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2011-09-02T11:21:00.000-07:00

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Mainline Part 1/2

2010-02-02T12:36:00.000-08:00

Well it's my first day on what's known as the prison mainline and that means there is no more preparation and processing. There is no more getting ready to go to the next place. The mainline is prison. If everything goes right, this is the next and final yard I will ever set foot on. I actually just sent out a letter to a buddy of mine and one of the first sentences undermines that entire statement. The headline comment said, "Here's the address you can reach me at but you never know what could happen, with this prison life nothing is predictable." One of the questions I found myself asking over and over back in reception just before leaving was "Is this place I'm heading more lax than others?" In search of reassurance more than anything. To my dismay the most common response received was "just like anywhere else it can jump off at the drop of a dime, just always be prepared." I guess I was looking for a place where I could take a timeout and relax. Sometimes being on your toes all the time can become a mental strain. I feel for a friend of mine that spent years fighting for our country in Iraq. It was a far different battle and a more noble duty that he was performing, but I can understand the emotions of not just doing something because you want to do it, but doing it because you have to.

There's a war going on inside that only a few people even know exists. It's about groups and races, it's about dope and money, but most importantly it's for control. The ones with the least amount of control over things on the outside sometimes desire to have the most of it on the inside. One of the biggest mind bending tasks on this side is to pick and choose who to associate with. Some of the friendliest individuals, the ones who preach to you and offer you soap and toilet paper can turn on you in an instant. It's not a kindness thing, it's a cut-throat, get what you want mentality. And if you didn't play your cards right the person perceived to be looking out for you can be the one to turn the population against you.

In reception an older fellow I chose to associate with had no prison appeal whatsoever. He was often grouchy on occasion but over time I drew to liking him. Partly because he turned out to be a nice guy and the other part was because he came from a beautiful and loving family. It was something I could very much relate to. Although far from perfect, the flaws helped to create a genuine character that could only be attained through imperfection. Similar to artwork, if a piece was perfect it would just look as if it had been spit out of a printer. There would be no need for an artist. Brush strokes and texture create the imperfect perfection.

This man was at the start of a four year prison term resulting from a DUI accident. The collision was mainly the fault of the opposite driver, but because the old man had alcohol on his breath he was automatically at fault. The guy had an obvious alcohol problem and the offense inexcusable but it wasn't to hold mark on his character. When he first arrived in the dorm I had no desire to approach the guy. At first glance I took him for Ebenezer Scrooge. But after a week or so I almost felt bad because he had nobody to talk to. He walked by me in the yard one day and commented "You knew where I was at before there were a lot more people to talk to. Being more concerned about my workout regimen than, I no more than humored the gesture. However over the days that followed I really enjoyed conversing with the guy. Unlike the majority of of typically cool inmates he had no physical possessions (coffee, soups & money) to show for himself. His money transfer hadn't come through yet and nobody paid him any attention. He was starving and I happened to be one of the only guys he could talk to. One of our first conversations, actually ended up startling me when I told him what I was there for. He quickly snapped and said " Are you Kidding me? You should be in fucken prison." We ended up smoothing it out really quick and moved on from the topic.
Well a week later his money just happened to come through. It turned out that he was a very wealthy man on the outside. and he bought so much food and coffee from the canteen that there wasn't enough space to store it all. I remember waking up that morning and looking over at his rack across the dorm. It was so crowded with people around. There were young people, old people, white people, black, Hispanic, you name it. He had so many friends to laugh with. There were loads of people that were there for him and he appeared to be happy. He wasn't out to buy friendship by any means but he was satisfied by helping other people. I came over in the middle of the night one time and he was sitting next to a black man who was quickly devouring down a hot soup. He told the man "I'd like you to meet my friend Cyrus and he's a fabulous artist."I shook his hand and offered him the pleasure. But about twenty minutes later I had to pull my friend to the side "What are you doing?" I asked.
He told me "The man was hungry, I had to feed him," and felt extremely good with the notion. I quickly replied "I know you are caring, and giving makes you feel good but this is prison, most of these guys do this for a living. They will chew you up an spit you out with no remorse." I told him to just be careful because what he was doing was feeding wild animals. Once they figure they can get food from you they will keep on coming back.
He was a kind old man who would frequently approach me saying, "I have some mayonnaise and some bologna, maybe a hot soup, can I offer you a sandwich?" I always smiled and and chuckled his way , I told him " I really appreciate the gesture Dave but it would make me most happy if you took care of yourself above anyone else in here." Over the next couple weeks he approached me angrily, " About ten people borrowed things from me but won't pay me back! It's not about the money it's the principal. We both conjured up the notion that what was done was done and it could only be a live and learn situation. If you let them do it the first time do it the first time you are an innocent victim, but from that point on if you continue letting them do it you're a jackass. It was about a 45 minute bus ride from Delano to the prison I'm being housed out. On the way there we passed three large penitentiaries within the thirty mile stretch. That wasn't even counting the the ones that are located inside the corner pockets of the city. Delano, Wasco, Tehachappi, Taft, Shafter, and Coalinga are all prisoner housing facilities within the Bakersfield area. It's also referred to as Prison Valley. The amount of jobs and revenue created by this short stretch of area is insane. Why would anybody want to reduce the prison population when these positions and income could be lost? From and individuals perspective that sincerely desires change we really need to stop putting ourselves in these positions, giving another human being control on our lives. Anybody that wants to make a change really needs to understand that no matter how over crowded the prisons are there will always be a bed open for you. And if there isn't they'll build one for you. It's not because it's in your best interest, it's only because where there is money there is interest. It is far cheaper to postpone the problem than to address it. I threw away May, June, July, August and half of September 2009 of my life in a downtown LA courthouse and it had nothing to do with truth or justice.

Counselor / Thanksgiving entry

2010-01-19T18:49:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving weekend has come and gone. I must say that I'm thankful that it's over because it will be one less holiday that I'm forced to spend behind bars. Over the past five days there have been some ups and downs in the dorm as we all attempted to make the most of our situation. Those past couple of days have also been some of the most informative ones I've had over the previous six weeks. Some good news to report is that our Thanksgiving dinner was one of the most filling and best quality meals I've had since May. On an average night we are served a main course, such as spaghetti or a hamburger, and its accompanied by two small side dishes. Even though any food is better than none at all, the amount provided is barely enough to maintain a daily regimen , let alone get the necessary exercise. So going to sleep with a full belly on Thursday night was definitely a blessing. Each person was served a large piece of pressed turkey topped with mashed potatoes. On the side we had some well cooked candy yams accompanied by a scoop of stuffing and some green beans. For desert it was a slice of pumpkin pie and a small package of vanilla ice cream. After finishing the meal I laid back on my rack and said a little thank you for the plentiful amount of good that I still have in my life. My family, my friends, even my ten year old diabetic black cat who to this day still looks like a small bear cub.

In prison the best way to do your time is is to take it one day at a time. If you start pulling out calendars and counting days , or stressing over a girlfriend , that's when self destruct mode really takes over. Getting ahead of yourself and becoming anxious can cause more serious problems to emerge. Respect is the number one priority for everyone in here as we all try to get through theses difficult times. If you don't give respect it's not like you won't get it. It's more like things could end up rather messy. For the most part Thursday turned out to be a pretty good day, nothing but football games, exercise and food. However that positive vibe wouldn't hold up for too long.

Friday morning started off just like any other day spent in this dorm. An early wake-up call for breakfast and another several hours to kill before the afternoon. Here, in reception, as a safety precaution no one is allowed to posses a shaving razor. So every three days the dorm officer passes out razors to the top and bottom tiers according to schedule. In return the C/O would let them use the razors from 2:30-3:00 PM. After receiving them eighty or so rush to the twelve small mirrors in the dorm and take turns shaving.

Friday after the C/O handed out the razors there was the normal amount of movement that goes down on shaving day. People rushing to the mirrors and others lined up behind them. I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. A fight mus have broken out a few minutes earlier that I hadn't been aware of. As I continued brushing my teeth I glanced out at the day room where people play cards and conversed at the table. After focusing on an area with heavy commotion I noticed two individuals bobbing and weaving in and out of the table area swinging their arms rapidly. They were both white which meant immediately that it wasn't going to be a racial riot. I also noticed that the smaller of the two wasn't just swinging his fists, he was flaying a green cup around. Both of the two were soaked in blood. The smaller one looked like his eye had been pushed back and the back of the other one had a 6 inch gash across the back of his head. That wound was obviously caused by the cup and it was spewing blood like a waterfall. As soon as the C/O got wind of the situation he yelled at everybody, "Get Down! Get Down! Get Down! as he charged the day room, bear mace in his hand. I hit the ground in the midst of brushing my teeth. Sprawled out on the dirty floor in my brand new pants and white T-Shirt I had received just hours earlier. Both of the two battling also lay on the ground upon instruction and they continued to throw fighting words at each other. "Fuck you, you fuckin lame! You Fuckin Bitch! you Punk Motherfucker" The other yelled back "At least I didn't get fucked up Lame!...You got fucked up you bitch!" It turned into a childish bickering match as they both lied in pools of their own blood.

Within minutes the entire room was flooded with C/O's and the two of them were handcuffed. The one with the torn up eye was immediately lifted to his feet and escorted out of the building. However the larger of the two had such a huge gash on his head and had lost so much blood the medical team to wrap his head and he was transported in wheelchair.

After they left the Sergeant told us to pick it up in sections and and head back to our racks. That is where we would remain for the next seven hours as they brought in investigators to document and examine the crime scene. An expert came in with a camera and a ruler, he measured the pools of blood and the distance of splatters all over the same tables we ate upon. At around 8:00PM later that night we were finally allowed to resume what little of program we had left for the day.

Apparently the two had got in an altercation earlier upstairs. The smaller of the two got the short end of the stick coming out of the battle battered and bruised. After the match was through he wasn't too happy with the outcome. The smaller guy headed over to his rack and pulled out a solidly manufactured plastic cup from his locker. The other guy was shooting pinochle at the time unsuspecting of anything. Moments later he took a full force blow to the back of his dome. The solid object split his head wide open nearly knocking him out. I could tell he was still in a daze as he looked around at everybody in the wheelchair ride out. The entire dorm ended up feeling the repercussions of the fight, racked up for the remainder of the day. The fight became a quick wake up call to those who were too laxed and reminded me to always stay on my toes no matter what.

The rest of the weekend went according to routine, Sunday was another day that I was able to maintain a joyous mood. , watching the 49ers stomp the Jacksonville Jaguars. NFL Games have been one of the easiest ways to get through the time. I met a middle aged man back at the county jail who had already done a couple of five year prison terms. He was so engulfed in sports he had a Nike symbol tattooed around his trachea. His advice to me when it came to doing time with ease was to take it by sports seasons. He said "I follow all of the games and scores closely, sports help me get my mind off of everything else. By the time the football basketball and baseball seasons are over its another year closer to going home." I try to incorporate a little piece of that strategy in my gameplan as I do this prison term.

After making it through the weekend I was looking forward to starting off a brand new week. Today has ended up being my most informative one yet. After we finished eating breakfast the C/O called my last name and I was summoned to the podium, fully dressed with my ID card in hand. I became a bit nervous paranoia had me thinking that it was some bad news with my bloodwork. It ended up being nothing of that nature. The C/O handed me a social factor sheet and told me to fill it out because my counselor would be coming to see me shortly. On the sheet of paper all that needed to be filled in were family contacts once more, in case I had been injured or killed. After completing it I attempted to fall back asleep but within 45 minutes the counselor was in the building. She called me to the podium and at first glance I immediately knew her personality was not one I could communicate with. She was a stalky, middle aged, Hispanic Lady
who came across as polite but insincere. That happens to be one of my biggest pet peeves. If you are not sincere in the way you address somebody I most likely have no interest in talking with you. Unfortunately I'm in prison and have no choice but to take orders like a dog to it's master. She asked me a few questions. Did I graduate High School? Were the contacts listed on my fact sheet up to date. Then she asked me if I was from a gang, I casually responded "no" without second guessing. She looked up at me as if she remembered something she double took my file and said "Yes you are, Whats Buket TKO?" I gave her a ticked off look and said "First of all I'm not in TKO anymore and second of all it's not a gang" She replied "In here it's anything over two"nonchalantly. I didn't know what to say I just let her finish what she had to do and crept back into my rack. I had just spent the last six months being tossed around the court system, set an example of over a madeup police report. Now I'm being railroaded by the prison system who are classifying me as a gang member. This classification error gives me higher security level points and I will be housed among higher caliber criminals. Which really is nothing new, I've been doing time with high risk offenders for the past 18 months, but in prison it becomes a way more complex ballgame. On the high level yards shanks and dope flow more freely, making it easy to end up with addtime even if you stick to yourself. Some people never end up making it home at all. At the time of my interview the counselor had the discretion to classify me on a lower scale but instead decided not to. She is just another person She is just another person I have come across that has only gone to the minimal extent , selfishly, not distinguishing the difference between a writer and a game member. A street gang uses violence, drug sales, and homicide in order to get what they want. A graffiti artist paints his name and artwork throughout the city. An enormous difference that somebody not only concerned with themselves could distinguish. If anything more than two is the case then nearly every inmate in here is a gang member, forced to run with racial groups? What about organized religion? The police force or sports teams? There are people in this world who will go the length to help someone and then there are people who just do their job. I have appealed the decision with a 602 form and am pretty confident that my argument carries some merit. The appeal will start at the local level but has potential to reach all the way to Sacramento. But until I get any feedback I will live on a higher security yard. I can handle anything they throw at me, it's more the principle that bothers me.

In the next one to three weeks I should be summoned by another prison, anywhere in the state of California, they will come and pick me up and that's where I should do the duration of my sentence.

November 19th part 2/2

2009-12-20T14:20:00.000-08:00

(If you haven't read part 1/2 directly below this post please read that before continuing on to part 2/2)

Wearing an orange jumpsuit it's no longer easy to tell from a persons clothing where they are from anymore. We are all just a body in state issued clothing most easily defined by our racial characteristics. First and foremost an inmate identifies with his class this is predominantly determined by racial features. For the most part everybody of the same race or races link together. Then there is a sub-class ad that consists of people who are from the same location or gang on the street. That relationship of the sub-class is much tighter than the class because because it zones in on one specific area. In some cases that sub-class bond can can create a problem between the class if a personal matter is chosen to be pursued. For example, two rival black gang members that run with the same racial group but but their neighborhoods don't get along with each other on the street. If the issue is pursued it can make the entire racial group look vulnerable from the eyes of another and can be a costly form of self-destruction.

The customs a person was raised with are most similar to their sub-class The schools, grocery stores, parks, streets, they're all the same. Some consider the people they meet as close as family and often use the term "homeboy" in reference to them.

In Los Angeles County the gag culture runs rampant. A gangs street credibility is defined by the people whom it's composed of and the area that they claim. The majority of the territory throughout the entire city is claimed by hundreds and hundreds of gangs. You can easily be in a safe well to do neighborhood and walk just a few blocks and end up in one of the deadliest areas of the city. Some gangs hold down blocks and blocks of territory, others hold down no more than a street. The ones that hold down a smaller section of turf tend to be more tightly knit than those who have spread out around the city. This is as simple as needing more gang members to cover more turf, the majority of the members will never meet everyone that represented their same gang.

With state laws coming down tougher on crime, these gang members are finding that prison is becoming just about the only place that will house them anymore. The city has created an injunction for almost every notorious neighborhood. It states that if a known gang member is hanging out with friends, or on the streets, they can be arrested. No longer do they have to be in commission of a crime. In fact they are breaking the law just by being there. Essentially giving Law Enforcement the power to arrest any active gang member.

The prisons are packed with these people and just like everyone else they too have a place that they once called home. A place they were born and raised and went through their molding of life experiences in. Not only do these gang members have love for their cities, they care about these specific areas of the city that they grew up in the most. For some it's all they have left.

Tattoos become one of the best viable avenues to express where a person is from or what they represent. No longer are just a form of artistic expression, they become an advertisement as to what a area a person grew up in. That person has become a walking billboard to that street, that city or country.

Anywhere a tattoo could be applied it was and by all and any means necessary. People would create their tattoos from any object that was sharp enough to penetrate the skin. One of the most common logos is the "LA" symbol, most popular amongst the Mexicans. Some have a shabby tattoo of it on the web of their hand, between the index finger and thumb. A small tattoo such as that can be picked into the skin with just a staple. Shaved down pencil lead mixed with toothpaste most likely for the ink. Others have the same symbol on blasted on the back of their head, usually done with a a guitar string and a Walkman motor. With burnt body oil most commonly used as ink for a larger tattoo. The more obvious the location of the tattoo, the crazier the individual appears to me. The traditional spots spots such as the bicep or chest plate have become boringly common and people feel the need to go for the most obvious areas, the ones that can't be hidden.

D.C. was a friend of that I met months back in the county jail. He was a known heavyweight -like gang member who did a lot of time in prison at a point in his life. He was a real solid guy with a good heart and a lot of love for his neighborhood. He used to tell me "I like you Buket, I kick it with all types of people of cats on the streets. Whites, Mexicans, Skaters, I kick it with everybody. Watch, we gonna kick it when you get out." I always tried to help him move on from the gang banging life, and I hope he chose to do so upon his release. D.C. is from Grape St. Watts, a notorious black crip gang that carries a good amount of street credibility. He has a huge letter "G" tattooed behind his ear, accompanied by two smaller letters, "St." representing Grape street he told me. He told me, "A lot of of these gang members are from hoods and they hide. When their enemies catch them they deny where they're from , they're cowards. I got this "G" behind my ear so I can't hide, people see this and and they know I'm in the business" as he recollected his past gang life.

Tattoos all over a bald mans head has become so common to me that it looks abnormal to be without one. The southern Mexican gang members have made this style of representation most popular. They also choose to hit the cheek., the front and side of the neck, and sometimes the front of their faces. Being familiar with LA I flash to all these locations in my mind whenever I glance at the tattoos.

I went to court back in July who had a solidly filled in numeral "2" These numbers spanned from the bottom of each eye, all the way down to the mouth line. The tattoo stood, for 22nd street. an ese gang that resides off of 22nd and Central Ave, in the heart of South Central. I used to clean his block up everyday as the hood persisted t paint it up again night after night. I no longer looked at these guys faces anymore, just the numbers. I caught myself staring a couple of times as we sat in a tiny holding tank the entire day waiting to be summoned into court. After a while I refrained from looking to not draw any unwanted attention.

I began to notice more and more areas areas that I had lived or spent some time in at one point or another. In another holding I saw a guy with the word 'Temple" tattooed across his upper in handwriting. I often visited a buddy of mine who lived in the center of the neighborhood. . Temple was also the the street that I had been traveling back and forth from jail to court so many times over the past two years. Another guy had PBS tattooed across his forehead, an abbreviation for the Playboys Gang. They claimed several streets on the east side as well as a park with a handball court that I used to play at daily. A gang member from the city of San Gabriel had "Sangra" tattooed across his throat. It spanned from ear to ear and stretched down from the chin to trachea. "LHTS" was behind another guys ear and stood for Lincoln Heights. One of my first apartments in LA was in that area. RSP tattooed above an older man's eyebrow stood for Rancho San Pedro, which was right around the corner from my first job, somewhere in the Harbor Area. A Black guy had BGC in large letters across his stomach standing for Broadway Gangsta Crip. I used to pass by the area on the bus everyday en route to work. The Avenues and the Clover gangs went to war for turf at another living spot of mine. The Rolling Twenties Outlaws was a blood neighborhood that I had to do community service in daily. I ended up coming across a few strange encounters with a gang member from the Rollin 20's that reassured
me how small this world really was. (Reference Rolling 20s article) Cheevas and Arta13 were neighborhoods bordering the 91 freeway. and painted over a few graffiti spots that I had originated. The Rolling 30's, 40's, and 50's were all neighborhood crips. (NHC) and were located in a section of Mid-City that I also performed community service in. The Hoover Criminals were in the same vicinity, but bisected the numbered streets along Hoover St. The Four-Tre click around 43rd and the Five-Deuces around 52nd St. Then there were the ese gangs in the same area. Westside 18th St., Mara Salvatrucha, Street Villains (STV13) and Harpy's which were all along Normandie and Vermont. If you travelled a few streets east to where I had been staying The Hang Out Boys (HOB13) controlled a three block stretch and was smack dad in the center of a turf war between the 41st Gang, Playboys (PBS), 36st. Gang and the 43rd Crips. A couple blocks down from that were bigger hoods like Florencia (F13) and 38St. Gang. They went to war with Clanton14 (C14) , the Ghetto Boyz (GBZ) East Side Trece (ES13) and Primera Flats 23rd St. click. This was just one section of the city that I knew block for block. When I saw these same gang members in Jail and the neighborhoods tattooed on them I knew exactly how they grew up and what was around the area.

The White kids would have their own symbolic tattoos. They weren't so much from traditional gangs like the ones previously mentioned, they would represent a broader area, like a Valley or A County. San Fernando Valley (SFV), San Gabriel Valley (SGV), and the Antelope Valley were all common tattoos among the whites. In most cases to earn those two or three "letters" you needed to put in some sort of work in prison. The tattoo of a war bird meant that a person had been in a riot. Two lightning bolts meant they had stabbed a black person. And the Valley letters as well as a "white pride" tattoo were earned by doing any kind of dirt, such as discipline or transporting dope. Woods (prison slang for Whites) also got their hometown area codes. Like 818, 559 or 408 tattooed on them. By reading their tattoos I got a general idea of where they lived on the outside but the neighborhoods weren't specified.

The pride that these people had for their cities was off the Richter. Instead of just sporting it with some removeable clothing they were branded for life with the street, city or valley names as a sign of their dedication to their home. Now that I think of it more than love for the name, I believe those tattoos are a symbol of those customs they had growing up as a child.

I talked to a white guy from Pomona last night that had so much love his city, he told me, "I get chills just speaking about it." To me, Pomona was just some tiny city that didn't catch my but to him it was a place flowing with history.

Another ese in the dorm is from a small city in the Santa Clarita Valley called New Hall. He has big, bold, legible letters on the back of his head that read New Hall. Across his chest are huge Old English letters stating New Hall. And his two forearms read "N" and "H" in another gothic font. It says New Hall on so many places on this mans body that it's all a person thinks about when looking at him. The other day the C/O was trying to get the attention of the guy and yelled "Hey New Hall!" Another inmate heard it and and chuckled "He called you New Hall" with a sarcastic tone. The C/O heard and said "Well he's got New Hall written like fifty times on his body I didn't know what else to call him!"

I heard the whole conversation and had to walk away, I was about to laugh.

November 19th part 1/2

2009-12-18T10:51:00.000-08:00

The first twenty-three years of my life were spent growing up in my hometown of San Jose, CA. I attended an exceptional preschool a few miles from my house where I met other local kids. When I became old enough to participate in organized sports I was signed up for them according to the seasons . During the fall and winter I would play soccer for the local organized league. Our home field was just around the corner from my house an happened to be the elementary school that I was attending at the time. If my team had an away game, usually the furthest that we had to travel was to the opposite side of town. Maybe it was at the Rose Garden which was on the westside of San Jose, or PAL Stadium over on the eastside, everything was within a fifteen mile radius. When I played Little League Baseball in the Spring it was the same thing. The field where we all congregated was no more than 15 blocks from my house. My mother would give me rides to practices and games, and when she couldn't I had no problem riding my bike. I eventually starting umpiring at that same baseball park to earn some extra bucks at the time. It was conveniently local and I loved traveling through the areas I had become so familiar with.

Later in time I attended the local Middle and High Schools and also befriended all of the neighborhood kids. We all played in the same leagues, went to the same schools, shopped at the same grocery stores and hung out together after school and on the weekends. Everything was so close that our main form of transportation was our bikes. We would ride to the football field and organize games against our peers. We also gathered together at a local house to watch sporting events such as the Super Bowl and the World Series.I remember occasionally causing havoc in the area, toilet-papering a fellow students house, or pumpkin-bashing a neighbors custom cut jack-o-lantern on Halloween, but it was all innocent fun at the time.

I would eventually finish high school and held down more serious jobs as I got older. All of which were in the same vicinity. I learned more about myself and about my life as I got older college would be just around the corner. My hometown was such a spectacular place, I had been through so much there over the years. The restaurants the parks, the freeways, hospitals, libraries, schools arcades etc I knew where they were all located. I also knew the most time efficient routes to and from them. I had become so fluent with the area surrounding my home city my knowledge of streets and landmarks began spewing over to neighboring cities.
My memories of adolescence were happy, sad, fun, and everything else in the book, but most of all they were life learning experiences. I had gone through some of my most building years in this city I had come to call home. It was a place that helped to build the person I've become today. Family, friends, schools, sports, even though I am far from home I can always reference back to these memories and give thanks for the environment in which I was raised.
As I completed my last few years at SJSU I was faced with one of my biggest dilemmas at the time Should I obtain my degree and jump right into the working force immediately after finishing school? But most importantly, should I do this in the same city I had come to cherish throughout my entire adolescent and early adult life. After all it was a place that I had gone through everything in. My first steps, first birthday, first day of school, first girlfriend, first car, etc. I had the option to continue in living in the only place I ever knew and keep adding to my memory bank. Or I could pack my bags and head out for new territory, one that I knew nothing about and start fresh. It would have been perfectly acceptable to live local and life would have been just as happy, but I was overcome by by an uncontrollable itch. The feeling of curiosity would control my destiny, dictating the path in life that I would choose to walk in the future. I chose to move from my home environment, my comfort zone and start fresh in the City of Angels..

One of the first things that I noticed over the duration of my stay was how many people there who had lived there their entire lives. Similar to myself only a few months previous, they were constricted to to the confines of their own homely surroundings. The everyday customs varied selectively from the ones I had grown up with. They were devoted Dodger fans who shopped at the Fashion and Produce Districts on weekends. Instead of trips to Great America it was trips to Disneyland or Magic Mountain. All of the local parks were filled with people that came to play soccer daily.

I ended up staying in several different cities throughout the states over the past couple of years and began to notice it every place I went. Everybody born and raised in that town ad their own traditions and represented their area in one way or another. Regardless of age, race, there were infinite ways to do it.

I'm a die hard Giants fan and grew up in the Bay Area so people always see me sporting an orange and black SF hat , no matter where I go. In New York, young and older generations wear their Yankee hat proudly. College students and alumni will flaunt their their NYU apparel. Firefighters and supporters showed their respect by wearing New York City Fire Department clothing. In Los Angeles USC and UCLA fans run wild showing love for their schools. People from Beverly Hills gladly floss their zip codes, 90210. And the younger generation sticks to an LA branded style wearing creased khakis , Nike Cortez's or Chuck Taylors. Even if you knew nothing about sports or fashion, just representing your area showed a comforting sense of unity.
Inside these razor wire fences and concrete prison walls the idea is no different than that from the outside. Everybody still represents where they're from, and inmates find friends in people that grew up in the same location. Fellow gang members will shake hands to introduce themselves, "What's up Homie? they call me smiley from Echo Park." Or "Sup Blood? J-Rock from Bounty Hunters." Even those that don't gangbang introduce themselves with a name and their city. "Dave from San Mateo" or "Chris from the San Fernando Valley."
No longer housed in LA County Jail, I bump into more and more people from all over the state. They're from all different types of cities. Some of the most common ones being Los Angeles, San Diego, Riverside, San Bernadino , San Jose etc...And then there are these tiny ones like Tulare, Visalia, Wasco, ones by the Arizona border or Mojave area that I had no clue even existed. Just because their city limits were minimal didn't mean their love for the hometown had to be. Some of those guys represented their area harder than those from the big city.

October 29th

2009-12-14T12:13:00.001-08:00

It's game two of the world series and I just watched Alicia Keyes and Jay-Z do a song about New York that got me really pumped. This is my second consecutive world series behind bars and it puts an extra damper on my situation. I've loved baseball all my life so being locked up during the season is rather depressing. However I'm not sure if it was tonight's game or the music performance that caught my attention a lot. The melody and lyrics of this song have me reminiscing about the temporary but joyous time I spent living in New York.

I remember being captivated by feelings of excitement and curiosity as I stepped off the plane at La Guardia Airport. I just spent the entire flight unconscious after trying to catch up on several sleepless nights. Now, with luggage in hand and a long but needed resting period I was refreshed and ready to go hit the streets. Like a child to Disneyland my time here was spent was a period when time was a friend to me and I was always trying to catch up with it. I had so many places to go and people to see that there wasn't enough time in the world to accomplish all my desires while I was here. Far before my current woes presenting that same time as an opposing force. Now instead of basking in it, I count the days and look forward to the present being nothing more than a vague memory of the past.

After exiting the airport I became awestruck by the beautiful lamp lit cityscape as I gazed from a distance. Similar to San Francisco, the sky scrapers reached for the stars but unlike anywhere else the number of buildings appeared endless. I marvelled in the snow covered sidewalks as I hiked in search of a bus that would deliver me to the nearest subway station. The same subway station. The same subway that I had heard so much about growing up in a west coast suburban city. New York's history runs deeper than the depths of the ocean and shines brighter than any precious stone, still providing me with a euphoric feeling while I sit here writing from a state penitentiary. Unlike so many cities across the states where I had spent so much time searching for the art form, here, in New York, it was in search of me.

Nights became days and days became nights as I trekked through the different Burroughs. To the best of my knowledge I was heading from Queens to Brooklyn but as far as I was concerned the whole city would become my home. Like Los Angeles had become to me sometime before, it would be a place where every nook and cranny of the city would provide me with a sense of security. Sometimes the worst areas provided the most comfort. Sides of the city where poverty ran rampant but so did dedicated people and good work ethic. Store owners and street vendors slaved day in and day out but were still able to maintain happiness with so little. That lifestyle reassured me that material things were far from a great life and what one made out of what they were given was the true essence.

Tomorrow is another day at the yard. In Los Angeles County all three hours of mandatory yard time designated for each inmate are combined into one day. However up here the time is split up an hour and a half each day, twice a week. The dorm officer usually calls us about 9:30 in the morning and everyone who wants to go must bring their I.D. out with them. We flash our ID's to the two yard officers and as we walk across the sidewalk and under the fenced off area. Aside from a pull up bar and a basketball court there isn't much much else to do than walk the track. The Blacks and others and the Whites and Mexicans stick to the opposite side. The last time we went out the whole yard was instructed to hit the floor. I was walking the track so I dropped straight to the dirt. Others, located at the grass at the time found a more comfortable laying ground as they followed orders. Wherever you are it's imminent that you hit the floor upon instruction or shots will be fired immediately. That particular incident didn't involve our area, but whatever it was, the whole prison was on alert.

The view outside the prison gates is stagnantly dull. We are in the middle of nowhere and it's most obvious by the rugged and barren landscape. There are dry shrubs and tumbleweeds for miles and the morning fog gets even thicker as the season progresses. Since the air is fresh in the morning the smell of cow manure can be smelled with ease. Two dorms are let out at a time and each day I see a few new familiar faces walking about the track. Most of them I had come across at one point or another at the County Jail.

The other morning I saw a buddy of mine that I met back in L.A. County. He happened to be walking on the the other side of the gate on his way back to his dorm after receiving commissary. He was a well mannered white kid with no tattoos and a good attitude, he didn't fit the typical profile of a criminal. We both cracked a smirk through the gate as I hollered at him.
"What up dude? Have you seen your counselor yet?"
"Yeah I'm probably going to a CCF," he yelled back at me.
"Alright take care then" was the last I told him as I continued to trudge the track.

It had only been a couple of weeks earlier that we were strolling the halls as inmate workers in L.A. County Jail together. He was aware of my case and the day after I was sentenced I asked him to look out for me. "A deputy always throws a copy of the L.A. Times in this trash can and I want to see the type of nonsense they had to say. Just keep an eye out while I fish that paper out of the trash." I told him.

If the guards had caught us doing this it would be straight to the hole. For at least a couple weeks. The hole was a place inmates were sent to as a form of punishment. It was a 6' by 9' cell with hardly anything to eat and bi-weekly showers if you're lucky. Some could spend weeks there, others months depending on the orders of the Sergeant.
It was a risk I was willing to take, I sifted through the trash can for no more than thirty seconds and found it there. I quickly opened it up. Sure enough there was my mugshot accompanied by another bogus, repetitive article. I stuffed it down my waistline and pulled my shirt over it as we crept back to the dorm. Mission accomplished for today.

It ended up being nice to see him I thought to myself and made my way back to the pull-up bar.
For the majority of the yard I stay on the pull-up bar with various forms of arms, back and shoulder exercises. Here in reception nobody is allowed to workout inside of the dorm. One of the reasons behind that I heard was that for the time being the authorities didn't want any of the inmates to get too big. Maybe they think by reducing the testosterone and level it will reduce the hostility and fighting. Whatever the reason was, whenever yard rolls around it's best to get all the exercise you can because when you come back inside it's pretty much the same routine. The only thing that I feel that I'm missing at this yard is a handball court. I am very anxious to hit mainline because once I start playing handball and working out that's when the clock really starts to move. I can run fifteen back to back handball games and next thing I know is half the day is gone.

October 27

2009-12-11T12:34:00.000-08:00

In recent years the California Prison Union has changed it's acronym from the CDC to the CDCR (California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.) The change is still fairly new and it most obvious in our everyday apparel. In reception we are dressed in a double orange jumpsuit. The back of the shirt is branded in black "CDCR Prisoner"as well as down the front of your right pant leg. However because the change is still so new only about half of the population has CDCR on it while the other half still says CDC. By tacking on the term rehabilitation on the end of their title they claim to be able to provide a number of services, programs and resources along with it. With the majority of the population poorly being educated the idea is to help get some of these guys back on par. Everybody that comes into the CDCR's reception center throughout California is now required to take a reading comprehension test. It's called TABE testing. All inmates regardless of their educational background must take the test and the results will be printed on your permanent file. Before the pamphlets were passed out the instructor informed us that not scoring high enough on the exam could hold a person back from certain privileged jobs. Those jobs being clerical work or fire camp. He said it was important to try your hardest because in order to receive your good time/ work time credits you would either need to be employed or attend classes. I am hoping to be a firefighter while incarcerated and if I didn't score high enough it would hold me back.

After hearing what the instructor had to say I went from uninterested to enthusiastic about taking the exam. I graduated college in 2006 and have spent the better part of four years dedicated to the streets so I was a little bit nervous. The instructor also informed us that there were four different booklets to choose from. Each one contained 50 questions and were separated by difficulty level. "E" stood for easy, "M" for medium, "D" for difficult and "A" for advanced. If we chose to take the difficult or advanced test and scored an 85% or higher then we'd be in the clear from any mandatory classes. The "Difficult" test was supposed o be that of a 10th-12th grade reading level and passing it would be good enough but I decided to go for the gold. I picked up the "advanced" test and after opening it became reluctantly hesitant. There were a lot of trick questions and it wasn't the dummy test I thought I preconceived it would be.
At that moment I had a sudden flashback to hanging out with one of my good friends. When I was on the outside we would joke around and give each other a different handle, one that was more fitting to our personality. My boy would always accuse me of making these way-out outlandish assumptions. Instead of calling me "BUKET" he would call me "Assume1" Every time I made a crazy accusation, he'd get mad and say, "Dude, What the FUCK? Assume1" and then we'd usually bust out laughing.

Quick, snap back into reality, I chose the Advanced test... Would my assumption about the
difficulty level lead to my demise?

Never that, just like it had been with everything else in my life, once I got into my groove I began to coast. Like my graffiti to the streets, the casual attitude when it came to beef, or acceptance of time when the Sheriff's resorted to lies and deceit, I chose to just cruise. It was a fifty question exam with fifty minutes designated to finish it. When I turned in the form I was a bit hesitant but I proceeded to do so and then made my way back to my seat. I patiently waited for the machine to score my bubbled in answers and for the instructor to call my name. As we headed to out the door he handed us our yellow slips. A lot of people that were taking the easy test were scoring at around a first or third grade level. I grabbed mine from the instructor and breathed a sigh of relief.

"12.9, a perfect score" the instructor told me.

The saddest part of the results were that such a high number of the inmates scored no better than an elementary student. They could tell you everything you need to know about how to cook dope, or how to come up on some money, but lacked the skills necessary to maintain a halfway decent job.

Everyday around 12:00pm to 3:00pm Jerry Springer and Maury Povich come on TV. If these shows are not contributing factors to the demise of an educated society I don't know what is. The Television hosts and producers who create these shows are no less guilty than the selfishness of a drug dealer, pushing a product and pocketing heavy profit with no positive contribution to society. Everyone crowds around to watch themselves on this mirror of a TV. They laugh and yell at the stories being told. "My Mom's Sleeping with my Boyfriend," "My Sister is Pregnant by my baby's daddy" the topics are ridiculous and and everybody gets a kick out of it. It dawned on me that this is the type of trash they are feeding us inside these walls. We're side by side with these people who have terrible habits for years and then fed this nonsense. What type of people does society expect are coming out of these detention centers, when the time spent incarcerated has been nothing more than a postponement of the habits that were never addressed. And to top it off we're governed by the code of the streets. I have never been anti establishment but I'm forced to question politics when "tough on crime" becomes comparable to neo-nazi camps. Unemployment is at record numbers and the LAPD are considering hiring 10,000 new police officers in the midst of California's budget crisis. The state talks about rehabilitation but puts the power in the hands of any officer with a grudge and lets them have full control over a previous offenders life. "You're on probation or parole? You're going in for looking at me wrong and we'll make up an excuse when we're filling out a report." I get aggravated sometimes because you really don't realize the absurdity of all of these circumstances until you are right up in the mix of it, and by that time it's too late.

October 25th

2009-12-09T13:41:00.000-08:00

The different reasons behind ones incarceration are near infinite. Some are sophisticated, well thought out plans, others happen in the heat of the moment, then there's those people who just make boneheaded decisions. They are obviously a a few marbles shy of a full jar, and the choices they made put them in some bad predicaments.

My neighbor underneath me, Jerry, is a very nice guy with some obvious mental problems. He's not quite as quick in the head as the rest of us and has an irregular speech impediment. I suppose using speed adds to his problems and sometimes I catch myself frustrated with the things that he does. But I know from experience it could be a hundred times worse. Jerry is a 38 year old white guy that's been locked up in here for the past 13 months. He has two young daughters who are now in the care of Child Protective Services. His girlfriend always uses heavy dope and was therefore declared unfit to raise the children. Jerry just finished doing a ten month sentence in a federal Prison and was shipped out here on his release date he has another eight months to do in this State Penitentiary before they will finally let him go home. He picked up his federal case at the US/Mexican border in coming back from Tijuana. Someone had offered him $500 to help smuggle somebody over the border. He was to hang out at a hotel until someone arrived in a minivan. The minivan had an 18 year old Mexican woman in the hood of the car. She had payed someone a couple of thousand dollars to get across the border. I asked him how she could even fit. He said, " she was between the engine and the firewall" with a dead serious expression. Apparently the border control agents found him to be somewhat suspicious and he was pulled over for secondary searching. The dog must have sniffed out the girl right away and the plan was a failure. Jerry was tailing the guy in the minivan but as soon as he saw what happened he split.

The reason he wound up here after serving the time was for a completely different. He said the same friend of a friend was cashing phony checks and the scam seemed to be working real well. The guy wrote Jerry's name on the check and sent him in to cash it.
"As soon as I knew how many checks were already cashed that's when I knew nothing good was going to come of the situation." he told me.

I found that whole statement to be depressing. "Didn't you realize nothing good was going to come out of the situation before you went to receive cash for something you didn't earn?" I asked him.

I realized a lot of his problems arose from a combination of mental issues and dope combined. Here is this man, with next to nothing, who lives in a travel trailer and has lost almost two years of his life behind a $250 check and a $500 border deal. Some people make $750 in a few days, what's worse is he never even got to keep the money. It's a sad fact of life that while normal people are carrying on with their day to day tasks there are these people that can't even maintain a manageable life cycle.

Jerry's friend came up to me and asked, "Do you do a lot of dope?"
"Drugs just aren't my thing" I replied.
"Then what the fuck are you doping in prison?" he barked at me.
I'm not above anybody in here. Not even one person. But all I could say with a chuckle and a shrug, "They made an example out of me..."

October 24th

2009-12-06T13:58:00.000-08:00

Part of the arrival process was making each inmate an I.D. card. As we trekked around the concrete floors all day. Barefoot and wearing only boxers they took a front and side view with tape on the wall behind us to show height. Taking mugshots has been something I've become very good at over the last few years (sarcasm.)

Now that I had my I.D. the wristband that I had been wearing for the past 5 months was no longer necessary. I saw some people chew theirs off, and others had already removed them. As for me I tugged and tugged with so much aggression until it broke. It was a bitter sweet feeling of rebellion when I hucked it to the ground. It felt like I was throwing up the middle finger to L.A. county and their justice system. A county that had me serve my time for my crime and let me go home. Only to turn around and re-arrest me and detain me on no more than a fictitious police report. By throwing that wristband to the ground it was like telling them you may be able to lock up my body but you'll never be able to touch my mind, that will always be free. I could never despise you because that would take too much energy. I only pity the foul and hideous morals you choose to live by. I have made plenty of mistakes at a period in my life, but for another individual to lie and keep me away from my family, for an absurd amount of time at that is downright evil. I only vent these injustices not in search of freedom but because it would be a crime to keep the truth a secret.

After getting my I.D. card strangely it felt a little bit like college again (The School of Hard Knocks.) We walked the pathways freely if even for a moment. There were grassy fields, a track to run, basketball courts, and a workout area. I looked up and the sky was emerald blue. The air smelled fresh and we were more free than we had been in a while.

There are 140 inmates housed in this dorm and the gate is never locked except at night. It feels good to be treated with a little more dignity. The reason we have so many privileges is because the inmate issued discipline is in full effect. Everything that you learned in jail as far as respect and cleanliness should already be fully implemented by the time you arrived here in prison. There are no second chances. If you slip up you will get smashed, no questions asked. Some of the inmates refer to this as being "touched up" others call it "boo bopped" and the rest just say they were disciplined. The way it's carried out is is pretty coward like. A higher official will order three other inmates to bumrush the one being disciplined. This usually takes place in a corner or a bathroom and lasts between 20 and 60 seconds. For the most part it keeps everyone on their "P's and Q's" and helps everything run smoother because nobody wants to be the victim. But every now and then that individual who abuses the authority comes along and starts implementing excessive and unnecessary violence. Dorms get out of control and minor issues become major riots.

The fact that I came out of L.A. County puts me considerably above the rest. The inmate issued program for the whites and the Mexicans were governed by will make or break a person. You always needed to be on your toes and be prepared for anything. Deadly racial riots pop off at the drop of a dime, anywhere, anytime. There was a mandatory workout schedule five days a week to keep us in tip-top shape. Every race was similar to an army and the tension ran high. At no point other than right before you enter the shower are you allowed to wear your sandals. Just in case a riot broke out you had to have your shoes to be ready to go. There was absolutely no trading or gambling with the black race. No cutting through the tables. No cutting through the rocks. No misuse of the designated toilets. You can only spit out your toothpaste in the toilet, not the sink. No talking during count time. No getting off your rack during lights out not following any of these rules is grounds for discipline. A few times I've seen the one being disciplined issue a beating to the three coming at him, but the majority of the time, he ends up battered and beaten. And on some rare occasions, dead. I met a guy who beat a homicide case on the street only to be facing an "in-house" murder because somebody got "boo bopped" to death. If L.A. county taught me anything , it was to show no fear when you walk and hold you head up high because there will be a brighter day.

October 23rd PART 2/2

2009-12-02T13:45:00.000-08:00

(Editors note: This is part two of Buket's October 23rd entry, read the post directly below titled October 23rd PART 1/2 if you haven't already)

"How are you doing today sir? last name please," he greeted me, not unkindly.

"Yazdani, Y-A-Z" I told him.

"Walk all the way to your right and have a seat on the first bench sir, they'll call you shortly," he replied.

What was this? Perhaps I was dreaming? I have just spent 15 of the last 19 months of my life in Los Angeles County Jail. A place governed by the same agency I was arrested by. Where sheriffs, deputies, seniors, treat everybody, no matter what your case is, less than human to say the least. I remember them pulling a black kid out of his cell every night around dinner time. They would drag him down the hall to a place that was no longer visible to the rest of the inmates and just go to work on him. I heard him take punch after punch yelling, but not crying as he received each blow. It sounded as if he was dry heaving. Then a deputy emerged just enough to where I could see him through the crack. He was smiling while he opened and closed his fist as if he had just hurt himself. The coldest part of the whole situation was that the kid was handcuffed the entire time. At the end a few more officers arrived, chuckled for a bit and then proceeded to carry about their way.

At the beginning I viewed these deputies as highly disciplined individuals, many of them straight out of the military. I thought they were there in search of justice and well being. But as time progressed I realized that there was a slim minority of those people. I began to recognize that their actions were far from disciplined, they were blatantly disrespectful, with no regard for other human beings. These individuals were carrying themselves as if a part of some sort of divine Reich. How could another human being disrespect another individual in such a manner? regardless of what he was in jail for. I met many people inside there that were not hardened criminals, they just made a few unwise decisions. The majority of these officers had deeper issues than than those that were behind bars. They just happened to be on the right side of the gate. The officer who gunned down an unarmed man in Oakland not too long ago is not the only guilty law enforcement official. He was just caught on tape...

I snapped back into reality, I wasn't dreaming after all. Here in prison the C/O's that I've come in contact with have all addressed me on a personal level. Don't get me wrong, safety always comes first and we're still on an unstable battle field. The slogan that tripped me out the most (aside from signing a death waiver) was the sign reading : "Warning there are no warning shots." Meaning if you don't get down when they say get down you could end up dead. But for the most part if you showed respect to the C/O's you got respect back. And it's not like they're on the other side of the cage anymore like in the County. There are 148 people in my dorm and one C/O who is up at the podium inside the cage with us. Even after touching down I began to notice the respect level change (after the brawl of course.) The officer came over to us and said, "You guys (LA County) have the largest busload but we are going to try to get you housed by this afternoon. Just listen for your name when it's called and and be attentive. " Most of these C/O's were just everyday ordinary citizens and have come to do their job and make their income. They don't put any extra effort into it.
At diagnostics I went through a number of blood and psychological tests. At first I was asked to sit at a table while a lady holding a clipboard asked me some reasonable questions. "Have you ever been depressed? Do you take any anti-anxiety medication? Do you have a hard time sleeping? But soon after the question began to get more awkward and detailed. Have you ever heard voices in your head? Do little men talk to you when you close your eyes? Have wizards ever put a spell on you?" The questions kept coming I couldn't hold back my smile for much longer, I began to laugh. I could tell that the nurse was holding back a smile too. But I realized for the questions to get that specific they must come across these symptoms regularly.

After that they drew blood, took my weight and height, blood pressure, and checked my teeth. In order to get to the next destination you had to present you I.D. card.

October 23rd PART 1/2

2009-11-28T13:34:00.000-08:00

Three days into my arrival I'm beginning to settle into the new ways of prison life. Normally the beginning phase of prison's reception requires the first few days to be spent in a cell, but after completing processing I was one of the few that was sent directly to a dorm. There are four different levels of security a person can have which determines which yard you will be placed on. After a couple weeks of waiting, a counselor assigned to your case comes by your to interview you and determine your security level. A lot of the variables are predetermined . Was your crime violent? How many years have you been sentenced to? Are you in a gang? But a few of the questions are not. Have you ever served in the military? Did you graduate from college? Do you have a wife and kids? These factors can help bring your point level down. Usually a level 1 or level 2 yard are dorm living. They are lower security and carry a few more privileges than the others. On these yards the crimes perpetrated by these are mostly, vehicular theft, grand theft auto, joy riding, driving without the owners consent. There's also a lot of check fraud, money/property theft, commercial burglars, and any other scam artist you can think of. Then there are the dope dealers and drug addicts.

I see a lot of blacks in here for dealing crack cocaine in highly infested drug areas, maybe skid row in downtown L.A. or other poverty stricken areas. Selling rock cocaine has a fast turn around rate. A crack addict may buy $15-20 worth of crack and be back to the dealer in an thirty minutes to an hour. After ten trips to the dealer in a day the dope man has made about $200 and that's just from one person. Now imagine that same dealer having 10 different customers. At that point they're making really fast cash. The down side to them is that there is a lot of hand to hand transactions and they usually go down on street corners or back alleys. They become easy prey for authorities, especially undercover officers lurking the streets undetected. Some look like homeless people, even pushing carts, sporting rugged beards. Others look identical to veteran gang members. Very few of these crack pushers find a better life. The usually end up filling the prison system and plotting a better way to pedal crack when they get out.

The Mexicans push crack cocaine sometimes as well, but their drug of choice seems to be methamphetamine. Meth's high lasts a greater length, but is equally if not if not much more destructive than crack cocaine. Crack's high is so short that is has a person constantly fiending to smoke all day and all night. All that they want to do is smoke all day and all night. All they want to do is smoke, smoke, smoke. Meth on the other hand will last for days at a time. People begin doing insane things for no reason other than they have nothing else to do. Mexican gang members commit countless murders and attempts on their rival neighborhoods with little-to-no remorse while high on meth. It's like the drug bands that "not giving a fuck attitude" into their mentality. A lot of these gang members will talk about killings and shootings so casually similarly to if they were talking about sports or a job. A person will keep smoking meth for day and weeks at a time. Others will manage a month with hardly any nourishment at all. By the time they come down, essential parts of the brain functioning system have been burnt out and after a period of time they are like walking zombies. Sales of meth usually go down over the phone and transactions less out in the open than crack. An addict will call his connection and $100 of dope will usually do them OK for a few days. These dope dealers end up getting arrested transporting the dope with scales and baggies. Or one of their clients gets busted and rolls over on their dealer. It's not uncommon to hear people say "So and So threw rat on me homie."

There are also white folks that move methamphetamines, however more often than not they are middle to upper class kids that rely on selling prescription pills. Vicodins, Codeine, Oxycontin, Xanex, anything that could be picked up "over the counter" you will find them selling. Typically these are kids that came from a financially secure home, but for some reason or other decided to sell drugs. If not to be cool, it might be to support their own drug habit and they usually end up getting caught up because of it. They were spun out and got sloppy, cops pulled them over and find 100 bottles of Vicodin in the vehicle. Their best offer in court was two years in the joint which was way better than eight years so they jumped at the chance.

Even though these of non-violence are my most frequent encounters it doesn't necessarily mean the individual is civilized. They may have gotten caught doing something non violent, but are also active gang members or stick up robbers, they just haven't been caught for those crimes yet. There are some real killers in here the number of tattooed tears I see could fill rivers.

There are a few meanings behind the tattooed tears, but the most prominent being one tear for each body you have under your belt. Homicides,I see many people with one or two of them but occasionally I'll see someone with five or six running down their cheek. When I see that I sometimes think to myself, 'what a different life has traveled how much grief have they seen?'

I have not been assigned my point my point level yet , but I assume it will be something low considering my crime and the fact I came straight to a dorm upon arrival.

Yesterday was my third day here and I was summoned around 7:30 in the morning for my diagnostic testing. After being injected with a shot to my lower right forearm on Tuesday the bubble on my skin has gone down all the way so I assume that my tuberculosis results came back negative. Now it was time for a bunch of more tests. The entrance gate is usually left open during the day so I casually exited the dorm and made my way down the walkway. The lab was back towards the R&R (Reception and Release) building I first came into. Only instead of going right, this time I would make a left. On my way down I saw familiar faces that I had came in with a few days prior. They were headed that same way. We all continued to walk that way, hands behind our backs until we were greeted by a Correctional Officer with a clipboard.

October 11th

2009-11-21T17:07:00.001-08:00

It's around dinner time and the deputy just told me to "roll it up". I'm excited right now that I'm finally getting this show on the road. It's my first time in prison so I'm a little uncertain on the routine but I'm going to surely find out soon. I'd be lying to say I'm not nervous, but I think I'm more happy than anything. . This is my farewell to L.A. County . Next time you hear from me it will be from state grounds.

October 10th, Hypocrisy

2009-11-21T14:36:00.000-08:00

In hindsight I'm proud of myself for trying to make the best that I could of an unjust decision. But if I really think deeply about it and consider the circumstances surrounding my arrest and detainment, what a fucked up system we are living in when any non educated, chauvinistic punk can arrest someone over nothing more than a grudge and do whatever they please. What's even sadder is that the court system backs this, holding a person with no bail while he sits in jail for months fighting a bunch of lies. The and court for a person fighting his case from the inside is nothing less than than a mental breakdown where you are dragged around and yelled at for 19 hour days at a time. People around you fighting 25 years to life sentences are telling you to jump on a 5 year deal because that's nothing to them.

I just picked up yesterdays L.A. Daily News. I read something that said the U.S. Army Corps of engineers are seeking 3.7 million dollars in restitution from the graffiti crew that painted gigantic spanning from the top to the bottom of the L.A. riverbank. Yes, I may have had some indifference's with that same crew, but do I think that is even a comparable amount? 3.7 million dollars in restitution that can be removed by those same 8 or 10 people for no more than $5,000. The reasoning behind the high priced restitution is that the paint crew needs to block off the river, and filter all the toxins from entering the water stream. Just let them paint over it the same way they put it there, with a roller and paint bucket. There will be no off spray to worry about entering the stream.

I was in the backseat of a friends car a few years back. While traveling on the freeway traffic came to a stop. The car behind us didn't notice. We heard brakes screech, seconds later he plowed into the rear of the car. Upon impact my head flew back and struck the rear window. It was painful, but I was alright. I remember the two in the front seat looking at me with frightening faces. I didn't know yet but blood was streaming down from my hair all over my face.
I think I had a smile on my face like, "What's wrong?" They told me and I then realized I had a small gash on the top of my head. I went to the hospital to get it stitched up. My medical insurance ended up covering the cost with no questions asked.

In the next few weeks my friend would inform me that somebody from the guilty party's auto insurance company was looking to contact me. I thought nothing of it an called him back. He's wanted to come to my house and to ask me a few questions.

A couple days later he met me and asked about the accident. I told him what happened and he wrote it all down, he then handed me a check for $1,000, and asked me if that was OK. I looked at it and couldn't understand why he was going to pay me for such a petty injury. He insisted I take the money and proceeded to have me sign papers stating I had been reimbursed financially for the accident. I was no longer able to sue the auto insurance company.

I thought about it for some time after. I would never sue for something that I did not deserve. I wouldn't extort a company on false claims, not because they didn't have the money to pay it off, but because morally and and truthfully that money wouldn't belong to me.

The insurance agent had taken all precautions against me to make sure I didn't file false claims to acquire money down the line. But little did he know that I was not one of those individuals. However he was 100% in the right to take those steps.

My point being that too many people are seeking an easy way out. Everyday people file false claims and expect and desire things that simply do not belong to them. It's like kicking someone on the ground . They're already vulnerable but, "Let's see if we can extort the most out of him in order to take care of our own personal interests. Forget what's righteous and just, it's a dog-eat-dog world out there and this provides me with a easier way out.

It happened to David Letterman, it happened to Barry Bonds with the whole steroid scandal, it's happened to countless others and now it's happened to me. I'm not saying that I nor any of these people aren't guilty of something at some point or another, I'm only saying that kicking somebody while they're down (metaphorically speaking) is a sign of weakness. I was guilty in the past and still vulnerable, I had not been able to pick up the pieces of my life and persisted to take hits.

East Library

2009-11-21T14:23:00.000-08:00

Click to enlarge.

October 9th

2009-11-17T13:39:00.000-08:00

For the past two months I have been working in the facilities library. I had originally put in a request to change from my dorm to a different one a month prior. Over the course of that time I swayed back and forth as to whether or not I really wanted to leave the dorm. I liked my job, I liked my time to myself and I liked working for the librarian. However yesterday the request form was finally processed and the dorm change was made.

In the old dorm Monday through Friday consisted of waking up around 5:30 AM to be counted. After that everyone would fall back asleep. I would stay awake and jump in the shower to use the hot water before it was all used up. After that Chow (name changed) would come in around 7:00AM. I would eat and do what had to be done before work. At 8:00 the librarian would call over to the dorm to request that I come in. I would already be waiting at the gate with my books.

Over the past couple of months it was a routine that I had become accustomed to. Time seemed to fly and I had an unlimited supply of reading material. I read a few novels but for the most part I enjoyed non-fiction literature. Psychology,biographies, self-help, history and true stories were what kept me engaged. I also enjoyed browsing the newest selection of magazines.

Aside from the resources, I was able to work with a kind and genuine librarian. She would have me do a set of chores for the day such as sweeping, mopping and straightening the shelves. Then as dorms were called into the library I would write down the names and booking numbers of every inmate.They were mandatory tasks for the job and I was happy to do them.

In the library all types of people came in. Every race and for every crime. The majority were gang members, drug dealers, burglars and even killers. Still the librarian never prejudged anyone. If you came in looking for reading material and were respectful to the librarian and the resources provided, she was more than happy to help. If you couldn't find something that you were looking for, most of the time she would try to find it on her time off. She was a person who That didn't just work for the money, but also for the sake of helping others.

As I left yesterday it was the first time in months that I actually felt sad. I was sad to change my daily routine, but most of all I was sad to leave someone, who for the time being, helped me forget my troubles.

Just as the world turns and everything outside continues to evolve so do us inmates. Some for the better and some for the worst but every day down is one step closer to a person's next destination. People go to court everyday, , they go home everyday, and they get shipped to prison everyday. I'm waiting for that prison line. Yesterday was just another on the road to complete my conquest.

The weather is getting chilly outside and the leaves are turning to colors of brown and gold. I came to realize this is my third season in jail. After being arrested in May, Spring and Summer are nothing but a memory and soon my presence in LA county will be one too.

I am going on my third week of at an SP status four, and my fifth week altogether waiting for the chain. One of these nights now, around 6 or 7 in the evening the deputy will call my name and tell me to roll up my belongings. I had been waiting anxiously but before that I hoped I could complete a set of drawings. I finished the second one today and have sent copies to be posted.(editors note: my scanner is down picture wil be up tomorrow.) This is the first time I've picked up a pencil to draw since my arrest. I wanted to make something abstract, something to do with reading but something to do with me at the same time. For the most part it's just a collage but for the people who know the deal they will be able to understand who did it and his current mindset that I was in. I go through extreme life changes and reading extensively has been one of them.

My artist name will always be who I am even if I am not taking part in the street art culture anymore. Some who doesn't understand may be puzzled or find it humorous. My suggestion to those people "Don't knock' or in this case "Don't look, it's something you just don't understand."
Ignorance is bliss.

October 5th

2009-11-01T13:30:00.001-08:00

"During my stay at the county jail I tried to make the best of my situation but I still felt a great void inside. I was being broken down mentally much more than I was physically.

Throughout the day I would curiously listen to random conversations being tossed around the cells. Some stole cars for a living, others puled up stick-up heists but most bragged and boasted about fabricated stories that never happened, however some of them were truly tragic. A person might be in cell "One" but yelling to someone in cell "ten" That meant a lot of people could and would follow the topic. I doubt many people were interested in their stories because they had their own problems to work on. However I had nothing to and unfortunately all the time in the world.

I remember hearing a distinct voice day in and day out. He was a south sider talking to inmates around his cell. A lot of the time he would fade in and out between his English and Spanish. After a while though I really got stuck on what he had to say. From hearing people call his name I found out it was 'Grande' (name changed for safety reasons.)

Grande grew up and lived in Compton his whole life. His mother, brothers and girlfriend all lived their too including his son. A Mexican male in his mid twenties, it was obvious he was exposed to gang banging, drug dealing and even killing at a very young age. If you ask anyone from L.A. they will tell you that the streets of Compton aren't very nice. I have heard Compton as the "murder capital of the world" on more than one occasion if that's not true its at least top 5.

Shootings and homicides are an everyday occurrence when you're living in Compton.It's where young gang bangers, drug dealers and killers are trained on the vicious tough streets. For a lower income family it's nothing new to hear the sound of gunshots. If you are a gang member yourself or know someone close who is, more than likely you know the person falling victim to the gun. As a young male growing up with nothing to look forward to, I can only imagine the appeal and draw that one might have joining a gang. After all, being brought up in an area like that sometimes its really hard to leave the life and find somewhere else, when really this is all you've known since day one.
Grande didn't only have friends from the 'hood he also had family members in other gangs as well. He had only been to prison once before. It was Early 2000 and he was convicted of driving a vehicle without the owners consent, and served a minimal sentence. This time in L.A. County Jail would be far from that.

When I saw Grande in the cells a few months back he was getting up early everyday to be taken to court. He would leave at 5:00AM and not return until 7:00PM. Grande had been locked u since 2006 and was in the final stages of his trial. He had already been convicted of triple homicide a few months prior and was concluding his death penalty phase.

Everyday Grande would return from court with a blank look on his face. I cold tell he was fighting it deep down inside but he still kept a positive attitude. Somebody would yell out "What's it looking like Grande?" and he would say "San Quentin is looking likely" (San Quentin is where all those sentenced to death go.) Or he would say "It's looking like I'm a fried fish!" One day he came back and said "Things aren't looking good at all, the D.A. played recorded conversations they had with my girlfriend and friends. They're really painting me out to be a cold blooded killer. They really wanna see me fry."

Some nights after listening to Grande talk I wasn't sure who it hit the hardest. Him who was actually going through it or me in the next cell over listening.

He had already been convicted of murder. Not only were there three murder victims, those families are now victims as well, Grande's also fell victim, his young child who Will never get to spend time with him. His mother that will only get to visit him under supervision. Grande was a victims himself. A victim of the cold and callous justice system.

He's already been found guilty and will spend the rest of his life in prison now it's just a matter of days before it's determined whether he'll live or die.

After listening to him talk, I'm not sure how or if he believed in God. But I would sit in my cell every night and say a prayer for him.

It was one of the last days of testimony and Grande's mother had been able to testify. They spoke about what a great father and loving son that he was. They also pleaded for the sake of Grande's son who was too young to understand now but at some point would start asking questions about his father. On verdict day Grande came back and delivered the news. The jury couldn't reach a unanimous decision 5 of the 12 jurors voted to not give him the death penalty.

After I heard Grande say that I could feel the burden lifted from his shoulders. He came back and said how much easier it would be for him to sleep now that he didn't have to worry about the verdict anymore. He told another inmate "There were some killers out there today."

With a hung jury Grande's trial wouldn't be over yet. The D.A. still had the option of retrying the penalty phase. However it was more than likely that the D.A. would settle for life in prison without possibiity of parole.

I sat in my cell that night and gave thanks for the outcome. I couldn't tell you if Grande was innocent or not but I didn't find any benefit other than spite as for putting him to death. Spending the rest of his life in prison would be more of a punishment than any.

After listening to Grande's situation for some time I almost lost track of my own, I thought, "What is this 4 years the D.A. is offering me when Grande will spend the rest of his life in this hell. Thinking about the struggles and and emotions of others was beginning to consume me. Regarding myself , I just felt blank.

Someone who came to visit me this weekend asked me how I could be so care free and nonchalant in this place. At the time I told her that's just how I deal with life. I take the blow head up and keep on running. It would be pointless to dwell on it.

Throughout this whole experience more than concern for myself I have concern for my family's sake. I know that I'm innocent this time and what the police did was wrong, but that's just the way the word turns sometimes. Good doesn't always prevail and justice doesn't represent the truth.

Sometimes I feel more comfort knowing I am not alone in this pain I'm feeling. Grande's experience is much worse. He will never get to hold his child again. Stan is without a home and being jerked somewhere in here, How can I complain when I still have so much good.

Only through incarceration have I felt this reality check. Life isn't easy, and even though some of us live in the suburbs and shielded areas doesn't mean these problems do not exist. My exposure to this side of the gate has really given me a second look at life. without our sorrows we really never know how valuable this life truly is."

Editors note:

2009-10-29T19:04:00.000-07:00

All entries on this page were written by BUKET aka Cyrus Yazdani. BUKET is presently in jail so I will be updating this blog for him. BUKET is known as one of the most prolific graffiti artists of all time, and almost without a doubt the most prolific artist on the west coast. Updates will come as they are mailed to me by BUKET. Unless specifically noted the following are the words of BUKET himself mailed to me and then typed up by me. This site is not an editorial on BUKET, it is a journal by BUKET. If you haven't read his story at BUKET'S Story then please read that first before proceeding it will get you up to date.

October 4th, 2009

2009-10-27T10:16:00.000-07:00

"Another weekend has came and gone and I'm sitting here anxiously waiting to start the new week. Tomorrow is Monday and with it comes the same daily routines as always in L.A. County Jail.

The facility that I'm being housed in is a lot different from the Men's Central Jail in downtown Los Angeles. It is much more strict as far as inmate regulations go.

Here at Pitchees Detention Center we are counted three times a day. Once at 6:00 AM, once at 3:00PM and then lastly at 10:00PM, everything else comes secondary. The inside of the dorms are maintained and kept spotless by the inmate population. For some people, they will never go home again, this is their home, and it needs to be respected. If you live messy or break the rules you might find yourself working out much more than necessary in order to pay for your penalty. The inmates are not tolerant of much and if you flat out don't care you better find a way to leave the facility or you may find yourself severely injured.

The restroom consists of eight sinks and eight shower heads. There are four toilets placed tightly next to each other and one of them is used as the urinal. The overall size of the restroom is no bigger than 15X25 feet and it is shared amongst 126 other inmates in the dorm. It is a tight squeeze and there is absolutely no privacy. Using the toilet while someone is talking to you is something that took me a long time to get used to.

Since the dorm is governed by jail house politics, everything is split up between the races. The Whites and Mexicans have the beginning of the hour to use the showers, while the blacks and others have the second half of the hour. There are five tables set up on one side of the day room and five on the other side. Those, too, are split equally amongst the different racial groups. Lastly there are twelve phones placed on the wall. To avoid conflict these have also been split up like the others. If anybody were to choose to break these rules the problems could be disastrous.

The jail in downtown Los Angeles is setup a little differently. It consists of every type of living situation one can think of. There are single man, two-man, four-man and six-man cells. They have medical and psychiatric housing. There are also designated areas for those with special needs, such as suicide watch, sex offenders, homosexuals, and informants.

The 1750 floor is a location dedicated strictly to high control inmates. The people locked up in those cells are not the everyday ordinary criminals. They don't even wear the same clothing as the rest of the population. The bodies housed in the high power block wear an orange top and orange bottom in order to distinguish them from the rest of the general population who mainly wear double blue. (Blue top, blue bottoms.)

From celebrities to high ranking gang "shot callers" this place is designed to keep people away. O.J. Simpson, Phil Spector, Charles Manson, and many many other celebrity and high profile criminals have been housed there while serving their time or fighting their sentence.

I remember being housed in a single room cell back at the Men's Central Jail. Two cells down from me was an older black man in his mid-fifties. He was extremely blunt when he spoke, in fact the distinctiveness of his voice and his obscenely angry comments day after day became almost comical to me. After a week or two of hearing him ramble on to the neighboring cells I decided I didn't have much else to do than join in the conversation.

The mans name was Stan and from listening to him speak I could tell he was a somewhat intelligent individual underneath all of his anger. When it came down to the law and corruption within our judicial system he seemed to know more than most. After all sometimes the most experienced attorneys are actually inmates who have been in and out of the system their entire lives.

Unlike the majority of others who spoke so candidly of the same repetitive rhetoric (how the system is unfair, and its all a set-up etc.) Stan had a broader knowledge. Unfortunately for him he was very negative most of the time and I could tell a large part of his life has been spent dwelling on his misfortunes. Instead of choosing to push past his mishaps he chose to let them dictate his entire life.

This time his attitude had brought him to jail and also created problems for him on the inside. Stan was waiting to be transferred to the high power housing himself.

Apparently 5-10 years prior Stan had been placed in cell living somewhere in the county jail. According to him one of the guards opened his and another inmates cells at the the same time. The guard did not like Stan and knew he had tension with the other inmate. According to Stan the other guy ran into Stan's cell intending to do harm but ending up finding himself on the wrong side of it. Stan sent him flying around that cell like a pinball in a machine. After that he coughed him up and spit him out, throwing him out of his cell like he owned the place.

When guards got word of what happened the came running down the hall and entered his cell to restrain him.

Stan wouldn't stand for that either. He sent two deputies flying out of that cell just like the first guy. The only problem was after these two came two more, and then more until they were finally able to restrain him. The report was written up as an assault on an inmate as well as two deputies. Every time Stan came to the County Jail he could no longer be housed with the general population. No matter where he was he needed to be moved and housed in the high power floor.

This time he had been brought in a few weeks earlier and was waiting to be transferred, he was only to be housed next to me temporarily.

Even though Stan had his angry 'mad at the world' side, he also had a friendly side with an extremely hilarious sense of humor. I laughed for weeks with the guy. We would always talk, share details regarding our cases. We both felt that we were set up by the police and had no other option but to sit there and be dragged around by the system. In my case I was guilty until proven innocent, and here was another person I could relate to.

As the days passed, to kill time, we each drew up a chess board and labeled each square 1-64. I used my neighbors chess pieces. They were nothing more than torn sheets of paper with writing on them in order to indicate the different characters. Stan on the other hand took milk cartons and cut them into different shapes based on name and rank. Weeks later he sent them down the tier so I could take a look at them. After hearing the guy rant and rave about how intricate and elaborate his pieces were and how barbaric mine were compared to his, I had no choice but to laugh. I cried from laughing so hard when I took a look at his pieces.

I yelled down the way, "What the heck are these things? These look nothing at all like chess pieces. These are just plain silly!" He argued back and tried to explain each of them to me but I was too busy chuckling. I'm sure all the other inmates in the cells nearby just wanted us to shut up already.

I don't think he knew, but Stan had one of those rudely arrogant personalities that just made you laugh. I would like to think I was just always laughing with him, but sometimes I ended up laughing at him.

Later I would find out that San was a short 5'6 black man, balding and gray. His eyes were squinted like he was of Asian descent and every time I would get a glance at him he had a silly smirk on his face. He was homeless, but not in the typical sense. He shaved and showered daily and for income he rode his bike around Melrose to collect recyclables.

Stan enjoyed singing, R&B mostly R. Kelly, Keith Sweat, Jaime Fox, he was hip with it. On the weekends he frequented Karaoke bars in Koreatown. He had a better than average voice and was confident with it. With no other music to listen to this was a great way to help ease my mind. I would always request Maroon 5's "She Will Be Loved" because it brought back good memories. After a while the other inmates in the tier had to have that song damn near memorized.

Time seemed to be going by just fine. Even though I was slammed down in a single man cell for so long I found a routine to ease my troubles. But it wouldn't last long, Stan's anger would end up getting him into trouble again. Every night the deputies would come by every hour on the hour for their routine count. All that was required by them was to count each body. It was probably 12:00 at night, the lights were out, and Stan and I were conversing cell to cell. One deputy in particular, probably about 20 years old or so loved to flash his red flashlight in each cell as he passed. After weeks of this Stan eventually became agitated with the deputy.

"What the fuck!? Do you think you're from Star Trek with that damn red light? Always walking around flashing that damn red light." he yelled.

The deputy came back and they ended up exchanging words. Stan finished him off with "I'm old enough to be your father you disrespectful piece of shit."

The deputy was just some punk kid. He ended up stripping Stan down to his boxers and shower shoes and taking him to the hole later that night. I've never seen Stan since.

It was around 3:00AM later that night and I was still awake. As I looked out my cell another inmate was walking down the bottom tier. When he got closer I took a good look at his face . He was a Southern Mexican and had all the tattoos to prove it, but his face looked different. He had a gash that had been stitched up from the top of his forehead, passing over his eye, and extending all the way down to his chin. It looked like something right out of a movie. I'm guessing that someone cut him with a razor blade as he slept. It looked like he had just been stitched up and was ready to go out on the battle front.

As I lie in bed for the next hour reflecting upon all that had happened that night, I tried to fall asleep. What happened was a harsh reminder that in jail nothing is predictable. And if you expect anything less than the unexpected you are dangerously ill prepared."