A Penitentiary Glossary

The vernacular of prison is a nasty melange of street slang, backwater babble, and major malapropisms – from a grammatical standpoint, the worst of all worlds. Often confusing, sometimes shocking, it comes to the uninitiated as a completely foreign tongue.

I present this glossary to appease curiosity. As evidenced by the popularity of television shows like MSNBC's "Lockup" and its new broadcast equivalent, "Jail," there are those for whom prison, as a distinctly other culture, holds a great deal of interest. Armchair linguists are also likely to find this entertaining. Neither group is likely to find it especially useful, however. Just as ordinary regional dialects vary, so too will those of prisons in other locales. This list is intended only as a curiosity, neither unabridged nor universal. Should you ever find yourself detained or imprisoned, you would be ill-advised to try these terms out. The results might not be what you were hoping for.

Note: Children, as well as those with puritanical ideals or sensitivity to coarse language should read no further than this point. Much of what follows is, in a word, foul.


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bake cakes v. engage in homosexual acts, especially intercourse.
bit n. any uninterrupted period of time spent in prison on a charge or a series of related charges.
book n. a magazine.
booty bandit n. a predatory homosexual.
boy n. one who is tied (see below) to another, usually an older inmate.
box n. a carton of cigarettes.
bullet n. a small, tightly packed ball of any illicit substance, contained within a rubber or plastic casing, and intended to be swallowed or keistered (see below) for hiding or transporting said substance within one's body.
Cadillac n. any item tied to the end of a long piece of string, swung or slid from cell to cell in a locked-down environment, in order to transport said item: When Baker ran out of tobacco, Jones sent him a pinch by Cadillac. v. send something to someone in this manner: Hey, Smith, Cadillac me a lighter! • adj. of high quality; indulgent or expensive: A cup of Taster's Choice with cocoa in it? Damn, that's a Cadillac coffee!
camp n. a prison.
cellie n. a cellmate.
cho-mo n. one convicted of any sexual offense against a child; a child molester.
coal hauler n. one who is not himself black, who is perceived as associating with
black inmates to an excessive degree, or who has a black daddy (see below).
creep n. a sex offender.
daddy n. the dominant figure in an exploitive homosexual relationship.
dime n. a ten-year sentence: He's doing a dime for burglary. • (drop a dime)snitch (see below) on someone: Dude dropped a dime on his partner, got him busted on a dope deal.
eat-em-up n. another term for booty bandit (see above): That guy's an eat-em-up from way back. You don't want anything to do with him.fifi n. any assemblage of materials, such as latex gloves, trash bags, empty bottles, pillow, and so on, used to simulate female genitalia for the purpose of masturbation.
flag n. a piece of paper or cloth displayed in or on one's cell door to indicate to passers-by that privacy is desired: Joe must be using the toilet; his flag's up.
flick n. a photograph.
freak n. a homosexual. • (play the freaks) make false sexual comments or passes for humor effect or to make someone uncomfortable.
freecase v. blame or sentence for an offense one did not commit: They tried to freecase him with another robbery, but he wasn't even in this state when it happened.
hole n. a housing unit or other specified area in which inmates are held in segregation from the prison's general population for disciplinary or protective reasons. • (make a hole run) smuggle an illicit substance into a segregated area for the express purpose of selling it for substantial profit.
house n. a housing unit within the prison. • n. one's cell.
hustle n. a method, usually illicit, of making money or doing business: George had himself a good little hustle selling sugar packets out of the kitchen. Too bad he got fired.
keister v. insert (something) into the rectum, usually a bullet (see above).
kite n. any note or memo sent elsewhere within the prison: To get a copy of his account information, Rusty had to send a kite to the caseworker.
metal n. a shank (see below).
minute n. any excessive length of time: That old man's been doing time for a minute; he knows what's up.
motor oil n. strong, thick coffee.
mud n. coffee.
old head n. an older inmate, especially one who has served a lot of time.
pull chain v. leave prison, usually to transfer to another.
rape-o n. a sex offender.
roll n. a hand-rolled cigarette. • v. transfer to another prison, often one with a lower security level: They're gonna roll him to Charleston tomorrow morning, I heard.
shank n. any improvised stabbing or cutting weapon. • v. use such an item.
square n. an employee of the prison, who is neither a correctional officer nor administrative personnel (i.e.: cooks, recreation staff, maintenance engineers, et cetera). • n. a pack of cigarettes.
stinger n. an electric immersion element with which to heat water for soup, coffee, noodles, and so on.
store n. the prison commissary. • n. an illicit operation run by an inmate, typically selling foodstuffs and tobacco, for trade or on credit, at exorbitant rates.
tailor (also tailor-made) n. a name-brand cigarette, such as Marlboro or Newport.
tied v. in a position of subservience to another inmate, usually sexually: I heard the new kid's tied with Jackson now.
wild adj. (as multiple sentences) consecutive, rather than concurrent: He got twenty-one years—two eights and a five, all run wild.
wobble head n. one taking medication for a mental health condition.
yard bird n. chicken, especially fried chicken.
yard dog n. a correctional officer assigned to supervise or patrol the prison yard.

A Life Amphibious

My father was born with gills and webbed feet, the son of a mermaid and a merchant marine. The earliest photograph of him I have seen was a grade school portrait, which suggests those features — the gills, at least — atrophied as he got older, for they were nowhere to be seen by then. For the entirety of his life, though, as with any creature born of the sea, my father would remain drawn to water and all things aquatic. At eighteen, he enlisted in the United States Navy, where whatever vestigial toe-webbing remained would have been perceived as an asset. He dove freely into untested waters, canoed down rolling river rapids, fished with nets. He collected seashells and coral. He kept tropical fish. I remember the way he'd whisper to them while sprinkling in their food, inviting them to dinner by invoking their secret names: to him they were not angelfish, gourami, or tetra but Streamer-Tail, Little Bubble-Maker, Prism-Darter. They were his piscine friends, exiles from the same kingdom, and they kept him company in his home on dry land.

Of course he owned vessels — a fifteen-foot aluminum canoe, an inflatable raft, a small sailboat. These were the only way my mother and I could accompany him on his watery communions. Creatures of terra firma is what she and I were — awed by the shadowy ubiquity of water in the world, shaky on deck, barely submersible. My father was our fearless captain, ready to brave the storms and show us landlubbers there was little to fear from the murky depths. When he would change tack to head into a squall, or paddle us towards the rocks, we had to wonder whether he hadn't momentarily forgotten our handicap. But always he brought us through, dampened by the spray, most likely, but quite alive. Being with him in the presence of water meant knowing fervency for life; his enthusiasm was contagious.

We towed the sailboat with us one year, on a family vacation to the Florida Keys, when I was a boy. Our first night at the coast, my mother and I slept in the van. Displaying uncharacteristic childlike eagerness, my father spent the night in a sleeping bag on deck, docked in the marina a few hundred feet away. Mosquitoes, of course, left him unmolested. It was blood they craved, not the clear salinity of what his veins pumped. As the sun rose from the center of the Atlantic, Mum and I stumbled salty-eyed into the morning. We found my father already unmoored, gliding aimlessly around the marina on a steady wind he'd been loath to let pass unavailed. He waved to us. There was no telling how long he'd been out. He had to have woken at least an hour before dawn, in order to have time to erect the mast and secure the rigging. Out on the blue, his sails were brimming, his smile gleamed.



The day was long and humid, and by late afternoon had given way to the slate horizon of an impending storm. Since that morning we'd been skirting the coastline. Because we had no radio, no compass, no map — indeed, no navigational equipment of any sort (what kind of an adventure would it have been, otherwise?) — we dropped anchor off a tiny, sandy island with a sliver of clear beach large enough to pitch our tent and light a cookfire. We ate thin vegetable soup with crackers and nibbled on roasted peanuts. The soup scalded my tongue as I sipped too eagerly from a battered tin cup. When the rain came, at first with uncertainty, we retreated but left the tent flaps open so we could watch the clouds tumble and the far-off waves clash. I fell asleep to the popping of fat drops on the canvas and the thick air of our gradually smoldering fire. I dreamt of wild seas.

In the small hours, the three of us awoke startled. The tide was coming in. It lapped inches from the front of the tent. Already the remains of the fire had been swallowed; now, ever hungry, the water was reaching for us. Pattering rain kept on as we hurriedly pulled stakes and carried our shelter several feet back, to the tree line. As the beach gradually disappeared, we looked on, unsure if the high ground we'd claimed would be high enough to avoid a late night escape back to our boat. I fell back asleep eventually, as did Mum, but Papa was vigilant. His silhouette at the front of the tent reassured me when I woke again, later, to the sound of his whispered supplications to the waves.



The scene at dawn was much different. By that time the tide had gone out so far that it had stranded the boat, dry and resting pitifully at an angle, on its keel. Seaweed draped the line to the shore, imparting a look of abandonment, like a ghost ship in spite of its cheerful blue hull. Not knowing when the waters would again rise, my father set to work righting her, the way people attend to a beached whale. Now pushing, now rocking, now patting her belly, he coaxed the boat back into her element.

Packed in and hungry, we set course for the mainland beyond our horizon. Arcane sailor knowledge or natant instinct guided my father at the tiller as he steered us toward the marina from which we'd put out. The wind that morning was robust and consistent. I stood aft of the small cabin, catching briny air in my nostrils. In my ears was nothing but that whooshing roar. Then Papa said something indistinct and my mother laughed. I turned, hoping to hear. They were smiling — such wide, open smiles! — and with the sun radiant on his face I watched my father draw a deep, contented breath, and surveyed his neck and jawline for the row of fishy slits I knew just had to be there.

My Mother, Dynamo

The last Mother's Day we had together before my abduction, Mum and I brunched by the fountain at Roselle Court, at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Since I was a little boy, the museum has been a special place for both of us. On weekends we'd often come to see the exhibits and, during the week, there were wonderful art classes for children — pottery, figure drawing, and so on — that I was privileged enough to enjoy. Afterwards Mum would often take me for a croissant or some other kind of treat in the softly lit neoclassical courtyard that opened off the museum's main hall. The place holds fond memories for us, as a result. Upon leaving that final time, I presented her with a large potted gardenia. It was in a full bloom of tiny white blossoms and was redolent of wild honey. Because of its size, she could not take it with her just then, so it endured the better part of a day riding around in the cavernous back seat of my old car. Eventually, though, it ended up in Mum's bedroom, where it's delicate perfume could carry her into peaceful, pleasant dreams every night.

One month later, I was gone. During the nightmarish year to follow, she came to visit me twice a week in the county jail as I awaited trial. Often she would come with friends of mine who were there, I imagine, as much in support of her as of me. We all cleaved to one another — it was the only way to make it through. But mostly it was my mother whose face through that half-inch-thick safety glass both reassured and broke my sickened heart. For as long as I can remember, she has said that she's a survivor, and that time was my opportunity to witness firsthand the full reserves of her indomitable inner strength.

The gardenia I had given her, fragrant and soft with its hundreds of petals, soon shed and grew sparse with some unknown botanical illness. Strange white film had started forming on the leaves, like wax. Mum would deliver updates on its deteriorating condition: "I think it's dying." Not long after, it was moved to the glassed-in patio, where she would tend carefully to it, wiping each individual leaf clean. Even with that attention, the prognosis looked grim. It would have been nothing for her to abandon it to chance rather than dote on it the way she did.

Giving in is not generally part of her repertoire. The gardenia was finally able to be moved back indoors, able once again to cense her to sleep, in due course. She brought it back.

With me as well, her resolve has yet to flag, even these seven years later. Still she makes the hour-long drive every week to see me, still we talk often on the phone, still she finds within herself energy enough to actively crusade for justice in the face of such obstacles as would drive most to discouragement. She is like a force of nature. From her own resilience I get so much of my own — not in some sociobiological sense of inheritance, but that I am emboldened by knowledge of her strength. And, for whatever it's worth, I wear for her my bravest face so she may take heart in the reciprocity of endurance.

We abide balanced upon one another's resolute love, and on the tenacious hope that, someday soon, I too will be brought back from my sorry condition, able on days like this to honor her the way she so rightly deserves. And, of course, to give her flowers.

Danke für Alles, Mutti. Ich liebe Dich