It took three guards and a full can of pepper spray to pull them apart. The guy attacked Michael in the middle of the dayroom. Perhaps two years after our conversation, Michael propositioned a friend of his. And since my attacks fit the ashamed self-image that he had internalized as a child, we slipped seamlessly into our new roles. Though I prided myself on being a compassionate Christian, I never missed a chance to subtly attack him for his sins.
Over the next few months, Michael and I had many more talks. My response, which was to blame him, was as familiar to him as his name. Looking back, I now realize that, like many survivors of childhood abuse and neglect - so many of whom are in prison - Michael was well-acquainted with shame. I also realized that Michael might be gay and therefore, according to my way of thinking at the time, shared some blame for what he was going through. He seemed to appreciate the positive attention that his older male companion had shown him, and spoke about their relationship with an affection he didn’t bother to hide.īy this time, I realized Michael was not lying about the guy pressuring him. To me, this was clearly an abusive relationship, but Michael said he didn’t see it that way.
It soon became clear that the only person who’d shown Michael any attention had also sexually assaulted him. He would let Michael hang out with him while he ran around the hood he’d buy Michael brand new clothes, or take him out for pizza he’d come into Michael’s room late at night to spend time with him. One of his mother’s boyfriends had been different, though. It seemed like everybody in his life either hated him or was indifferent. Beatings with extension cords, whole days locked in the closet. He’d grown up in an abusive household - I’m talking about one of those homes where the kid never has a fighting chance. Slowly, Michael began to tell me what had happened, starting very early on in his life. If he was making this up, what did he hope to get out of such an embarrassing story? Yet something about Michael’s demeanor seemed sincere. But I still couldn’t shake my skepticism - why would this predator pick Michael, of all people? Of course, I’d grown up hearing the stories and the “don’t drop the soap” jokes that people tossed around so freely. In my seven years of incarceration, I had never been propositioned for sex, let alone pressured. He took it like I was trying to create some privacy for us, but in truth, I was stalling for time. Often, he would bring up “problems” that were just attempts to get attention.Īfter a few minutes, we rounded the track past the handball courts and came up to a row of picnic benches on the south side of the Yard. I remembered that Michael had a reputation in our circle of friends for being overly dramatic. I knew just about everybody on the Yard, and I was skeptical of his claim of abuse. He’s pressuring me to have sex with him.” “There’s a guy in my building that won’t leave me alone. “Come on man,” I responded, with a lightness that I hoped hid the nervousness I felt. I wondered if he had the same feeling I had, that any verbal misstep could end in disaster. He said it matter-of-factly, but when I looked at him to see if he was joking, his shoulders were slumped, his head down, his eyes focused on the track immediately in front of him. “I’m going to kill myself,” Michael said.