There used to be a time in the prison system when convicts had a sense of humor, when jokes in prison were told to make someone laugh and reduce tension in the dorm. There was a time when feuding factions were at a standoff and some, like Cedric the Entertainer, would say something so funny that the angriest of men would bend over in laughter. After a few minutes of tearful laughing, the tension would ease and cooler heads would prevail.
One such character was a guy we’ll call “Black.” This man had a way with jokes, singing and even dancing. He was in his mid-fifties and had only been down for a few minutes, but when the man opened his mouth, staff, administration and inmates would roll over in laughter. Back then, there were talent shows where the entire compound would show up without incident. He would not only be the host, but the headliner too. This man once described a DR (Disciplinary Report) that he received from the warden who was in the audience. When the punchline came, the warden was in tears. This “Black” was also an extraordinarily talented artist.
I remember enlisting his talents to make drawings for my family members. The female staff loved him, especially when he went about explaining why he wasn’t handsome. He’d place all the blame on his dad, as his mom was a beautiful woman. He’d have people weak explaining how a long prison sentence stripped him of his sexual prowess. He’d blame the prison sentence for losing inches of length from his penis. It’s not my place to judge his looks, but my experience tells me that a guy with a sense of humor as wicked as his will NEVER have a problem getting women. On the days when the cafeteria food was too nasty for consumption, every steward coming out during shift change would get a piece of his mind. Sometimes the look on his face said more than any slick words.
For the few times when his sense of humor couldn’t defuse a fight, staff members would ask him where he was when the brawl went down. He’d answered proudly that he was under the bed, clutching a bible and praying they didn’t remember him cracking jokes at their expense. He held no qualms about telling people that he couldn’t fight. His best explanation was that “A good run was better than a bad stand.” He’d also say, “Someone has to give the play by play of the battle, and since I’m best at storytelling, it’s only fitting that I should live to tell the story.” If this man ever got a good manager, the comedy world would take quick notice. I often shake my head at the waste of talent behind these walls.
Sadly, with the unfettered introduction of different classes of drugs into the system, talent is far and few. A good jokester is probably one in four thousand now, when once you could find two or three in every dorm.
The serious level of violence in the system and the unchecked growth of gang culture means less things are funny. The knowledge that drawing attention to one’s self could bring about harm makes even the most comedic soul less likely to stick his neck out. Those with talents to draw and do crafts keep their skills to themselves for fear of being targeted for exploitation or extortion.
Personally, I hate every single day in prison and would prefer a hundred bad days of freedom than the most luxurious day inside these walls. But if I have to do time, there’s nothing like an old vet with dirty jokes funny enough to make a priest laugh. The younger generation in the system doesn’t understand or appreciate the value of a good joke, or the one who could deliver it.
