Texas Prison System part 12

Texas Prison System
Part 12
by Rolando….10/16/2009


The slow rolling rhythm of the tractor-pulled trailers under the July sun that afternoon gave me time to reflect on my situation, as I observed the cotton boll stalks stretched across the land as far as my eyes could see. Today I will decide if I want to be rewarded for good time conduct reduction of my sentence in exchange for legal slave status that may actually kill me. If I decide to serve 3 years, and not the five the Judge gave me, I must accept to become an indentured servant for the master bosses of the prison without complaints. Or I can sit in a shaded cell back in Huntsville for the entire 5 years. There is no other more vile and coerced quid pro quo in Texas justice than this. And it is perfectly legal.

All around me, sweat drenched and lean convicts hang their heads to their chests desperately clinging for a last moment of rest before reaching the spot where their cotton sacks await at the end of a turn row where dropped at lunch time. With eyes shut and heads dangling side to side, my own eyes fast become blurred and burning with the sweat that pour wildly down my brow.

Up ahead in front of the tractor, Captain Buddy has kicked his Palomino to a slow gait as the tractor driver shifts into a higher gear. As if planned, a loud convict protest shout of “hey, slow down” breaks the hot monotony of silence on the trailers as Boss Joe and other bosses ride their horses close enough to the dangling legs of the convicts to bark profanities and threats of punishment to those shouting. The shouting protest ring from other parts of the trailers, only to infuriate the riding cowboys into pointing their shotguns at the convicts, demanding silence. The cowboy bosses are furious and the hot sun makes them even more ill tempered as they continue to search for agitators, as they refer to any convict that speaks out. I can already sense that the rest of this day will be pure hell under
boss Joe.

Everyone on the trailers are now wide awake, if indeed they were sleeping which I surely doubted. Laughing and talking even as the cowboy bosses sneered their sweaty eyes in the direction of the talking, pointing their shotguns in menacing motions towards the trailers. The commotion on the trailers was due to the cotton sacks up ahead as the convicts were trying to figure out exactly where they had dropped theirs. As the tractor came to a stop, the cowboy bosses rode their horses into the cotton field, and away from the trailers to avoid making contact with the convicts. From several yards into the cotton field the bosses barked orders for each squad to catch their previous rows and start picking. The exact words barked by the cowboy bosses to the convicts that afternoon are not appropriate for printing here, so let me just say that I was witnessing a scenario that is extremely difficult to believe if you were not there.

Image approximately ten flatbed trailers carrying over a hundred convicts to an open cotton field. The bosses on horse back welding shotguns are all nervous as the convicts jump to the ground from the trailers hurriedly looking for a cotton sacks. Some of the horses rear up on the hind legs as the cowboy bosses try to control the animal at the same time keeping his eyes on the convicts – who may pull him off his horse to the ground and disarm him. With the 100 + temperature sun tempers go wild on the cowboy bosses and it is at time such as this one that lives are lost in the prison cotton fields, if not lost to body dehydration for lack of bodily fluids, which are also denied to the convicts by the cowboy bosses.

Poor inadequate nourishment of half cooked brown beans and corn bread, spiked with boiled vegetables washed down with luke warm water in the mess hall produce a racing hound dog like convict so lean and fast that I had to marvel at the strength and swiftness on those around me that day. Somehow I had to acknowledge that these convicts had been doing this particular act for years and had to be well trained.

“Bull Dog, bring me a sack”, Boss Joe hollered at the water boy who had just arrived with his mule pulled water wagon. The rest of my squad and most others had already found their places and rows and were now stooped low picking cotton. The sack was empty but heavy with plasters of mud and I flung it on my shoulder and took the place next to my friend on a row and stood there looking ahead. My first mistake, as Boss Joe had his horse dancing all over my sack, “git yore stinking meskin ***down on that thare row `n start piking, show me wair the sun don shine”, as he was yelling for all the other convicts could hear. I bent down and plucked my first cotton bud off a spiny boll that felt like a razor`s edge. For the first time I realized just how hard it was going to be for me to be on good behavior to earn reduction of my sentence. My whole body is drenching wet with my own sweat and I haven`t even pick a pound of cotton yet. To make matters worse I was expected to pick 120 pounds a day. In my case, that amount was only half, since I started work at 1 p.m...Whatever the situation , I would never pick 60 pounds the rest of the afternoon. The blistering hot sun, Boss Joe and his horse, my thirst and fear, had my mind racing out of control. I wondered if I would get my act together, or just sit down and quit.

My friend noticed my mood and slowly motioned for me to come close. “We all start out the same way, man, you`ll be alright. Just keep low as much as you can, and I will pull you up” he said. What he meant was that he would see that I kept up with the squad and not lag behind by picking the cotton on my row, so I could keep up. I told him I would try, and I did.

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