There are certain staples of prison life. Ramen is an easy, tasty way to avoid bad prison food. With tattoos, I’d guess that 95% of people in prison have them. And then there are nicknames — almost everyone’s got one.
“Your handle is what you’re known for, or known by, or a reflection of what you do,” a man called ATL (short for Atlanta) told me. “It’s a way of preserving your true identity — like Clark Kent. Your given name is reserved for those who really know you, like family or close, close friends. Handles are for other people.”
Nicknames are a form of self-expression that preserves one’s individuality in an environment designed to enforce conformity. Everyone in prison wears the same clothes, has the same monotonous routine and are housed in similar cells. Nicknames can reveal how we perceive ourselves or want others to see us. They help create a persona behind bars separate from our identity outside the prison walls.
In arguably the best prison movie ever made, “Cool Hand Luke,” Paul Newman plays the eponymous protagonist, who acquires his nickname during a poker game. After successfully bluffing, he remarks that having nothing — not even a pair — could still be a “cool hand.”
Prison monikers, also known as tags, have likely existed since the very first gaols, or jails, were built centuries ago. In my experience, prisoners tend to select their own nickname or use their street names. While the variety of handles is virtually unlimited, they can be loosely grouped into a few categories.
First are generic nicknames. Graybeards who’ve spent decades locked up are commonly called Old School or O.G., short for “Original Gangster.”
Other nicknames reflect a person’s hometown or where they lived before prison. Thus there are tags like New York, Memphis, East Side or even Africa. There are exceptions, though. One man called Canada has never visited that country; it just happens to be his last name.
White prisoners from the rural South have handles such as Hillbilly, Cornbread and PWT (pronounced “pewt,” short for “Po’ White Trash”). I once served time with a guy who went by Country. Formerly a farmer, he posted pictures of tractors on his cell wall rather than sexy pinups.
Since tattoos are so common, it’s little surprise that some prisoners’ nicknames reflect their ink. Those with a significant amount of body art — especially facial tats — may be called Tattoo or Tatty. One guy was aptly known as Spider due to triangular webs inked above his eyebrows with an arachnid suspended on a thread down one cheek.
Other handles indicate a convict’s weapon of choice. Hence nicknames like Shotgun, AK, TEC-9 and Draco. The latter refers to a short-barreled AK-style pistol; it’s also a term for a modified bottle prisoners use to squirt excrement or urine on their enemies. Then there was a guy people called Hank the Shank; he had the unique ability to produce a homemade knife at any given time. He could do this even when buck naked, hiding a shank up his ass.
More colorful nicknames could easily work for mobsters of old, such as Cutthroat, Triggerman, KO (short for Knockout), Murda and Nsane.
“In prison, most people go for the hardest, most dangerous-sounding names,” a guy who identifies as Swag told me. “It’s a way of building up a reputation so others will respect them.”
Some prison handles have interesting backstories, like Radar, who bore a striking resemblance to the character from the old TV show “M*A*S*H.” Or Spook, who was Black. Since “spook” has long been used as a racial slur, I asked if that name choice was a way to reclaim or own it. This was not the case; he used that moniker because people found him spooky. One prisoner, Twin, was so called because he had a twin brother — also known as Twin.
Then there was Ratman. Cons generally don’t incorporate “rat” into their nicknames for obvious reasons. Ratman was the exception, as his handle resulted from his constant hustling to make money. “It’s the rat that works to get that cheese,” he explained.
One of my incarcerated friends, Big Sam, exemplified his tag. When I served time with him in the 1990s, he tipped the scales at over 300 pounds. Tiny’s nickname, on the other hand, was an exercise in irony since he was a massive bodybuilder with biceps larger than most people’s thighs. Another guy I knew, Too-Tall, stood 6 feet 11 inches.
My favorite prison handle was from a hulking, intense dude known as Monster. I inquired whether he used that descriptor because he thought he was monstrous, or if other people saw him that way.
“Nah, nothing like that,” he said with a toothy grin. “It’s short for Cookie Monster ’cause I really like cookies.”
Guards rarely refer to prisoners by their monikers as that could be construed as fraternizing, a big no-no. But staff members have handles too — though the names bestowed on the keepers by the kept tend to include one or more of George Carlin’s seven dirty words you can’t say on TV.
Once, while working quietly nearby, I overheard a pair of guards talking.
“So what would your prison name be?” one asked the other.
His partner pondered for a moment. “Skittles,” he said, finally.
“Yeah,” replied the first guard. “I could see that.”
I suspected that Skittles would have a hard time in the joint.
Lastly, there’s one handle I’ve never heard in prison: Lucky.