The moment a guard approaches the housing unit door, a warning beacon sounds.
Inside, a chorus of voices calls out, “Fat boy!”
The pod, a kind of self-contained housing unit, instantly shifts from frenzied, normal prison activity to “compliant” prison activity. The poker chips, tattoo guns and all other contraband are quickly concealed under a blanket or hidden away in a hand-sewn pouch deftly hidden in the groin region, commonly known as a “cock sock.”
Everyone in the pod plays it cool while the guards walk up and down the tiers, looking in every cell as they pass. Once the danger has passed, an “all clear” is given and the pod resumes its normal activities.
Prison snuffs your hopes and dreams. Once stone-cold sober on the streets, many men, after being cut off from family and forced into a concrete box no bigger than an old bathroom, will turn to drugs or other pain-numbing substances to alleviate the anguish.
Fortunately, most incarcerated people I know choose a less destructive way to pass the time and ease the boredom: by covering themselves head to toe in tattoos. For many people, the sharp prick of the tattoo needle replaces the dull ache of a broken heart.
It seems everyone in prison wants a tattoo. Next to drugs, tattoos are the most desirable item on the yard at my facility. A tattoo artist with an iota of skill can name their price in the form of postage stamps, instant ramen soups and honey buns. There are other more illicit, but no less popular, forms of payment as well, including drugs, cups of homemade prison wine and sexual acts.
Most incarcerated people are willing to receive the ink, but only a select few are talented enough to sling the ink.
Side hustles were practically invented in prison, and prison tattoo artists are particularly busy and successful. The artist applies the pattern stencil and lays the ink in, while others burn the soot to make the ink or manufacture the needles and tattoo barrels from pens and small metal springs straightened out and sharpened to a point.
Most important of all is the person sitting “tech” (or “jigs,” depending on where in the country your prison is located). The tech keeps watch and makes sure the tattoo artist isn’t disturbed or caught by officers on their rounds.
The most common tattoos are political — a symbol representing a certain gang, neighborhood or ideology — with symbols as numerous and varied as the stars in the sky. There is also a tendency for incarcerated people to get matching tattoos to commemorate an event or to symbolize other prison yards where they served time.
Nearly every tattoo on my body was inked behind bars. I have tattoos proudly displaying the neighborhood I grew up in and tattoos that commemorate my favorite bands. I have tattoos that honor my ever-winding spiritual path, and tattoos that illustrate my insatiable appetite for arcane knowledge.
My greatest tattoo is the smallest. Just below my left eye, where most convicts ink a teardrop, I have a semicolon. Its meaning is two-fold: both a sacred totem to acknowledge and accept, with radical self-love, my incessant suicidal ideation, as well as a permanent reminder that my life in prison is just a brief pause with much more to follow.
There was a time, not very long ago, when an ex-con, arms fully sleeved and neck blasted in ink, stood out in society like a sore thumb. But that time is gone. Today, that same struck-up ex-con proudly stands shoulder to shoulder with the grocery store clerk whose arms are covered in beautifully colored butterflies or the small-business owner with “SELF MADE” elegantly stenciled across his knuckles.
The same holds true behind the fence, where more and more guards are showing up to work and walking the tiers with fresh ink.
One officer, who asked to remain anonymous, claimed his latest tattoo — a skull with an owl emerging from the top — was designed by an incarcerated person.
While conducting his rounds, the officer spotted some artwork hanging on a wall in the artist’s cell. Impressed, the officer inquired about the work and ultimately commissioned the incarcerated resident to design a tattoo pattern.
“Hey, art is art,” he said. “I don’t care who it came from. It’s an amazing piece and I’m proud to have it on me.”