Inside the weight shack, surrounded by workout equipment strewn about, guys often recount stories from their pasts.
“That b——- was on my d—,” one might say, to approving laughs.
This type of back-and-forth is ubiquitous inside, but instances of misogyny aren’t limited to the recounting of past lives. Often, they manifest in volatile situations among prisoners and between prisoners and staff.
When a prisoner feels slighted by a guard or counselor in the housing unit, chaos can ensue in the form of insults and profanity shouted through cell bars. These insults frequently have a misogynistic overtone, no matter the gender of the target.
“F— outta here, b—-,” I heard a man say in a recent encounter with an officer.
In prison, as in society, there is a pattern of contempt for women and a culture of misogyny.
In 2023, there were 79 charges of lewd conduct that resulted in a guilty rule violation in New York State prisons. In 2022, there were 108. Though less common, female guards are sometimes subjected to physical violence.
When a female guard makes rounds, a gasp followed by cursing usually indicates that a prisoner has exposed himself. A few minutes later, the swarm of officers leading the individual out of his cell in handcuffs serves as confirmation. Even after watching these scenarios play out, there is often a nonchalance among the spectators.
I recently posed a simple question to a couple of friends: What is misogyny?
One of them was honest, “I have absolutely no idea,” said one.
The other said, “Something with women, right?”
Though prisons are a hub of misogyny, prisoners themselves are uniquely positioned to understand and empathize with the struggle women face, in part because we too are well-versed in the consequences of inequality and discrimination.
As prisoners, our rights are stripped from us. We are dehumanized on a regular basis, told what to eat, what we can wear and where we can go. Our bodies are locked in cages for extended periods of time. Because of this, we have a unique understanding of what it’s like to be treated as less than.
At the same time, I have some understanding toward those who overlook and participate in misogynistic behavior. After all, that was once me.
My past view of women
In 2008, when I was 16 years old, I had an emotionally charged argument with a female friend. Instead of walking away, I viciously attacked her with a knife, resulting in her death.
It took eight years to connect me to the murder, after I was convicted in another incident, which was a sexual assault. In 2018, at age 24, I pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 19 years to life. At the time, I felt like that was all the accountability I needed.
My mindset when I committed these crimes was troubling, but not uncommon: I thought of women only in the context of my own personal gratification. If something they said or did hurt my ego, I believed they deserved my verbal or physical abuse.
As a member of a street gang, I had a twisted desire to always be in control. If violence was the answer to getting what I wanted, so be it.
In the Queens neighborhood where I grew up, it was a cardinal sin to curse at your mother, but verbally abusing your girlfriend was fair game. I remember seeing women and girls get cussed out, pushed and struck more times than I can count.
As a kid, I spent weekends with my uncle who lived in the Williamsburg housing projects. Nearly every time I visited, my uncle would find some excuse to argue with his girlfriend. Once, he screamed at her for saying a few kind words at my grandmother’s funeral. He threw furniture while she sobbed so loudly that I could hear her through the brick wall. Laying in my late grandmother’s bed, I soaked it all in.
Experiences like these shaped my view of women — just as they did for so many other men in prison.
Nearly 60% of female state prisoners nationwide have suffered physical or sexual abuse, according to the American Civil Liberties Union.
For me, my mindset didn’t change until I was confronted by a friend.
‘You’re a misogynist’
A few years ago, I reconnected with a friend on the outside.
This friend had studied social work and sociology and she was always aware of issues that affected our society. She was a proud feminist, and she scolded me if I wasn’t treating her with respect. In many of our conversations, she challenged my retrograde view on women and equality.
“You’re a misogynist,” she told me. “You’ve hurt women and put families through immense pain.” Her words pierced me.
She made clear that if I didn’t actively take a stand against it, there would be no room for me in her life.
I lay on the stiff mattress in my cell at night unable to sleep as I thought of her words. Before I knew it, the faces of my victims began to haunt me. Anxiety devoured me. I was a monster.
I knew I needed to change my perspective.
I read books and essays about misogyny and gender inequality. My friend sent me “The Caged Virgin” by Ayaan Hirsi Ali, a book about cultural and religious oppression of women and an anthology called “Race, Class, and Gender,” about how the complex intersections of our identities shape our experiences.
As a teenager, I didn’t consider the repercussions of my actions. I just repeated what I saw throughout my childhood. Impulse had guided the violence I had committed. Because I never had accountability in my younger years, the pattern had just continued.
Challenging my peers
Recently, we were reading “We Should All Be Feminists” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in my English class. The professor asked for opinions on the work.
A classmate known as Dough spoke up. “I’m tired of these labels,” he said. “I don’t need to be labeled a feminist.”
“Yeah, I don’t feel like this is an issue anymore. Women have the same rights as men,” said another man.
I was nervous, but I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. I raised my hand.
“I think we need to stop getting caught up on the labels,” I said. “As individuals in prison, we are quick to speak up about the injustice we go through but don’t realize that women are going through the same struggle.”
As the conversation continued, I was surprised to hear more men speaking up, echoing my point of view. Some mentioned their wives and daughters, and how they wanted equality for them.
My professor stood quietly in the front of the room with a smile on her face.
