05/04/2026
Excerpt from my autobiography, "Forged In The Fire"
CHAPTER 1
The whole picture didn’t make sense. The soft hum of the bus engine. The beautiful green forestry just outside the window. A couple deer stopped their prancing to watch us watch them as we drove by. Outside of the other window, wild turkeys strutted and displayed their arrogance across the lush vegetation. None of this made sense! The picture didn’t match the feelings inside. Speaking of feelings...the entire bus had to be feeling what I was feeling, however, stoic faces hid the pain and hurt that drove us to this point in the first place. As we rounded the last curve, ankles sore, bleeding slightly from the constant jolting of a 10 plus hour road trip with ankle restraints on, the prison walls came into view. A lot of the stoicism dissipated from once defiant faces as reality crept in. Folsom State Prison! Built in 1858, it is California's second oldest prison, next to San Quentin, and the state's first penitentiary to have electricity. I was 19...and this would be my new home for as long as I could survive.
The grey granite walls loomed, and my heart sank. I was scared. I didn’t really realize what I had gotten myself into and what would transpire in the decades to come. The monster this place would nurture. The bus rolled on down a narrow road alongside the massive wall and pulled to a stop at New Folsom. This prison was erected in 1986 and, although “new”, didn’t look any more inviting than the one we had just passed. In my mind I was relieved I wasn’t going to the notorious Old Folsom State Prison. However, in time, I would learn that for the convict on the yard...every prison was notorious. Because any yard and any convict could take your life or leave you scarred in a moment's notice.
Getting off the bus, we were lined up and a Sergeant walked down the line of us telling us that this was “his” prison and what was expected of us. It was the stereotypical prison entrance. When you are living it, it is a lot more intimidating. The Sergeant walked up to me and said, “44?”. I said, “No, 43.” He stepped closer and said, “No, 44.” In prison they use the last two numbers of your identification to I.D. you quickly. He leaned in even closer and said, “Naw man, Fo Fo.” It was then I realized he was talking about the caliber of gun used in my crime and I just nodded at him. He taught me at that moment, there were no secrets in prison. Everybody knew everybody’s business. This lesson would be a lesson that would keep me out of a lot of chaos in the years to come. They handed me a bar of soap and 2 rolls of toilet paper, gave me a cell number, and I was on my own.
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