Q & A: "How Do You Get Tattoos in Prison?"

I received a very good question out of Orlando, Florida the other day.  Cari asked, “How do you get tattoos in prison?”

Well, first things first.  At the time you are sentenced to prison, you are given a number.  That number becomes your new identity.  From that point forward you become the property of the Department of Corrections.  At this point in my life, I am the property of the state.  Chapter 53 of the inmate handbook states that tattoos are prohibited.  Getting a tattoo is a direct violation, and is punishable by loss of gain-time, and / or time in confinement.  The hole, the box – solitary – in other words, sucky, sucky!  As you can see, I am in direct violation of chapter 53 and have been many times.  This makes a good story.  …For you, not necessarily for me.

I hope you have enjoyed looking at my art.  Before I came to prison, I had no idea I was capable of drawing pictures that were actually nice to look at.  The more I draw, the better I get.  At one point a guy asks me if I can tattoo like I can draw.  Well, I don’t know, I’ve never tried.  He rolls up his sleeve and says, “Let’s find out.”  Yes, I agree – we have way too much time, and people are far too trusting.  Of course, I agree to try – sounds like fun.

Jumping ahead, let me explain the tattoo machine for you.  Since they are prohibited, the machines are custom-made.  You know, if guys used their heads on the street like they do in here, none of us would be in prison.

Who knew you could make a tattoo gun out of a hand-held razor, a toothbrush handle, an ink pen, and a lighter spring?  Some dudes sat around with too much free time and came up with this thing.  The motor, when taken out of the razor, powers the machine.  The ink pen becomes the barrel and houses the needle made from stretching out a lighter spring.  The toothbrush handle connects the motor and the barrel.  This is kind of like digging a hole with a spoon.  There’s a better tool called a shovel, but if you don’t have a shovel....

(Photo borrowed from Dennis G.'s "How to Make a Prison Gun")  

I get this contraption in my hands and take off.  If you’ve seen my art then you know I am capable of some weird shit to say the least.  I found out I can tattoo as well, perhaps better than I can draw.  Soon I was giving tattoos every day.  It’s a great hustle here.  …One of the best hustles in prison if you don’t get caught.

Let’s look at some statistics here: If you break the law occasionally, chances are you won’t get caught.  Break the law every day and the odds are against you.

I know what you’re thinking, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be correcting your bad behavior?’  ‘Didn’t you end up there for breaking the law?’  ‘When will you ever learn?’

Give me a break, please – it’s just a little old tattoo – fuckin A!  (Plus, my mom already tore me a new one, thank you…).

Periodically we have shake-downs.  This is when the police come in and go through all our shit, looking for shit we’re not supposed to have.  Stuff like drugs, cell-phones, knives, alcohol, and yes, tattoo guns.  I had a good run of it.  For nearly 10 months I gave tattoos every day.  That’s where the whole statistics thing comes in. 

We have a surprise shake-down.  The officer that is assigned to search my stuff comes up to me.  He’s not just an officer, but a sergeant.

“Mr. Smith, do you have anything illegal that I should know about?  (No sir).

He begins to go through my things and sees my artwork. 

“Mr. Smith, you wouldn’t be giving tattoos would you?”  (No sir.)

He continues searching, looking even harder now.

“Mr. Smith, where is your tattoo machine?”

My what?

“I know you’re tattooing – where’s the stuff?”

My mind starts working.  I’m thinking,

charge #1: Tattoo paraphernalia

#2: lying to staff,

Charges 3 and 4 they’ll just make up since I lied to them.  Oh, fuck me running.

...No need to say anything.  He finds it, sewed into my mattress.  Wow, that dude was pissed.  I remember as a kid I would push my dad’s buttons once in a while.  I’m familiar with that look, like hot lava blowing out that little hole at the top of a volcano.  This isn’t looking so good.  Maybe tattooing wasn’t such a great idea.  Those were my thoughts right then.

Even here in prison, they have to have a way to punish you for breaking their rules.  Their answer to this problem is called solitary confinement.  We call it the box.  That’s what it is.  Everything is taken away from you.  I mean everything.  This is a 6’ X 6’ room with a steel bunk.  No sunlight, no people, no canteen, nada.  Your food comes through a slot in the door and it comes when they feel like feeding you.  You are stripped, shackled, and escorted 3 times a week for a cold shower.  A nurse comes by once a day and looks through the slot to make sure you’re alive.

The first two days aren’t bad.  Give it a week and the walls start talking to you.  Give it two weeks and the food that usually tastes like shit becomes steak and eggs, even ice cold.

Confinement is meant to break you down, and it works.  I’m a people-person.  I like to be near other people, and the box drove me crazy.  When they finally let me out, I felt like a free man, even though I am still in prison.  I found out there’s a worse spot, even in here.  The sunlight burned my eyes, but felt heavenly.  Birds singing, a fresh breeze – crazy the things we take for granted.

Then I had to deal with Mom.  “What are you, some kind of idiot?”  That hurt the most.  Screw the box – once again I let my mom down.  Mom flew down the next week with my sister.  Mom made me promise that I wouldn’t tattoo until I’m outside.  She said, “Keep your art on paper.”  That’s why you are now seeing my art on paper.  I’m keeping my word Mom!

So that’s my tattoo story.  How we get them, how we give them, and how we pay for them.  I’ll try to answer any questions you may have. 

I have a lot of tattoos.  Some of them are funny, some are very serious.  I have angels and crosses that remind me of my faith.  I have barbed wire to remind me of where I’ve been.  One arm is all memorials.  An eagle and stars and stripes are for my grandfather who passed away two Christmases’ ago.  My K.I.S.S. piece is for all those who have passed away due to addiction.  I have a very special place in my heart for them.  My sisters have drawn me little pieces and I have them on my sides.  My daughter has her spot above my heart.  Every piece of my art has a story.  Today I have lots of stories to tell.

Thanks for the question Cari!  Hope things are going well for you and yours.  Keep it real down there in Orlando.  Holla!

M.S.