It was almost nighttime lockdown at my prison, and a buddy of mine and I were finishing up yoga on our balmy recreation yard.
During our session, my friend, who’ll I refer to as Sean, revealed he had been experiencing crude sexual advances and harrassment for the previous month. It had been obvious to most that a prisoner had been preying on people in our wing.
I told Sean I had also been experiencing abuse from the same person for nearly a year.
“Frankly, it was just easier to acquiesce,” I said that day in July 2023, failing to realize the full weight of my confession.
Sean shared that he was thinking of filing a PREA claim — short for the Prison Rape Elimination Act — to put an end to this. PREA gives people in prison the right to file claims of sexual abuse that instigate an investigation.
I knew Sean was set to leave prison in a couple weeks and advised him to think over the potential ramifications: What if it affected his release date? What if the perpetrator tried to retaliate against him? My mind buzzed with potential outcomes, but I gave him space, concluding I should be supportive of him.
I had not thought about filing a PREA claim for my own abuse. It was counterintuitive to the “snitches get stitches” prison code. I’ve seen fights break out over the mere perception of snitching and wanted to avoid worst-case scenarios.
In the following days, I didn’t see much of Sean. Then, four days before his release from prison, he visited my cell.
“I need to speak to you, privately,” he said.
His urgency reflected anxiety mixed with relief. He told me he had filed a PREA claim and that the perpetrator had been removed from our unit. The man had been placed in segregated housing as a safety precaution while the PREA investigation took place.
Sean said he was unsure if he had done the right thing. He also said he hoped I wouldn’t be mad.
“I’m sure it will come to nothing, but I mentioned you by name as a witness,” he said. Then he paused uncomfortably. “And a victim.”
I was dumbfounded and scared. I couldn’t speak. He told me he had already talked to an investigator from the federal prison system’s investigative body. He told me that what I said during our previous conversation — “It was easier to acquiesce” — had alarmed him. He said that didn’t sound like consent.
“What he did to you was wrong,” Sean said.
Seeing my face drop, Sean rushed to assuage my worry. He said it was unlikely that the special investigator would call me. And if they did, I wouldn’t get in trouble for anything. I tried to absorb what he told me.
Then Sean went home. With fresh feelings of fear and isolation, I journaled and wrote poem after angry poem. I prayed a lot. I was reeling. I felt betrayed by someone who I thought was a friend. It seemed as if I had no one to talk to, and that it was my fault. I asked myself: Who’s going to believe a gay guy?
A draining experience
After several days, the special investigator came to my workplace (I am a clerk for a prison administrator). My knees felt like Jell-O. I was escorted by three staff members past a line of my peers waiting for lunch. I could only imagine what their thoughts were.
We approached an office adjacent to our prison’s segregated housing unit, which made me worry I was being sent there. I’d been meditating all week: Should I be honest or lie?
If I lied, I could move on from the investigation, hoping my perpetrator didn’t view me as responsible for the PREA claim. But I also wondered if he would target someone else upon his release from segregated housing. Would that person be more vulnerable than me? Would the perpetrator repeat this behavior?
I decided to tell the truth.
True to Sean’s words, the special investigator assured me I was not in trouble. I hesitantly, then in rapid-fire succession, unleashed my story. I was too emotionally raw to understand whether my words were on the record. But given the copious note-taking by one of the investigating officers, reasonable minds would assume every word mattered.
During the interview, I wept. I felt like I deserved to be treated the way my perpetrator treated me. I was humiliated.
The investigators’ questions landed like a barrage: Where did it happen? How many times? Was I exposed to bodily fluids? They asked about the sexual mechanics. And then: Did I feel coerced?
After 45 minutes that felt like hours, an investigator patted me on the back as I left the office. I sucked up my sobs and returned to work.
I paced back and forth, looking out for my boss, who was nowhere to be seen. I sighed with relief. Then minutes later, a psychologist rounded the corner with concern on her face.
I followed her to her office. I bawled for another hour as she asked me to go over all the same details I’d just reported. Then she asked me, “How are you doing?” We talked about my feelings before I returned to work.
Minutes later, another medical staffer showed up. This nurse took me to his office in our medical center. The nurse said he needed to do an anal swab and throat culture.
I gritted my teeth. “This happened 10 weeks ago,” I said, referring to the last time I was preyed upon. I was still having problems referring to what happened as assault.
Seeing the dilemma, the nurse paused, and told me to wait in the hallway. Thirty minutes later, he called me back in for a blood test.
An investigation
A week later, the special investigator returned the results of the investigation. They said my claim was “unsubstantiated.”
More often than not, PREA claims are ruled to be unsubstantiated. In 2024, there were 707 allegations of sexual abuse committed by prisoners against prisoners across the federal system, according to a Federal Bureau of Prisons report. There were substantiated findings in 36, or about 5%, of the cases.
I don’t remember the exact reasoning for the outcome in my case, but it essentially amounted to there not being enough proof to substantiate the claim. That ruling came despite the fact there were at least multiple other complaints filed against the perpetrator, according to what an investigator told me during my interview. Several witnesses I’ve talked to said they were honest about the perpetrator’s abusive behavior in investigation interviews.
I signed my name to a document outlining my disagreement with the outcome.
While he wasn’t punished for his behavior, the abuser was transferred to a different prison.
Months later, I still struggled to move past the results.
It raised all sorts of uncomfortable questions. Was I treated differently because I am gay?
I grew up during a time when gay men were seen as stereotypes, as swishy and effeminate “Nancies” defined by our sexual activities. Because of this, I think claims of sexual abuse from another man, especially in prison, are much less likely to be taken seriously.
Medical results returned
To make matters worse, I found out a sexually transmitted infection was passed along to me, which went untreated for months. The first in a three-shot series was administered at my workplace, and my direct supervisors were present as a medical staffer injected the medication into my buttocks.
I winced at the shot. A burly, grizzled officer stood between the partially opened door and me. I forced an uneasy smile as I glanced around, seeing a copy machine, storage cabinets, half-opened lockers with cleaning supplies and an adjoining staff restroom. At least I knew the space was clean — that was part of my job.
Afterward, a psychologist gave me some encouraging words.
“Remember, this is not your fault.”
It was the first time I felt empowered after the assault because the psychologist validated the fact that I was manipulated. But I was still crushed by how the investigation worked out. The positivity and glow I carry into most stressful situations has been burned up.
