Amy Jacobson 
Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash
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by Azhdah Enga, Prison Journalism Project
January 14, 2024
My first day in prison was the worst day of my life, besides the day I was sentenced to 17 years. Before I touched down in prison I thought it was going to be like something out of the movies — long dark walkways outside of rusty cell doors with the paint peeling off. I thought everyone was going to be yelling and banging and trying to kill each other.
It turns out there were no cells, no bars and no banging. Only buildings that looked like military dorms and two rows of tightly packed bunk beds and lockers, with 3 feet between me and the man on either side of me. I’m 6 feet, 2 inches tall. If I stand in the middle of the dorm and touch the tip of my middle finger to the nearest bunk bed, I can almost reach the opposite bunk bed in the other row.
I hadn’t been in prison for 15 minutes when I witnessed a guy get stabbed in the neck while I was standing in the medication line. It happened right behind me. I saw the aggressor and the victim. I immediately walked away without saying anything. I was shocked.
I didn’t know either man. But I knew for damn sure I didn’t want to be the guy with all the holes in his neck, or the guy who was probably about to spend the rest of his life in prison (if that wasn’t already the plan). The reality of where I was hit me like a ton of bricks. My anxiety shot through the roof.
When I got back to my living area, people were talking about what happened as if they were fans of rival football teams. I couldn’t believe how thrilled people were to see someone get hurt. I lay on my bunk and stared at the ceiling, trying to process the violence. I decided not to tell anyone what I saw. It wasn’t my business.
Not long after that altercation, an old friend of mine from the county jail told me somebody wanted to fight me. I knew the guy he was talking about — our beef was old, childish. Even though I grew up fighting, I didn’t want to fight anybody anymore, especially in prison. But I also didn’t want anybody to think that I was scared. So I went over to another building across the yard to try and talk with him.
When I found him, we exchanged a few words, and next thing I know I’m getting my head stomped into the ground by him. “How in the heck did I get here?” I asked myself. Then, to my surprise, somebody pulled the man off of me. I got up and shook off the kicks to my head and face. I squared off with the man and we fought again. And again. The fighting lasted about eight minutes. Honestly, I was pretty sure I was going to die, but I held my own. I escaped with a busted lip and a couple shoe prints on me. That was a win.
Later that day, people kept coming up to me, praising me and giving me commissary items. The guy I fought was pretty big compared to my 160 pounds.
The next day a corrections officer saw my face and shook their head. Another asked me if I had learned my lesson. Everybody assumed that because I was only 22 I was bound to get into trouble — that I’m the type who goes looking for it. I wasn’t though. If someone just talks smack to me, I ignore it. I only get active if somebody threatens my life or puts their hands on me.
Oddly enough, after every fight I’ve been in, the guy who fought me always wants to be cool. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve become close friends with after a fight. I’ve been incarcerated over nine years now and still don’t understand this dynamic.
My first day in prison changed me in many ways. The paranoia inside is real. Prison is so unpredictable. The people around you, including the ones you don’t even know, are watching. Not every situation has to end in violence and not everybody has to be an enemy. The ones who are your enemies are the ones you choose to make your enemies.
I don’t have issues with many people, but every day I wake up thinking that I might not live to see tomorrow. The best way to do your time is to be humble and stay focused on the end goal: your freedom.
This article first appeared on Prison Journalism Project and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.
Azhda Enga is a writer incarcerated in Arizona. He is using a pseudonym.
To read more articles written by incarcerated writers, check out these other articles:
Who Benefits From the Death Penalty? by Dennis “Abbadunamis” Mintun
Sending Teenagers to Prison Has Severe Consequences By Robert Schultz
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