Of Walpole State Penitentiary, Jim says, “I grew up in that bitch.” He scissors his arms while he talks, but I don’t sense rage, even though, after hearing him describe his ordeals, it is tempting to recommend an anger management course. Listening to him, I contemplate solutions the way I might for a maladjusted 8^th grader. But Jim is 54. He has been in and out of prison since he was middle-school age. And I’m not here to fix his problems, anyway.

Jim says people keep starting fights with him. He has quit everything else: cocaine, stealing, hard liquor. “That’s the only thing I can’t solve,” he says. He is small and trim. Moves quickly, despite a broken shoulder from the last scrap. He tells people, “come at me again like that.” What if he tried not saying anything? I think this, but don’t say it. It feels like a suggestion that comes only from my perspective, one that can’t easily imagine the kind of life he lives or the people who surround him.

Solemnly and with great passion, Jim describes what it is like to be without women in prison. Continue reading →