Time has a way of playing tricks on me...
It seems as if it happened maybe ten years ago, but it's really been forty. Attica Correctional Facility, more commonly known simply as "Attica," has an awful reputation. The 1971 riot left forty-two prisoners and guards dead.
When I arrived there in 1978 the atmosphere was still tense. Time did not diminish the memories of this tragic event. Prisons located in rural areas are known for having a number of members of the same family working in them. Attica was no exception. Fathers and sons, uncles, and cousins, were all employees. Everybody knew one another. Their kids all went to the same schools, and everyone shopped at the same supermarket in town.
Thus, there was a lot of hostility and festering anger among the staff towards the inmates. When I got there some seven years later, the atmosphere was rife with rage. Nothing had changed. Being it was my first time in prison, I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared.
Here I was, a "new jack" with multiple life sentences, thrust into one of the most dangerous places in the nation. I had to learn fast. A few guys who took a liking to me tried to school me. One gave me a prison made knife, known amongst us as a "shiv" or a "shank." He told me never to let my weapon be out of quick reach.
I had my share of challenges. I had several out of sight minor fights which escaped the notice of the staff. It was not uncommon to see a man sporting a black eye. When a guard would ask, "What happened to your eye?" the standard reply was, "I fell off my bunk." No further questions. No one cared. Only the more serious fights got the attention of the staff. A stabbing or a head split open with blood gushing everywhere got a quick medical response, but that was it.
I cannot say I was a fast learner. I wasn't. But I stood my ground. I was just a twenty-five-year-old Jewish guy from the Bronx when I arrived at Attica. Even though I grew up in a not so nice neighborhood - Soundview – what did I know of doing "hard" time? Not much!
Because my case was still a hot item, I would sometimes receive requests from the media for an interview. I innocently thought that if I could say the right words, and I wasn't even sure what the right words were, they would eventually leave me alone. Boy was I wrong! I ended up making some unwise decisions.
New to the prison system and thinking I had to play the tough guy role to earn respect, I ended up saying some stupid things during those interviews. I was just trying to please and impress them and win their approval as well. Looking back, I think I feared their rejection. I also thought that if I simply explained my side of the story as to what led up to the crimes I was charged with, the public would understand. Not so.
Unfortunately, the reporters from those early interviews got it wrong. Naive, trusting, and just plain dumb, I allowed them to lead me along. This was decades ago, and I don't even remember what I said. But I do recall being upset that each one put his own twist on things. I remember feeling betrayed and used.
Today I could say it was a learning experience, albeit a hard one. And I'm still learning.
D.B.
When I arrived there in 1978 the atmosphere was still tense. Time did not diminish the memories of this tragic event. Prisons located in rural areas are known for having a number of members of the same family working in them. Attica was no exception. Fathers and sons, uncles, and cousins, were all employees. Everybody knew one another. Their kids all went to the same schools, and everyone shopped at the same supermarket in town.
Thus, there was a lot of hostility and festering anger among the staff towards the inmates. When I got there some seven years later, the atmosphere was rife with rage. Nothing had changed. Being it was my first time in prison, I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared.
Here I was, a "new jack" with multiple life sentences, thrust into one of the most dangerous places in the nation. I had to learn fast. A few guys who took a liking to me tried to school me. One gave me a prison made knife, known amongst us as a "shiv" or a "shank." He told me never to let my weapon be out of quick reach.
I had my share of challenges. I had several out of sight minor fights which escaped the notice of the staff. It was not uncommon to see a man sporting a black eye. When a guard would ask, "What happened to your eye?" the standard reply was, "I fell off my bunk." No further questions. No one cared. Only the more serious fights got the attention of the staff. A stabbing or a head split open with blood gushing everywhere got a quick medical response, but that was it.
I cannot say I was a fast learner. I wasn't. But I stood my ground. I was just a twenty-five-year-old Jewish guy from the Bronx when I arrived at Attica. Even though I grew up in a not so nice neighborhood - Soundview – what did I know of doing "hard" time? Not much!
Because my case was still a hot item, I would sometimes receive requests from the media for an interview. I innocently thought that if I could say the right words, and I wasn't even sure what the right words were, they would eventually leave me alone. Boy was I wrong! I ended up making some unwise decisions.
New to the prison system and thinking I had to play the tough guy role to earn respect, I ended up saying some stupid things during those interviews. I was just trying to please and impress them and win their approval as well. Looking back, I think I feared their rejection. I also thought that if I simply explained my side of the story as to what led up to the crimes I was charged with, the public would understand. Not so.
Unfortunately, the reporters from those early interviews got it wrong. Naive, trusting, and just plain dumb, I allowed them to lead me along. This was decades ago, and I don't even remember what I said. But I do recall being upset that each one put his own twist on things. I remember feeling betrayed and used.
Today I could say it was a learning experience, albeit a hard one. And I'm still learning.
D.B.
