"Do You" Was the Challenge Issued

We hold monthly peer-review meetings at my work—which may not be the kind of thing you expect from a prison job. Sweeping rat droppings out of kitchen kettles? Sure. Stuffing bagged undergarments into an industrial washing machine? Yeah, that too. But engaging in a closed-door, round-table critique of coworkers' on-the-job performance? Let's just say that my coworkers and I pride ourselves on not fitting the penitentiary mold.

Every third Wednesday, our eight-man team coordinates to buy ingredients for an agreed-on recipe, which one of us cooks. The meals have been good: angel hair pasta with Alfredo sauce, chicken bacon ranch burritos, pizza bagels.... Usually, someone also makes fudge. We set up a couple of folding tables in our studio, sit down to a shared meal, and get down to business.

The review consists of two elements, applause and a challenge. Each of us takes a turn, giving everyone else a compliment on some aspect of their job performance that month and providing a concrete and measurable way that each peer might try to grow or expand their skill set. The process is meant to foster camaraderie, accountability, and empathy. To some degree, it even works.

When a coworker at our August meeting challenged me to "do you," I didn't at first understand. His applause had been for my displays of authenticity, loyalty, and meaningful criticism. Then he added, "You're always doing so much for everybody else. Take some time and do something that's just for yourself. Take a couple days off, do some reading, watch you a series on TV.... Whatever it is, just make sure it's something only Byron benefits from."

An instruction to be selfish ignores the satisfaction I get by doing things that benefit others. At this point in my life, "doing me" means doing for the community, which I find far more enduring than anything done solely for ego fulfillment. And it's not as if I live like some saintly ascetic. I am far from selfless. Last weekend I binged the entire first season of the post-apocalyptic videogame adaptation "Fallout." Yesterday I finished a Flannery O'Connor novel. Between those two events, I single-handedly scarfed an eleven-serving bag of corn chips in one sitting. The number of things I do purely for myself feels sufficient. And isn't contentedness the yardstick by which "enough" should be measured?

I certainly wasn't going to argue with my well-intentioned coworker. He sees me holding doors for people, giving my time, and tolerating endless incivility and imbecility, so of course he assumes that people walk all over me. Not so! If anything, I feel widely respected and well liked. There are shitheads everywhere; prison's no exception. But overall, my daily interactions are decidedly more positive than negative.

They're not just more, either. They're also greater. I get smiles, waves, fist bumps, handshakes, back pats, and even the occasional hug from the other residents of this institution. That's worth so much to me—way more than a few hours of zany TV, time with a good book, or bites from a bag of salty snacks.

I'd say my challenge was complete before it was even given to me.

A Hard Talk About a Delicate Matter

The Brother to Brother peer mentorship program was something I didn't seek out so much as fall into. The wing that I live in became the designated mentor wing, and the staff and prisoners spearheading the project recommended that I stick around to take part. At least I didn't have to move out, the way that a lot of other people were made to do.

Compared to mentors who don't have twelve-hour-a-day jobs, my involvement in the program is minimal. I don't teach classes, I don't write curriculum, and I don't go around shaking every mentee's hand in gleeful welcome to the program. In fact, there have been a couple of occasions when mentees—people with no previous prison experience—were surprised to learn that I'm a mentor at all. I don't make a big thing of it. My approach is less performative than conversational. I prefer one-on-ones.

A few weeks ago, a transgender person moved into the wing. They're on the autism spectrum, small of stature, somewhat naïve, and utterly lacking the street smarts that help keep people safe in prison. This being their first imprisonment, they were offered an opportunity to skip the nightmare of general population by going through a six-month period as a mentee.

"You guys saved his life," one of my acquaintances said after seeing me talk with them. "Like, for real."

He was joking, but he might also be right. As for his misgendering of the person, that can be forgiven because they generally present as male and haven't yet fully come out as trans. Only a few of us have been told, and we've been asked not to say anything.

Partly because of their enthusiasm for model trains, Dungeons & Dragons–playing nerddom; partly because of their neurodivergence; and partly because of their intent to get involved in every positive activity possible, I've developed a connection with the new mentee. We talk about model trains. We discuss prison nonsense. We share experiences from our respective lives as weirdos.

One day last week, I became concerned. They told me that a lawyer was handling their name change and that, once that legal procedure was finalized, they wanted a reintroduction to everyone—a celebration of officially beginning their life as a woman. Decades of experience have taught me that this would likely become a fraught circumstance. I couldn't hold my peace.

"I'm all for living as what you feel is your true self," I said, "but as hard as that can be in the 'real' world, it's going to be even harder in prison."

"But I like women," they said, matter-of-factly.

Delicacy is for neurotypicals, I reminded myself and took my verbal filter offline. "That's irrelevant. A lot of people are here because they don't care about the desires or needs of others. If they want something, they're going to try and take it. It's no different here than outside of prison. If you live outwardly as a woman here, they're going to see you as exactly that, which to them means you belong with a man. They think of themselves as men. You understand how that could play out, right?"

"Yes," they said, "but I fight dirty. Eyes, throat, groin. I'm little and I'm not strong, so I'll do everything I can to protect myself."

Was this bravery or foolishness? The two are so often indistinguishable. I went on.

"That's fine for when you're already in a bad situation. What I'm talking about is conflict avoidance. I'm not going to tell you how to live your life, but I want you to be informed about the potential results of your decision."

I told them about my entry to prison as a young man, how my first hours, days, weeks, and even months were terrorized by would-be abusers and rapists. I told them about everything I had to do to avoid assaults and exploitations. I explained how, throughout it all, my adversaries never took my preferences into account, then I posed the big question.

"Are you so uncomfortable with presenting as male that you're willing to risk being physically, sexually, or psychologically traumatized by being honest about your gender? Don't tell me your answer. You only need to answer that question yourself. And please take your time deciding."

This issue will probably come up again. In all likelihood, I already know what their answer's going to be. I feel almost ridiculous for having asked it, but I see the matter as one of informed consent. Before I posed the issue, no one—not even the prison's mental health staff—had framed the situation quite like this. At least now they know what potentialities could lie ahead.

I've done my part for the moment. Only one thing right now is certain: I don't envy them.

A Very Technical Boy, Epilogue

Thinking back on it, this nostalgic pariahblog.com post I wrote, way back in 2009, about my youthful techno-geekery feels quaint today. My so-called Matrix moment strikes me now as a delusive notion lit upon by a naïve mind. I want to ask that previous me, "How were you so lured by technology's siren song?"

Don't get me wrong; I embrace technology and all that it can offer our lives. Advances in the fields of energy, food production, physics, and medicine stand to improve countless lives, human and otherwise. But smart watches? Next-gen doorbell cameras? Talking water bottles? This stuff is to technology as pork rinds are to prosciutto.

Previous me would roll his eyes at the conscientious objector I've become. The kid took too seriously his Neal Stephenson and William Gibson. He dreamed like Blade Runner electric sheep. How else to explain why he kept his head in the cloud, fantasizing about humankind's technologically enhanced future. He wanted human gene splicing, 3D-printed food, biometric home security, virtual reality with twice the resolution of meatspace (and, yes, he made liberal use of the word "meatspace"), computer-aided fashion, robot housekeepers, an implant that put the Internet in his eyeball. He wanted gadgets and geegaws galore — all with free lifetime upgrades. Oh, how people change.

If the Singularity arrived tomorrow, I'd shelter in place, face buried in a bound, hardcover, not to say "real" book. Technologically aided transcendence of my physical form isn't a concept that holds luster for me anymore. Let me stay here in the dust and disorder, chilling with the Luddites. I'm reformed, not re-formed. I'm even a little wary of owning a smartphone, lest its dark power overthrow my restraint and autonomous spirit.

Whence this line of thought? Here I am, sitting in a maximum-security prison, decades from having last handled a cellphone; why would my mind romp off in the direction of a Kurtzweilian merging of my consciousness with machines? And what's that got to do with that fifteen-year-old blog post? I feel sometimes like a man in amber. (My poem "Thoughts of a Human Time Capsule" offers a little expansion of this idea.) There is a world beyond this one; you inhabit it, and your ways have become strange to me.

Twenty-three years apart from society's influences would habituate even the most stalwart technophile to a low-tech existence. Yes, I use a computer every day, all day, for work, so maybe it seems hypocritical to claim that I'm against excessive technological impositions. There's a path of moderation to be considered here. A person can't justify "needing" something as patently nonessential as AI-generated recipes. Beyond a certain point, it gets stupid. We get stupid.

Studies show that people who frequently rely on GPS do much more poorly on spatial-orientation tests than people who don't, implying that pulling up Google Earth to locate every bangin' house party you attend is sapping your innate human ability to make your way around our planet.

Being in prison for years on end, you can easily find excuses to divorce yourself from the world at large. I've stayed away from politics, and from most news media in general, since the divisive presidential campaign of 2016 drove me away from news coverage — and I've become a happier person since. Since I can't vote or create much in the way of meaningful change in the world outside this place, this stance isn't hard to maintain. It's also perfectly defensible. If I got out, not so much.

It's the same with technology. I prefer to be tethered to the big payphone-style handsets in the wing than have mobility. The convenience of using a phone app on my tablet doesn't mitigate the fact that the call quality is shitty and prone to dropping at random. Would I feel the same if I had the newest Samsung Galaxy iteration? It's easy to be a conscientious objector when the alternative objectively sucks.

This all sounds like sour grapes. It's not, really.

Engagement is what the world demands, but what that engagement looks like depends on a lot of different factors. Rather than technology for technology's sake, as I used to think was appropriate, today I expect tech to remain in its place, utterly subservient to humankind. This demands judicious use, careful self-monitoring, mindful consideration of costs and benefits.

I was active on social media years before anyone called it social media. I'm composing this blog post right now from a prison cell, on a seven-inch tablet computer. I work in a concrete room at a three-monitor workstation running Windows 11. In spite of reasonable expectations, circumstances have by no means stranded me in the Dark Ages. If I got out of prison tomorrow, there's not much I'd bring with me. This attitude would be one thing. My enthusiasm for tech has waned, while my sense of preciousness of how direct contact with the world has grown.

If I were to get out, watch for my podcast, my Instagram, my TikTok feed (if TikTok's still around). Watch and be prepared to witness a case study in judicious, almost begrudging tech use.