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 commonlyknown 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 commonlyknown 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.
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