The first phone call I made in prison was to my liberal grandmother. After we’d talked for a while, she said, “You must be in heaven, with all those lonely young guys around you all the time.”
I had to remind her that my calls were recorded. Then I told her it didn’t quite work that way.
Contrary to the experience my grandmother imagined, being out in prison is isolating and dangerous. Most gay men I know choose to stay in the closet out of fear — fear of ridicule by both prisoners and staff; fear of being placed in solitary confinement “for your own safety”; and fear of being beaten up or killed by insecure and homophobic peers.
This last danger was particularly common when I entered prison in the early 2000s. At the time, gay men were preyed upon primarily by the type of aggressors most people can imagine: the typical “tough guys.” These are men who try to prove their masculinity and impress their buddies by harassing the vulnerable. Around 2005, one gang in my prison even initiated new members by beating up gay men.
Despite these hazards, I made up my mind not to hide who I was. My grandmother was proud, but I paid the price. In one incident, I was knocked unconscious and a friend of mine had his head split open. He nearly died while staff turned a blind eye. Because so few people are openly gay inside, no one was able to protect us. Our isolation bred vulnerability.
Over the years, this type of severe bullying died down. I attribute this to the changing attitudes of society as a whole toward gay people. The biggest shift inside came when transgender women began to be housed in the open prison population as a result of various lawsuits. Suddenly, you started to notice those tough guys fighting over the new girls on the yard. It became a status symbol — even for gang members — to have a girlfriend they could protect and who, in turn, would often feel pressure to do whatever he wanted.
As a result, a lot of the men who had previously interacted with gay people only to inflict harm were now actively seeking relationships with members of the LGBT community, as long as they were willing to play the part of the obedient woman. It wasn’t exactly acceptance, but it was more complex than the previous dynamic.
These relationships seemed to change the experience of gay men inside prison, but they didn’t necessarily make us safer. Instead, it introduced a new social pressure. Because relationships with powerful men were now the easiest route to protection, some gay guys I know saw benefits in coming out as transgender.
A close friend of mine, who had been openly gay all his life, confided to me that he felt safer acting like a girl. Even though he did not himself identify as a trans person, he spent many hours perfecting his voice and walk.
The reduction of physical violence against gay men in prison also made us vulnerable to a new type of predator: conmen looking for lonely, older gay guys who either came to prison with money or who have a prison job that pays relatively well. These predators convince their prey that they are in love with them. Since opportunities to actually engage in sex are rare (and come with severe penalties), the predator can often carry on this charade for months before the victim catches on. At this point, the gullible victim may have spent hundreds — even thousands — of dollars on this pretend suitor.
In my experience, this type of predator is the most damaging because they increase the emotional isolation and vulnerability of gay men in prison. I’ve known guys who become so brokenhearted they tried to kill themselves. Even when the emotional devastation is less severe, these lonely, vulnerable people are still bilked out of money. Many lose all trust and shy away from relationships, isolating them further from the community that could support them.
For the safety of gay people, we need to build a more supportive and responsive community in prison. To protect against bullies, I advise gay prisoners to hang out with one another. Most predators prey upon loners. To defend against the second type of predator, community awareness is key. Gay people who have been incarcerated longer should alert newer prisoners to harm and hoaxes.
We also need systemic solutions. If prison officials allowed consensual gay relationships, it would likely make our lives safer by protecting us from those who exploit our emotions for financial gain. When we are forced to hide even a kiss, it makes it much easier, and more devastating, to string someone along.
Prisons should also implement programs to educate residents and staff about homosexuality, as well as programs that help gay men accept themselves and support them coming out.
Sadly, prison administrators, lack of funds and overworked staff make these solutions unlikely. Unless caring friends and family — like my grandmother — advocate for gay men in prison, we will be left to build our own support.
