There’s a few guarantees in prison: violence, homosexuality, and a black Muslim giving you a lecture about respect. It’s always prompted by some extremely minor incident.
The other week, I lent out the Sports Weekly to a friend. When he came to return it, I was outside so he tossed it and overshot my bunk. He came outside to tell me the newspaper’s under the bottom bunk, and ruffled some papers on the way down.
When I returned to the house, bunkie was silently stewing, sitting in the chair I use as a ladder, blocking my way up.
“Uh, so someone tried to throw the paper on my bunk and might’ve overshot the mark–“
Before I could ask for it back, he cut me off. “Yeah, it knocked all my stuff down…This is why I hate level I. People are so disrespectful. They’d get fucked up if this was a higher level. If I’d been asleep, I would’ve had to do something. Wait, how did you know?”
“Because he told me…?” He suspected I really did it, and came up with a story. It wouldn’t be the first false accusation. Just prior to this, he handed me a toenail saying I’d dropped something. I hadn’t. I’m not some barbarian that doesn’t clean up the shrapnel from cutting my nails. I’m starting to believe it was his own, and this was some fucked up test.
At the heart of it, it’s simple prison politics. If you’re melanin-poor, these Farrakhan-victs will blame you for every mess and disorder in the cube
Easy Trouble 