Walking Tall

“Swagger” is a very hot concept these days. We all know what it means, and my main beef with it is that it’s virtually acting, and is thus done predominantly for others.

Though the gaudiness of swagger was a characteristic of mine when I was a late teenager out there in the world, I’ve all but eliminated such excesses from my style today. (I still dress nicely, according to the standards of prison, but it neither defines me nor do I let it appear to define me.) Yet there is one reoccurring instance, one gleaming moment in time, when I swagger…

In the craftshop, we go to lunch everyday at 1200pm. Since our supervisor leaves with us to drop off packages and pick up orders, our departure at this time is mandatory. Generally, two or three buddies and I will eat together, and it’s when we hit the main hall, in route to the chow hall, that the swagger ensues.

We’re all quasi-metrosexuals, and when we roll down the hall together, with our shiny medical boots, contraband muscle shirts, free world watches and pressed clothes, our chests seem to puff out an inch or so more.

One buddy’s been here eleven years, so practically the whole unit waves at him as we smile by. Another buddy works in the officers’ dining room, so all the female officers smile at him as we wave by (but not yet bye). The sun seems to always cast his optimistic light on us as we stride by the occasional window.

Almost drunk with delight in the moment, I keep everyone rolling with one inexorable witticism after another. We trade amicable anecdotes, and I issue myriad pats on their backs. I tell you, the feeling is just like one has at a party or some other social function out there in the world, and no other aspect of prison can emulate that atmosphere so well.