Today is my day. The day has finally come. Today, they have chosen me. The bad luck of the draw. The day callous hearts with voracious appetites for blood seek to quench their thirst inside the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.
I knew this day would come, but nothing would've ever prepared me. Nothing I could've done, thought, or said to myself to mentally or physically prepare. It's "Fight Night" and I've been chosen for the gauntlet.
In Texas women's prisons, there is a "Fight Night" custom, where the officers choose inmates to fight each other in what they call "the gauntlet." Bets are made and inmates are pitted against each other for entertainment like gladiators in a coliseum. There must be bloodshed, or the officers beat the fighters and see how long they last before they get knocked out or concede. It's a battle until there's only one person left standing, leaving all the others incapacitated.
This is how I ended up with stress fractures in my knee, a broken finger, and bruised ribs. I'm lucky I made it out—some have died in the gauntlet.
Like a bullhorn, the voice rang out— gleeful with a malicious undertone—announcing fight night. Three unfortunate victims were chosen to fight for twenty-one minutes. Someone is passed out on the floor. Another is balled up in submission and appears to have a broken arm. The winner is crying with a swollen eye and a bloody mouth. As the cleanup takes place, another announcement is made.
"Round Two!" echoes through the pod. Minutes pass by slowly. The footsteps of an officer coming down the run sound like the heartbeat in my chest. A knock on my cell door brings me out of my reverie. A brusque voice commands, "Be ready in five minutes," and causes my breath to stop.
I've been chosen.
I take deep breaths to steady my pulse and calm my nerves, to no avail. I have five minutes to get ready but my cell door pops open in four minutes and sixteen seconds. I've counted every second, and now I count my steps as I exit my cell and walk toward the vestibule. I'm haggard from lack of sun and proper nutrition, and I look it.
As a surfeit of emotions overwhelms me at once as I count one hundred and ninety-seven steps. The officers are waiting for me with wolfish grins. I know that something is not right. I am the only inmate here.
A mellifluous voice asks me how I am doing and if I am alright today. I am a puppet and the officers are the puppeteers, so I do not answer their rhetorical questions. They don't care how I'm doing or if I'm okay. They are attempting to beguile me.
I am ready for the blow before it lands.
The first punch from the left, my blind side, barely grazes me as I side step and duck. The second punch I deflect with my forearm. But with the third, fourth, and fifth, I'm doomed.
There are six of them on me. I can see their TDCJ uniforms, but their faces blur together. Men, women. White, Latino. I think. Their handcuffs clang and rattle on their hips. Their hands ball into fists. Their rage pours over me.
Time moves in slow motion. My breaths come out sharp and rapid. The punches keep coming, and I keep telling myself not to fall. If I do, my injuries will be even worse. Or worse, I'll die.
Don't fall. Don't fall.
I feel a push from a seventh assailant, a spectator who's decided to get in on the action. I am Hercules fighting the hydra.
Don't fall. Don't fall.
All I hear is a cacophony of laughter among transphobic obscenities and racial epithets.
It's been nearly eight minutes.
I fall!
I fall and I can't stop falling. The only thing I can do is make myself fetal and protect my face, vital organs, and bones. They stomp and kick me for what seems like hours. I feel pain all over my body and soul.
Finally. Everything stops.
"Get up!" they scream. I feel paralyzed. I feel broken all over. But somehow I slowly push myself up until I'm on my hands and knees. My breathing is labored and forced.
"Get up!" they scream again. As I stand on dubious legs, I realize a moment too late that a gas can is pointed directly at my face. The seventh assailant holds it, smirking.
The gas can is a chemical agent, a spray utilized in US militarized training. Often used in Texas prisons to subdue prisoners. It immediately incapacitates its mark, temporarily blinding them, restricting their breathing, leaving them burning like they are on fire in an incinerator.
It sprays my face with the force of a fireman's hose, driving me back several steps into a wall I can't breathe. I can't see. I can't hear. I can't feel anything but a burning sensation all over my body. I want to scream, but I can't. Because I can't breathe.
A lifetime later, two of the officers lift me up, letting my feet drag on the floor. Cold water splashes my face. Through the cloudy film on my eyes, I see a fluorescent mist floating in the air, an almost ethereal glow. I am stunned into another realm, lost in translation, left comatose and incoherent. Voices speak, but I don't understand what they are saying. Laughter fills the air as I am dragged to my cell and thrown to the floor like a rag doll.
I survived fight night. But at what cost?
The constitutional concept of "inalienable human rights" does not exist in Texas prisons. Prison is supposed to be a place of rehabilitation, not a slaughterhouse. Prisoners are still human. Do prisoners deserve to be used as entertainment or a comedy show? Are prisoners roadkill to be disposed of? Do prisoners deserve to be treated as target practice by Texas Department of Criminal Justice employees?
I am lucky to have survived the gauntlet with just a few injuries that can heal over time. But what about the unlucky ones?
Mothers, sons, fathers, daughters, sisters, and brothers are brutalized and hogtied in Texas prisons. Where is the justice?
There will be a target on my back for writing this. I will likely face retribution for being a whistleblower and speaking out against these atrocities, but I believe I am still alive to tell this story. I am a martyr for justice.