did not engage in the trafficking of contraband. I was cautious in my activities and in choosing my associations.

Mostly, I focused on educating myself and in keeping physically fit. By spending a lot of time studying and working out, I became comfortable with being alone. Every day brought another opportunity to work closer to the goals I had set. And with clearly defined goals, I had a tangible reason to avoid altercations with both staff and other prisoners. I expected challenges, and when they came, I navigated my way around them.

I avoided problems by finding niches within the prison that would allow me to advance. For example, I had a clerical job in an office. Once I completed my duties, I could sit at my desk, alone, and work toward my school assignments. I exercised every day early in the morning to avoid the crowds. By keeping physically fit, I discouraged others for mistaking me as prey. In the evenings, I volunteered in the hospital as a suicide-watch companion because that job isolated me from the chaos of the penitentiary. The strategy was successful, as I served my sentence without any disciplinary problems. In time, my security level dropped and I transferred from high security prisons to medium-security, then low-security, and in 2003 I transferred to minimum-security open camps.

Those who want more detailed strategies that lead to successful prison adjustments may find value in the articles included in my topical report series Thriving Through Prison.

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I’m responsible for keeping the beverage bar clean during the lunch and dinner meals. The reason I like the job is that it is clearly defined, and once I complete my duties, I’m free to work on the independent personal growth projects that I create. Most of the other prison jobs where I have been assigned require that I spend entire seven-hour shifts working for the prison. Even when I completed those duties, supervisors would prohibit me from reading or writing while on the job. I appreciate the independence I have at Taft Camp.

Ever since my confinement began, in 1987, I have been working to develop skills and credentials. I reasoned that such an adjustment would position me to overcome the obstacles that I expect to follow this quarter century of confinement. During my first decade I focused on educating myself. Since then I’ve been working on my writing skills, hoping to reach beyond these fences to contribute to the lives of others. That strategy has helped open numerous opportunities that few long-term prisoners ever enjoy. Yet a few days ago, I was reminded how few of my fellow prisoners identify with my choices.

As I was waiting for the noon meal to conclude so that I could commence my job, I sat with my friend Juan Moore. I met Juan while I was confined at the Federal Prison Camp in Lompoc, but he transferred to the Federal Correctional Institution at Terminal Island within a few weeks of my arrival at Lompoc, in 2005. From FCI Terminal Island, Juan transferred here, to Taft Camp.

Juan is from Watts, California, and grew up surrounded by criminal influences. He made some decisions that resulted in his receiving a prison sentence of nearly 16 years. Juan is now less than three months away from his release.

During his time inside, Juan worked hard to ensure that he would leave prison with skills. He attended college in prison and participated in numerous self-improvement programs. Juan’s friends, known as “homies” in prison, resented his efforts to change. They would taunt him with questions like, “What are you going to do when you get out? Are you going to have heart or are you going to lie in the park?” What they are really asking Juan is whether he is going to return to the life of gangbanging and “dope slanging.” Because to them, “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know.” His peers, most of whom have numerous prison records, are pressuring him to stay “in the game.”

While we were chatting that early afternoon, one of Juan’s homies sat with us. Juan introduced me to his friend who said that he remembered the weeks when I first arrived at Taft Camp. “The homies was hating on him when he first pulled up,” Juan’s friend said of me. “They was saying that he ain’t really served no 20 years. Look at how he be walkin’ ’round here all smilin’ and happy. Ain’t nobody served no 20 years gonna be happy like that.”

The irony is that as Juan’s friend was telling his story to us, I was supposed to feel offended that my fellow prisoners did not recognize me as someone who had served 20 years. Yet according to the values by which I have lived, I feel as if my strategy is succeeding when others cannot identify me as a long-term prisoner. For me, the goal has always been to succeed upon my release, not to lift my social status within the abnormal society of prisons.

As I described in my book Inside: Life Behind Bars in America, prison infrastructures are complicitous in perpetuating these cycles of failure. By extinguishing hope for better lives, they simultaneously discourage prisoners from making efforts to grow or change or emerge successfully. Many prisoners stay committed to the underworld values by which they lived prior to confinement. Consequently, when they see someone like Juan, who is striving to make positive changes in his life, they discourage and taunt him; they doubt that a man can endure 20 years of imprisonment without the telltale scars of failure marking his every action.

It is not only prisoners who expect long-term offenders to show the signs of failure. When staff members meet me for the first time, or first become aware of how much time I have served, they frequently look at me with astonishment, as if to say “What happened?” They do not understand how it is that I can express my thoughts without profanity, or how I focus with such intensity on the self-empowerment projects to which I commit. They expect anyone who has been exposed to “corrections” for significant lengths of time to show clear signs of failure. The way our system operates today, the longer we expose an individual to corrections, the more likely that individual becomes to fail in society upon his release.

I expect to serve longer than three but less than five more years in prison. While I conclude this final portion of my sentence, I will continue working to prepare myself for release. I have very specific goals that I am striving to achieve. Those who are interested may follow my progress through the regular postings I make through MichaelSantos.net and PrisonSuccess.com.

I encourage readers to send comments or questions through e-mail, or directly to me at Taft Prison Camp.

Thank you for your interest and support.

Godspeed,

Michael G. Santos

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