I didn’t intend to make friends while incarcerated. But humans crave comfort and companionship, and connections are inevitable. In December 2022, I found friendship in two other men at my Connecticut prison.

We clicked immediately. We ate together, exercised together, chopped it up — or talked with each other — in the dayroom and played games until the speaker system blared at us to return to our bunks for count. Then we would go to sleep, wake up and do it all over again. It was like prison had stolen pieces of me, but I hadn’t known they were missing until we were all together. 

I finally had people I could confide in. They made me laugh until my cheeks burned and my abs ached. It was a great feeling to belong. I had reached a point in my incarcerated life where happiness was like a pinprick of light in a heavy fog. I think it was the same for them.

Finding connection in prison can be even more challenging for queer people like me. One encounters layers of toxic masculinity behind bars that influence interactions and hinder the cultivation of meaningful relationships. But with these two friends, the connections were pure and true.

That changed over time as allegations among my peers and prison staff tried to poison our relationship. The rumors started about one month after we became friends. People in our prison said we were engaging in inappropriate touching, flirting openly and playing around near the showers. A peer mentor had even approached my friends and asked if anyone had been requesting lewd favors or forcing them to do anything against their will. 

That I was the suspect in question was not made subtle.

Though I knew the accusations had no merit, they still hurt. For my own sanity and protection, I informed our counselor supervisor, who assured me she hadn’t heard anything and that talk was cheap.

A week later, her tune changed. My friends and I were called to her office and, without allowing us to defend ourselves, she threatened to separate us to different dorms if the inappropriate behavior didn’t stop.

My friends stood by me, unwavering. They recognized the accusations for what they were: bigoted fantasies. 

During our conversation, the counselor had used the word “giddiness” to describe the charge against us. 

What did that mean? 

It was true that we were a smiling and happy group, but it felt to me like the word giddiness was used as a personal slight against my queerness. The things we did weren’t out of the ordinary. They were, in fact, the same things the men around us did: working out, playing board games, trading war stories from our pasts. 

Was I not allowed to have friends in prison? Was I not allowed to laugh with others lest it be considered homosexual pageantry?

‘I just wanted friends’

Almost seven months later, after my friends had gone home, a new rumor began to circulate the dorm.

One morning as I brushed my teeth, a newer resident of the dorm pulled me aside. He informed me that three people approached him and inquired if I had ever come on to him. Later I would learn the exact nature of the gossip: They asked if I’d offered to perform oral sex on him.

“A counselor asked me about it, and I defended you,” the man said. “Not that you needed defending because you didn’t do anything.”

I went to speak with the counselor who had asked the newer resident about the rumor. That counselor said they trusted that nothing had gone on between us, but that they still were required to check on the gossip. The counselor added that, as a gay person, I needed to be careful about what I did and how I did it. They warned me that if just one person said I made an advance on them, prison administration would likely not side in my favor. 

My own observations backed that up. I had already seen one inmate shipped out of the dorm after someone accused him of making some younger men feel uncomfortable (he allegedly caressed someone’s arm). I knew I could be axed just as easily based on the biased perceptions of others. 

My eyes welled with hot tears as I left the stifling office.

I decided to speak with a prison administrator about my predicament. They also told me to be careful about what I did and that my actions could make me a target. This line of “advice” would be echoed by more staff in the future. 

I just wanted friends.

A rotten culture

Based on the actions and advice of staff, I’ve surmised that it’s not safe for me to have friends. It seems that whatever I do, however innocuous, may be perceived as inappropriate.

The decision by prison staff to protect bigoted ideas and perpetuate stereotypes about queer people won’t change with me and my story. I’m certainly not the first person to experience this treatment. In prison, it seems there’s a culture that condones such beliefs.

Though the rumors got me down, I tried not to allow them to dictate who I am. And I still have friends in my prison today. But I have had to adopt a hypervigilant approach to relationships. I now pay close attention to who I speak with, what we talk about and how long we chat. I pay even more attention to who is watching what I do. It’s made it difficult for me to trust people here.

I’ve been told to let my reputation precede me. I’ve been told that people want what I have — adoration from most men in the dorm, for one, but also my happiness — and that their only ammo against me is my sexuality. I want to believe that, I really do. But in prison, perception, not reality, is everything.