by Damon West
Immediately my eyes find my cell, 45 Cell. All the way up on the third tier, right by the showers. I won’t be going to my cell just yet. I have to wait for my first test: my heart-check.
I stood there looking as tough as I could. My weight was ridiculously high, having put on about sixty pounds in county jail, sitting around eating everything in sight after coming off meth. No exercise. Not being used to carrying this much weight, my athletic frame rejected the neglect and abuse I was putting it through. I looked like a fat, middle class, white man. I looked weak. I looked like easy game for the inmate population.
Mr. Jackson said it would happen quickly. About ten minutes is all it took. Long enough for me to set down my mattress and the few possessions I owned in the world: two bags with my issued clothing, a little commissary, a few Christian books, a Bible, my hygiene supplies, some clothes I purchased, and pen and paper. These meager belongings sat next to me, against that wall, waiting with me for the storm that was headed my way.
The skinhead approached me from the stairwell to my right. He was covered in a myriad of tattoos, swastikas, and lightning bolts. A pair of bolts side-by-side represents Hitler’s feared SS. These were the requisite markings of the Aryan gangs who adorned themselves with Nazi graffiti. His head was shaved, and there were tattoos all over it as well. He wasn’t a particularly big guy, but according to Mr. Jackson, this wasn’t the guy I will be fighting first. He was coming as a scout, an information gatherer.
“Say, White Boy, where’d you fall out of?” he asked, wondering what county I came from.
Texas prisons receive their inmates from the more than two hundred counties in the state. The answer to this question would determine who was going to fight me. If I claimed Port Arthur, I’d likely be facing off with some militant Aryan from the backwoods of Southeast or East Texas. If I said Dallas, I’d face off some homegrown, metropolitan piece of bigoted trash. I chose the latter because I recently did time in county with their type.
“Dallas,” I told him firmly, locking eyes like Mr. Jackson instructed me to.
He grinned a meth-mouthed grin, and said, “You a cho-mo, White Boy?”
I stood straighter. “Hell, no, I’m not a child molester. Organized crime behind a bunch of meth-related burglaries. And my name isn’t White Boy. It’s West,” I answered.
Now his grin was gone, replaced with a mask of hate. His true face.
He got to the point, saying it didn’t look like I’d ever “been down” before, been to prison. “This place ain’t for guys like you. You’re soft. You need to figure out what family you’re riding with, White Boy.”
I answered as bravely as I could, “I’m not riding with any family, dude. I’ve got a family already. I am riding with God. And, I told you already, my name is West. Get out of my face.”
Dear Lord. I couldn’t believe I’d just said all that. There’s a certain freedom that comes with knowing your fate is awful. I didn’t have much to lose with this conversation, but I was not planning on kicking a hornet’s nest when I first walked in the door. Mr. Jackson told me the most dangerous person in a fight is sometimes the one who is the most scared. I assure you, that would have been me.
“Ain’t no God in this place, White Boy. That means you riding alone. You think you’re tough? We gonna see how tough you are. Gonna enjoy messing you up!” he yelled at me as he took off for the stairwell.
That went about as bad as could be expected. In the past, my mouth has sometimes been a liability. Mr. Jackson told me to be stern, though. I sure did wish he had been there right then to talk to. Hell, I wished there were anybody I could talk to. I had never felt more alone or more scared in my life. The entire pod was staring at me, as if they were all in on the joke. In a way, they were. They knew who was coming for me while I had to wait and wonder. I prayed my face did not reveal the storm of emotions and fear swirling inside me.
He approached from the same stairwell to the right. He was huge. How had I not seen him when I was scanning the pod? Where could someone that size have been hiding? Maybe the stairwell? None of those questions mattered, but they were still bouncing around my head as I tried to assess the situation.
This dude was twice the size of the other piece of trash I had just spoken with. He also was bald, with tattoos all over his body. Swastikas and lightning bolts again, mixed in with other prison graffiti. He was the one coming to hurt me.
There’s a feeling that is unique to fighting. Some call it “butterflies in your stomach.” I call it “fear.” Pure fear was flooding my body, making my knees wobbly and my motions slower. I knew I needed to master this fear, and I had ample notice this fight was going to happen. Yet, I was still like a boy on a schoolyard who knew he was about to get his ass kicked.
What was it Mr. Jackson said? My mind went blank as he approached me at a more rapid pace. He was grinning, too.
Damnit. Think, Damon!
What had Mr. Jackson said? And then it came to me: “When he gets within range, put your fist in his mouth.”
So, I did.
It was the only solid lick I got in during that first prison fight, my heart-check. That guy beat the hell out of me. Catching him off guard only made him laugh. I tried to wrap around him and wrestle with him, but he was way too experienced for that. He hit me, hard. Right-handed. The fear was drained from my system after that first punch landed on my head. Like when you get hit early on in a big football game, transforming your fear into focused determination. But all the determination and rage I could muster was not going to be enough to win.
After being knocked to the ground a few times, it was obvious I was beat. He stood over me and said, “This is only the beginning, White Boy. Better stay ready.”
Just like that, it was over. Although I was hurting physically, I wasn’t wounded emotionally or spiritually. I’d fought. I’d passed the first test. Mr. Jackson gave me permission to fail by telling me I didn’t have to win all my fights, just that I must fight them all. One down. Pretty abysmal. I was 0-1, but I was unbowed, otherwise.
As I got to my feet, I saw the stares slowly start to peel away from me. It was as if the inmates lost interest after the show was over. Until the next fight, I guess. I scanned the pod, looking for 45 Cell. It was on the top tier, about thirty feet up. I gathered my mattress and my bags and went up the stairwell to my right, the one where the skinheads were congregating. This was intentional. If I dodged this stairwell, it could be perceived as a sign of weakness. That was the last thing I wanted to portray.
The only damage done up the stairwell was to my pride and ego. All the skinheads were laughing at me. As angry as it made me, the only play I could make was to keep moving, unless someone got their hands on me. My pride swallowed, I kept going up the stairs.
When I got into my cell, I immediately got on my knees and talked to God. I prayed for my family first. My poor family. Thank God they didn’t have to see the inside of my new world. I’d caused them to suffer so much already. I decided right then to never tell them the realities of this place; that would not be fair to them. I put myself in here, but God would carry me. After praying for them, I prayed for peace to surround me, that His angels would protect me. I started to cry, but quickly pushed the tears back. Tears did not play well in this environment. Tears could get you hurt.
As I unpacked my few possessions, I came across my Bible. In prison, your Bible is one of the only things you can transport to TDCJ from county jail. Every man puts all the contact information for his family and friends in it, on any blank space he can find. Mine was no different. Before leaving county, I asked my parents to send me the addresses of friends and family. Flipping through my Bible, I saw my brother Grayson’s name and address on the first page, with all of my family. For some reason, his name appeared bigger than everyone else’s.
And then it hit me.
Grayson was going to be my outlet for decomp
ressing this hell on Earth. If anyone could keep confidence, and at the same time be understanding, it was Grayson. He and I had been through so much together.
Although he was now drug-free, he was an addict, just like me.
* * *
I fought constantly in those initial weeks. Every now and then, I would even win a fight, but I never ducked a fight. Old Mr. Jackson was correct on just about everything. The fights started with the white gangs and progressed to several of the black ones. Everybody hated me. I was the epitome of “The Man,” “The System.” Many of the grievances the felon population had with what they blamed for their lot in life arrived at my cell door. The sound of my cell doors opening always struck fear in my heart, because once you leave your cell, you are susceptible, vulnerable to the will of the pod. The dreaded words, “West, I wanna look at you in the shower,” were like a dog whistle. The showers were where a lot of the fights took place, due to the fact there were no cameras in there, and it is easy to clean the blood out of them.
I do not know if I could have survived without Mr. Jackson’s guidance. He saved my life with the knowledge he imparted to me. I often wonder what he’s doing now, and I still pray for him at the end of each day.
No group in here has given me more grief than the whites. Many of them loathe me because I stood up to their racist, bigoted philosophy and showed them to be the paper tigers that they were. Like with most bullies and ignorant people, once you stand up to them, their façade crumbles. Upon closer inspection, they were more fearful than I was. They never dealt with their fears because their family affiliation gave them “protection.”
Most people in prison live under the threat of some type of fears, real or imagined. My own fears, I am discovering, are mostly in my head. Your mind is powerful, but can be a dangerous place to hang out if you are not grounded into something spiritual, a Higher Power. I have found a way to escape this place each day because my mind and soul are free.
My sobriety has allowed me to have a more conscious contact with God. Always, I am learning that I am here to serve His purpose, whatever that may be. He rarely flat out tells me what that purpose is each day, but I think I recognize it most times when God puts something in front of me which He needs me to do. Ironically, I’ve learned how to hear God in the noisiest place on Earth.
The further I get into this journey, the more I feel He is putting me through all this because I will have a bigger purpose later in life.
I have also leaned on Grayson so much throughout this whole ordeal, and I still write him all the time. He popped into my mind that first day in prison and has stayed in the forefront ever since. I think there is something about this journey that he is supposed to share with me. Whenever he is in town, he comes to visit. From time to time, we talk about the wilder and crazier days, when we were both slaves to that insidious drug.
Ironically, he has been clean since the day I was arrested. A fair trade. To me, that is the perfect example of God’s purpose. I am humbled to be that example to my little brother of what not to do.
God knows I was not always so positive an example to him.
CHAPTER 10
You Cannot Give What You Do Not Have
PICTURE THIS SCENE. An addict driving across the country in a full U-Haul, his dog in the passenger seat, with car in tow, running away from his problems.
I had seen this movie before.
I was now coming full circle, moving to Austin, Texas, from Washington, D.C. Three years earlier, I drove into Austin, coked to the gills, picking up Brandon’s belongings to move to Washington. Same addict, same problems, same roads, same town. Only difference is I had a dog with me this time. If I thought about the irony in all of this madness, I sure did not spend much time analyzing it. As far as I was concerned, this “fresh start” was exactly the medicine I needed. So says the addict in his addiction.
I had not learned the simple truth to addiction. Wherever you go, there you are.
Driving into Austin that May of 2003, I thought about all those dreams of running for office. I had positioned myself perfectly, having done a “tour of duty” in D.C., and having met Garry Mauro, my mentor, who could show me the way.
Garry was the ultimate Texas success story. The son of Italian immigrants, Garry went on to graduate Texas A&M and University of Texas Law School. In his thirties, he was elected as the first, and so far only, Italian-American to statewide office as the Texas Land Commissioner, a position he held for sixteen years. He got a lot done. His “Adopt-a-Beach” initiative is still in place to this day, cleaning up hundreds of miles of Texas coastline each year. While his buddy, Bill Clinton, was president of the United States, Garry was able to get the Gulf of Mexico registered as an internationally protected waterway. This directly benefited Texas by reducing the amount of refuse on its coastline.
Garry’s career in elected office ended in 1998 when he went up against the Karl Rove machine and ran for governor against George W. Bush. Fast-forward five years to 2003, and Garry was a lobbyist and fundraiser. He was as connected as any Democrat in Texas possibly could be to the national political scene. I could not have asked for a better mentor in Texas Democratic politics.
Garry was one of the most charismatic and intelligent people I had ever been around. These were two traits I believed I also possessed, only in smaller, unrefined amounts. I hoped to hone my political skills under Garry’s tutelage. Now that Garry believed enough in me to bring me back to Texas, it was my job to close this deal and show him what I was capable of.
Then there was that other force pulling me back to the Lone Star State. My brother Grayson was in trouble. Since graduating high school in 1999, Grayson’s life had stalled out in Southeast Texas. Grayson was the one brother who had it all. He was a combination of Brandon’s wicked smarts and my athletic prowess. Literally, he was the guy who could do it all. The one thing he lacked was the one thing that made me such a superior athlete to my peers. He lacked dedication. He never wanted to outwork his competition, choosing instead to rely solely on talent. Talent only gets you so far in life. You must be hungrier than your competition.
He attended the local university, Lamar, attempting to play a little golf collegiately. I say he played on the golf team. In reality, he did not do much on the team, but he was a member of it. Then one day, he just quit showing up to practice. It was a big red flag, as golf was Grayson’s passion.
Golf became a thing of the past for Grayson. He chose to hang out with questionable and nefarious characters instead, doing drugs all the time. My parents told me he totaled his Mustang, his girlfriend’s parents made her stop seeing him, and then he dropped out of college. I wanted to believe this was all just a phase. After all, hadn’t I done the same things and worse at that age? I was still doing blow when I could find it and drinking every day.
My father was at his wit’s end and was ready to kick Grayson out of their house. Who could blame him, really? He had a son living with them who was not in school, couldn’t hold down a real job, and was drunk or high all the time. My parents turned to me, thinking Grayson might listen to me. That nurturing sibling instinct inside me wanted to do everything I could to help him. I truly loved Grayson and wanted the best for him. My ego told me I could fix him. Truth is, I wasn’t equipped to help resolve Grayson’s addiction issues or help fix him when I, myself, was an addict. When I agreed to take Grayson in with me in Austin, I was still in Washington trying to run from my own renewed affair with cocaine, and I was drinking every day.
No one knew my addiction issues, not even me, because I was so good at hiding things and being a manipulator. Otherwise, my parents would have never called me for help. It was like calling the wolf to herd the sheep. You cannot give what you do not have.
Grayson showed up to Austin in a black Mustang. I had that car in my crosshairs when he first pulled up. Correction. When I first heard him pull up. He installed glass-p
acks on the mufflers and tricked the whole car out. It was like a teenager’s Bond car. No way was he going to keep driving that lightning rod of a car while I was driving a used Ford Explorer (I traded in the ’95 Nissan Altima) and paying all the bills. No way.
Knowing Grayson’s issues with holding down a job, I told him our first priority was finding him employment. It had been my experience, waiting tables in college, that a restaurant was a great place for someone to work when he or she has trouble being dependable or reliable. Co-workers were always looking to pick up your shifts when you were “coming down” off drugs or too hung over to show up. Through one of my friends, I was able to get him a job waiting tables at popular downtown Tex-Mex restaurant.
A job in hand, it was now time to get Grayson motivated. From the moment he arrived, he was lethargic and unmotivated to do anything. I had never witnessed another human being in this state. No drug I had ever done had a comedown like this. He had zero energy and slept twenty hours a day. It was pissing me off, too. After me riding him to get off his ass, he came clean with what was really holding him back.
“I’ve been smoking meth,” he said.
I did a double take. Meth was a drug I had heard of but never tried. Probably because it was never around the circles I navigated.
I was curious, so I asked, “What does meth do to you?”
Animation, the first signs of life from Grayson. He sat a little straighter. “Meth is unlike any drug you’ll ever try. The high is clean and the comedown is smooth compared to coke, which takes you on a rollercoaster ride. And,” he said, “you don’t have to always go back and keep hitting the drug because the high lasts longer than coke. It sends your energy level through the roof, and you can focus and concentrate like never before.”
