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--- OFF THE REZ ---
20th June 2019

In its infinite wisdom, the Federal Bureau of Prisons recently gave me a cell mate who is a Native American and who identifies as transgender. I've been in the can for the last decade or so, but from everything I read in the newspapers and see on TV these days people see to have several different ways or "Choices" in which to express their sexual identity. This may be so in the regular world out there, but in my world, this is the Sexual Identity Chart:


Are you spotting a trend? Because there most definitely is one. In a men's maximum security penitentiary, when it comes to a person's sexual identity, there are only two choices: Straight or gay. There is no such thing as bisexual back here; if you show even the slightest bit of interest in somebody else's penis, the jury is in: You're gay. And in an alpha male-based hierarchal society, I guess that I don't even have to tell you how gay people are viewed. But I've strayed off the reservation with my anal-based analysis of things, so I'll get back to the main subject matter of this blog: Pocahontas.

When Tasha (as "She" calls herself) showed up, I told him two things. First, grab yourself a cup of coffee (I have a coffee bar on the shelf between the lockers in the cell). The second thing I told him was, "Don't unpack. Because you're going to have to find another cell to live in." I said this for two reasons, but I would've said this to whoever it was that they assigned to the cell. My regular cell mate (and friend) is presently in the SHU and he's due to come back any day. About three weeks ago while I was at the library, three scumbags rolled into our cell and tried to get him to open our lockers so he could rob us. In their attempt to rob RJ, they beat him with padlocks tied to the end of socks, and they cut and stabbed him. He ended up in the hospital. But you know what? He still didn't (wouldn't open the locks). I damn sure would've. But since I'm expecting him back, whoever attempted to move in would've gotten the same speech from me about moving. The Unit Team (Counselor, Case Manager, and Unit Manager) let us choose who we want to live with, for the most part. I assume that this decision serves their purpose as administrators when it comes to trying to maintain harmony amongst so many personalities, races, and religions (not to mention gangs). The bottom line in this situation is that a quiet teepee equals a happy Unit Team.

On the first night in the cell, Inmate Pocahontas offered to blow me. Yes, just like that. Although I undoubtedly am, I don't attribute this offer to the fact that I'm pretty sexy. I believe that Inmate Pocahontas was just being what he considered to be practical. His thinking was that if I took him up on his offer, I'd let him stay. Or at the very least, he could run around the cell block playing victim and saying something like, "Oh, what? I'm good enough for a hummer but not good enough to live with?" None of this came to pass though, because this Bank Blogger wasn't letting Pocahontas anywhere near his totem pole. Hell, it's only a 20 yr sentence.

My curse (back here) sometimes is my manners. A week after telling Pocahontas that he had to move, he was still there. I looked over one day and he was sitting at the desk drinking coffee I'd given him and listening to my MP 3, happy as a transgender Indian with three boobs. When I realized this, I got up and poured out his coffee, then held out my hand, and said, "Let me get my MP 3 back." I realized that Pocahontas was way too comfortable and had no desire (or incentive) to leave. So I went a different route. Instead of being gangsta about the situation, I went to my Unit Team.

The main person that I deal with on my Unit Team is my counselor. I don't feel like getting shipped to ADX Supermax, so she will remain nameless. But I will say that she is a spicy Latina Christian woman who has no problem speaking her mind. She's always professional and I know that she has a duty to protect people like Pocahontas, but I also understand people and used to be a "Professional" myself. Based on this knowledge of people, I imagine that somewhere in the back of her mind behind her professional affect, she looks at people like Pocahontas and thinks, "Would you look at this freak show?" I've seen her go on the warpath when somebody was overtly stupid or disrespectful to her, but she's usually calm. I sat down in her office and explained that Poco needed a new wigwam. She smiled, and said, "Give me a minute Frye, and I'll rectify your problem." (I winced when she used the word "Rectify" in reference to my problem.) I thanked her and left to begin my wait. But that night after my Unit Team had gone home for the night, my problem took on a new urgency.

I was sitting on my bottom bunk reading, when Princess Little Feather says, "Did I ever show you the scar on my leg?" When I looked up, Pocahontas was standing there butt naked. I felt my pupils dilate and I got "The taste" in the back of my throat that always precedes a fight or spontaneous violence. In a completely calm tone, I asked, "Are you trying to get hurt?" and I started to ease off my bunk. Pocahontas abruptly hit reverse. He grabbed his sarong or papoose or w/e in the hell he wears and ran to the locked cell door, as he said, "Wait! I'm sorry! I didn't mean anything," to which I replied, "The fuck you didn't." I continued, "It's obvious that being nice to you has gotten me nowhere. So, tomorrow, find another cell to live in or you're gonna meet a whole new side of Jeffrey Frye." I don't show it or talk about it, but I've got a whole other gear on the stick that I can shift into if need be. I just use my social skills and pick my battles judiciously so I don't ever use it. But like a quiet friendly pit bull in the yard, it's there. And while American history may show a different version, I will scalp an injun if need be.

The next day, still traumatized from the situation the night before, I went to my counselor and told her that the situation was worse than the day before and that Pocahontas had developed a case of NSS (Naked Squaw Syndrome). When she finally stopped laughing, she said, "I got you Popi." Twenty minutes later Pocahontas was packed and leaving the reservation (they moved him to another cell block).

Now here I sit, a victim of NSS, still traumatized, with nothing but 60 mgs of Prozac and this blog as therapy. Oh, and I've still got at least two more years of Trump, which when you're a writer and blogger is like subject-manna from blog Heaven. (Now I just need the folks at Murder Slim Press to get back on the stick and start regularly posting blogs again.) And I've also got Cheeseburger Day every Wednesday. Trump couldn't give me a Pardon on a Wednesday. But, more than anything, you know what else I've got?

A nice, quiet, squawless teepee. All to myself.

Jeffrey P. Frye
Bank Robber's Blog