Tracy had reason to know she was listening to an expert.
“It ain’t only the inmates,” Ernestine went on. “The guards are jest as bad. Some fresh meat comes in and she’s on H. She’s strung out and needs a fix real bad. She’s sweatin’ and shakin’ herself to pieces. Well, the matron can get heroin for her, but the matron wants a little favor in exchange, see? So the fish goes down on the matron and she gets her fix. The male guards are even worse. They got keys to these cells, and all they have to do is walk in at night and he’p themselves to free pussy. They might get you pregnant, but they can do a lot of favors. You want a candy bar or a visit from your boyfriend, you give the guard a piece of ass. It’s called barterin’, and it goes on in every prison system in the country.”
“It’s horrible!”
“It’s survival.” The overhead cell light shone on Ernestine’s bald head. “You know why they don’t allow no chewin’ gum in this place?”
“No.”
“Because the girls use it to jam up the locks on the doors so they don’t close all the way, and at night they slip out and visit one another. We follow the rules we want to follow. The girls who make it out of here may be dumb, but they’re smart dumb.”
Love affairs within the prison walls flourished, and the protocol between lovers was even more strictly enforced than on the outside. In an unnatural world, the artificial roles of studs and wives were created and played out. The studs assumed a man’s role in a world where there were no men. They changed their names. Ernestine was called Ernie; Tessie was Tex; Barbara became Bob; Katherine was Kelly. The stud cut her hair short or shaved her head, and she did no chores. The Mary Femme, the wife, was expected to do the cleaning, mending, and ironing for her stud. Lola and Paulita competed fiercely for Ernestine’s attentions, each fighting to outdo the other.
The jealousy was fierce and frequently led to violence, and if the wife was caught looking at another stud or talking to one in the prison yard, tempers would flare. Love letters were constantly flying around the prison, delivered by the garbage rats.
The letters were folded into small triangular shapes, known as kites, so they could easily be hidden in a bra or a shoe. Tracy saw kites being passed among women as they brushed by one another entering the dining hall or on their way to work.
Time after time, Tracy watched inmates fall in love with their guards. It was a love born of despair and helplessness and submissiveness. The prisoners were dependent on the guards for everything: their food, their well-being, and sometimes, their lives. Tracy allowed herself to feel no emotion for anyone.
Sex went on day and night. It occurred in the shower room, in toilets, in cells, and at night there was oral sex through the bars. The Mary Femmes who belonged to guards were let out of their cells at night to go to the guards’ quarters.
After lights out, Tracy would lie in her bunk and put her hands over her ears to shut out the sounds.
One night Ernestine pulled out a box of Rice Krispies from under her bunk and began scattering them in the corridor outside the cell. Tracy could hear inmates from other cells doing the same thing.
“What’s going on?” Tracy asked.
Ernestine turned to her and said harshly, “Non’a your business. Jest stay in your bunk. Jest stay in your fuckin’ bunk.”
A few minutes later there was a terrified scream from a nearby cell, where a new prisoner had just arrived. “Oh, God, no. Don’t! Please leave me alone!”
Tracy knew then what was happening, and she was sick inside. The screams went on and on, until they finally diminished into helpless, racking sobs. Tracy squeezed her eyes tightly shut, filled with burning rage. How could women do this to one another? She had thought that prison had hardened her, but when she awoke in the morning, her face was stained with dried tears.