After approximately three years, it was time to leave Attica.
Overall, I did fairly well adjusting to the new world of prison. I made friends as well as enemies. I also beat the odds of the guards, who didn't think I would survive.
I did, however, nearly lose my life when another con slashed my throat with a razor blade. I believe it happened in 1979. But to my good fortune, the slashing turned into a blessing. In the strange world of prison, because I refused to squeal on the man who cut me, it caused me to achieve an elevated status amongst my peers. I wasn't seeking for it, but this was the outcome.
Because I kept my mouth shut, I earned a certain level of respect. In the eyes of my fellow cons, I became a "stand-up guy." In here, one's reputation means everything. It could mean the difference between becoming a victim, or as someone the other guys would leave alone.
Nevertheless, my stay at Attica had its ups and downs. I'm thankful I didn't have to do my time locked in a cell all day long under any kind of special watch. Within maybe a week after arriving, and once I was cleared by security, I went to work as a porter. But in all my years of incarceration, I could never figure out why they called us porters. I was basically a janitor. I did custodial work.
Unfortunately, I got into a bad fight. This was long before I would give my heart to Jesus Christ. Anyhow, the incident was quite intense. I was subdued by the guards who had come to break it up. I was then restrained and taken to the Special Housing Unit, more commonly known as "The Box." While in other states it might be referred to as "The Hole," or simply "solitary." I had to serve ninety days as my punishment.
On the ninetieth day, however, when I was scheduled to be released from disciplinary confinement, I was instead placed in a Department of Corrections van and sent straight to Clinton Correctional Facility. Built in the 1800s in what was then an outpost in the middle of nowhere, a town which came to be known as Dannemora had developed around it.
Clinton, like Attica, was yet another colossal monstrosity of concrete and steel. It was designed to keep a convict buried alive forever if he had a Iife sentence. I would spend seven years there. Fortunately for me the unexpected transfer provided a much-needed fresh start.
D.B.
I did, however, nearly lose my life when another con slashed my throat with a razor blade. I believe it happened in 1979. But to my good fortune, the slashing turned into a blessing. In the strange world of prison, because I refused to squeal on the man who cut me, it caused me to achieve an elevated status amongst my peers. I wasn't seeking for it, but this was the outcome.
Because I kept my mouth shut, I earned a certain level of respect. In the eyes of my fellow cons, I became a "stand-up guy." In here, one's reputation means everything. It could mean the difference between becoming a victim, or as someone the other guys would leave alone.
Nevertheless, my stay at Attica had its ups and downs. I'm thankful I didn't have to do my time locked in a cell all day long under any kind of special watch. Within maybe a week after arriving, and once I was cleared by security, I went to work as a porter. But in all my years of incarceration, I could never figure out why they called us porters. I was basically a janitor. I did custodial work.
Unfortunately, I got into a bad fight. This was long before I would give my heart to Jesus Christ. Anyhow, the incident was quite intense. I was subdued by the guards who had come to break it up. I was then restrained and taken to the Special Housing Unit, more commonly known as "The Box." While in other states it might be referred to as "The Hole," or simply "solitary." I had to serve ninety days as my punishment.
On the ninetieth day, however, when I was scheduled to be released from disciplinary confinement, I was instead placed in a Department of Corrections van and sent straight to Clinton Correctional Facility. Built in the 1800s in what was then an outpost in the middle of nowhere, a town which came to be known as Dannemora had developed around it.
Clinton, like Attica, was yet another colossal monstrosity of concrete and steel. It was designed to keep a convict buried alive forever if he had a Iife sentence. I would spend seven years there. Fortunately for me the unexpected transfer provided a much-needed fresh start.
D.B.
