On Who I Become to Survive Life On the Inside

By Ryan M. Moser — FROM THE INSIDE

Before I even open my eyes this morning I am reminded of where I am: the loud yelling and commotion throughout the open-bay dormitory; the hardness of the metal bunk beneath my stained, three-inch-thick cloth mattress; the bright fluorescent lights burning through my closed eyelids; the smell of sweat; my internal anxiety at awakening to another day in hell. There is a gray sorrow deep within me, hammered and forged on an anvil of regret.

When I do finally open my eyes. I see men moving all around me like worker ants. It’s only five-fourteen in the morning, but they’re already gambling on Texas Hold’em while sitting on rusty footlockers and smoking cigarettes. Some are hustling for their living — washing laundry, sewing clothes, or rolling cigarettes. The maelstrom of activity never seems to stop. Gang tattoos cover most of the inmates around me, and I immediately get on the offensive as my feet hit the cool, cracked tile floor. I prepare my game face for the inevitable Machiavellian struggle of daily prison life, and drop down to do one hundred diamond pushups.

I am not weak. The weak do not survive in here. You’re a fucking warrior. Never give up.

I think of my mantra and vow to never let prison change me into an animal. As I sit on the edge of my bunk…