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Convict Stratification: The Social Construction of Prison Society

By Christopher Zoukis / BlogCritics.org

In the world outside of prison, everyone wants to know what others do, where they work, how much they make, where and in what type of house they live, what they drive, and the answers to many other personal identity questions which help us to quantify and categorize others.  These are social signals to those around all of us.  They help us to understand how to treat others, how they compare to us, and a plethora of other interpersonal protocols.  Not very surprisingly, prison is no different.

The Prison Pecking Order

In prison, unlike life “on the street,” social status is not based upon what a fellow prisoner makes or what they do for a living, but what their crime of conviction is, if the fellow prisoner is an informant or not, the group (or “car”) they associate with, and how they carry themselves.  Also unlike the world outside of prison walls, this social status can mean the difference between a life of torment and assault, and a relatively peaceful life, where due respect is proffered by perceived social equals and lesser-thans.  As such, it is vital for new arrivals — and others who want to understand the prison experience — to understand how stratification works in a correctional context.  Doing so will ensure that they maximize their chances of surviving relatively unscathed.

Crime of Conviction: Social Stigmatization at its Best

The convict stratification equation starts, much like many other components of prison life, in a seemingly backward fashion.  When judging a fellow prisoner’s social status, one doesn’t start by thinking of who they are today, but what they did to be locked up in the first place.  This is a common starting point for any evaluation because it helps to quickly — and relatively accurately — quantify complete strangers.  After all, if a fellow prisoner is, for example, doing time for bank robbery, then it can be assumed that he is a traditional convict, schooled in the criminal lifestyle.  On the other hand, if someone is in for wire fraud or embezzlement, then they are probably not considered “good people” — according to the social construction of prison society — and will be categorized as a “citizen,” not a true convict.

The same form of judging occurs with other, less savory crimes, too.  Having an unpopular crime of conviction is a quick path to the lower realms of the prison stratification system.  Those with a criminal history of sexual assault, possession, distribution, or production of child pornography, rape, molestation, and such are deemed in prison to be the lowest of the low.  Those with these types of crimes are almost automatically shunned from Day One, though they can often find a place amongst fellow unsavory types (those many regular prisoners disparagingly call “weirdos”).

The Rat Factor

After this initial evaluation has been figured, the next question — regardless of crime of conviction — concerns if the prisoner in question has testified against anyone else.  This could be in terms of testifying in court (they would be deemed an “informant” in this case) or snitching on their fellow prisoners (they would be deemed a “rat” in this context).  Regardless of crime of conviction, if a prisoner is known to assist law enforcement or the prison authorities, they are deemed to be the lowest of the low.  Add a conviction for an unsavory crime, and any “good con” wouldn’t be seen dead speaking with them, or worse, many might make a point to openly assault such individuals based upon principle.  Whereas in regular American society, those who are a bit odd or disagreeable are avoided, those in prison face a much harder fate: ostracism, shunning, and possible assault (depending on the prison security level in question).

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Inmates Helping Inmates

By STAN STOJKOVIC  Image courtesy twitter.com

MILWAUKEE — IT’S the singular guest at a prison who receives a standing ovation from inmates. I’ve heard of only two: Johnny Cash and Percy Pitzer, a retired warden who in 2012 started a nonprofit corporation to award college scholarships to children of inmates.

I sit on the board of Mr. Pitzer’s group, called the Creative Corrections Education Foundation. I recently went with him to visit some of the inmates at the Milwaukee County House of Correction. It was morning and many were still on their thin mattresses — sleeping, reading, crocheting, playing cards — as he began a day of speeches.

He started in H6, a 60-bed women’s dorm. “Good morning, ladies. I’m Percy Pitzer, from Beaumont, Texas,” he began. He told them that he had made a living for his family by working for the Bureau of Prisons, and that he and his wife wanted to give back. So he’d kick-started a scholarship fund with $150,000 of his own money. But he wanted it to become an inmate-funded venture, and said it would not work without their help.

“Will you help me with the price of a candy bar a month?” he asked.

His audience probably had a sense of the odds working against their children. Close to seven million children in the United States have a parent involved in some form of correctional intervention — jail, prison, probation or parole. More than two million have parents behind bars. The impact is largely focused on minority communities. Families of inmates are left with very little on which to survive, and so the cycle of poverty and crime goes unbroken. According to the American Correctional Association, up to 50 percent of incarcerated juveniles have an incarcerated parent.

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