My past choices led me down a path I never fully comprehended, one where the bravado of “Only God can judge me” met the harsh reality of the New York State Department of Corrections. Sentenced to three years for attempted robbery, my journey began at Yaphank County Jail, or ‘The Farm’ as inmates called it. Being a Latin King there felt almost superficial, a ‘cakewalk’ as we said. Violence and drugs were minimal; everyone was focused on a quick return home.
But county jail was a deceptive prelude. Older members, ‘brothers’ who had done real time, warned me about prison. I was naive, picturing it as a tougher version of county. Reality hit like a wall when I was shackled onto a prison bus, headed for Franklin Correctional Facility – the ‘War Zone.’ Suddenly, I was no longer me; I was State Prisoner 16A0622.
Franklin was notorious, and the rumors were true. Assigned to a dorm with sixty other men, sleep became a luxury you took with one eye open. My first priority was to connect with my gang, the Latin Kings. In prison, words mean little. There’s no official ID card to prove your affiliation. Instead, they test your knowledge, the teachings you received as a probationary member. I recited it all, word for word. Belief confirmed.
Then came the tattoos. In the bathroom, under the harsh fluorescent lights, a fellow member, a ‘crown,’ inspected my body. They weren’t just looking for any ink; they were searching for specific Latin Kings Gang Tattoos, visual declarations of allegiance to the Nation. They checked to ensure none were blacked out, a mark of shame signifying a stripped crown, banishment from the brotherhood. My tattoos spoke for me; they were my prison credentials.
Passed the tests, tattoos verified, I was in. The acceptance came in the form of a survival kit: food, cigarettes, soap, deodorant, and a shiv – a crude, melted plastic knife. Holding that sharpened plastic, the reality of prison sunk in. This wasn’t posturing; this was about survival.
Days blurred into an endless cycle. Reality wavered; prison felt like a perpetual nightmare. Escape fantasies flickered but were quickly extinguished by the sight of razor wire atop towering walls and the silent threat of the electric fence. And this was just medium security. My Latin Kings gang tattoos weren’t just symbols; they were a shield, a language, a part of navigating this brutal new world. They marked me as belonging, offering a semblance of protection in the war zone.
