4.

To Do the Study in
Any Way Possible

The Naive Incognito versus the Paranoid

The secret reality of a prison constitutes an unknown area about which it would be difficult to advance certain research hypotheses. I no longer speculate about what prison social relations may look like. Ideas accepted a priori are usually disastrous for a scientific study. This is why the scholar should not presume a rigid research procedure. By using various techniques, the investigator should strive toward a gradual limitation and greater precision of goals, and toward filling out and making more detailed the initial and general cognitive map. We can capture only such elements of human consciousness which in some way become elements of our inner experience. If this is the case, then for every scholar certain boundaries to understanding exist, delineated in part by the range of his or her experiences and social background.¹ This is particularly valid for the academic scholar who wants to understand the inmates and prison staff who constitute a community so very different from that of the investigator. Nonetheless, individual experience is to a certain extent constricted and determined by the position held in the given community. The scope of an individual’s practical knowledge about social reality, even if the broadest possible, is always limited and constitutes only a small part of social complexities.²

In the prison community the differences of knowledge among individuals stem from their belonging to divergent social groups. For example, the “git people” isolate themselves from the “suckers” and the latter need not be familiar with the experiences of the former. The academic investigator, on the other hand, has the chance to discover differences in the knowledge and experiences of each of the groups or at least the essence of those differences. Quite possibly, the investigator can grasp them even better as an outsider, albeit one with a certain understanding.

As I have emphasized, I was unable to prejudge anything about the structure of the prison community; therefore, I decided to abandon the approach of an investigator of the verification type.³ I did not opt for questions of the sort: “Is the institution divided into people, suckers, and fags?” If there are no such divisions (and this study will show that this is likely), then does that mean that there are no structures at all, or that some other type is present? Even if it were to become apparent that these divisions exist, then should we identify relations in that structure with those already known and described? The verification approach holds an inherent danger of imposing the way in which reality is viewed and, with the help of accepted criteria, sorting it by “forcing” its identification.⁴

The basis for studying an individual through his environment is the individual’s opinions, which are not formulated with the intention of their eventual use by others for research purposes but are only an unhampered and direct confession.⁵ The awareness of being examined can considerably alter the behavior of people. As I have already mentioned, this process can seriously distort the real picture of the prison community. The concealment of one’s own research goals seems to be the best way for overcoming this obstacle.

It also appears to be necessary for another reason. Since it is impossible to determine precisely the scope and methods of research, there is no way to request permission from the prison authorities. Formally, after all, they could interpret the situation as “someone wants to conduct a study, but he doesn’t know what or how.” One could assume that a more or less clear-cut description of the aims of research would not provide the desired effects either. However, another path remains open. Groups of students from study circles have been admitted into penal institutions with questionnaires. This was allowed only if each group was accompanied by a faculty member. As sometimes the students were refused by the academic staff, I became their “salvation” and willingly accepted such a role. In this way I was able to visit the penal institutions and had occasion to meet my own scientific purposes. At other times I assumed the role of a survey worker (still as a student) and used this opportunity to penetrate prison reality. Thus, without drawing undue attention to my real intentions, I was able to carry out my research.

The investigations were conducted in conjunction with other research and with the help of standard techniques. The concentration of the attention of the prison community on the questionnaires made it possible to penetrate it and to accomplish my own purposes without drawing attention.

Investigators must remember that their very perception by the persons under examination is a form of contact with them. Control over that which is perceived is at the same time control over contact, and a limitation and regulation of that which is shown and transmitted is the limitation and regulation of that contact.⁶ Those limitations will intensify, particularly in the case of totalitarian institutions, if the researcher is identified with some institutional form of social control and therefore when there is a conviction about the purposefulness of study and in perspective the disclosure of the recorded events.

For the inmates my official purpose of research became the object of a paranoid fixation while the contents of the answers to the questionnaire became the object of manipulation and control over that which is being revealed—this was their prey. Here lies the weak point of research conducted with the aid of standard techniques. The investigator who approaches research unconventionally and who sometimes takes into consideration the attributes of the subject—especially his attitude toward being examined—can turn those weaknesses into strengths.

In this type of institution, as well as others, the investigators are regarded as employees of other state institutions. As civil servants they are faced with the task of receiving information from the client, the person under examination. Just like civil servants they tell their clients to fill out a questionnaire or to answer questions posed during the interview. The activity of the investigator is concrete and definite, formally identical with that performed by officials in contacts with clients. After completing the research, the investigator becomes a private person, similar to a civil servant after work hours.

A certain mode of carrying out research seems to be the reason for defining science as a bureaucratic institution and the investigator as an official. The fact that the researcher can remain himself for twenty-four hours at a time is a rather loose representation which can be altered when it becomes sufficiently evident—sometimes to the displeasure of the interlocutors who often would have liked to meet him on a private footing. If in situations when the investigator should react and participate spontaneously, he remains concerned with documentation or analysis, then he will bring out aggression in others.

It is my contention that a decidedly better way of conducting research on the secrets of the prison is to do so in “private” time, while carrying out other studies. I often made it known to the respondents that I had undertaken the research on commission, for a wage, and that I was not personally interested in it. I was then able to observe the fate of my work. My lack of personal involvement could have been made part of my estimated attitude to the reality being examined.

The image that I presented to the prison community suggested to them that I could not use any research instruments other than the official ones. I made notes only when I was alone. But the construction of one’s own research instrument (if only a plan of questions to be used in the interview) was not plausible and possible for yet another reason. The secret reality of the prison constitutes for researchers an unfamiliar terrain in which it would be difficult to formulate definite research hypotheses. Unacquainted with that reality, we do not know what to ask. Another hindrance in preparing an instrument is that one cannot ask direct questions such as: do you steal? Secret reality does not tolerate it. The only assumption I made about this reality is that it is secret. That and the closed circuit of information in the prison outlined my conduct. The absence of the instrument and the avoidance of making notes in the presence of the subject provided me with what concerned me the most: they enabled me to make my true research aims and hindered the subject’s controlling the data I registered.

It seemed most correct to accept an open attitude. In order to do this, I had to pretend to lay aside the existing knowledge and adopt a naive stand:

• I am a tabula rasa, I know nothing about life in prison, and I do not know what I will find out, I reject all previous knowledge.

• I am a mirror, I gather all information with identical care, I neither select nor evaluate it from the point of view of its eventual significance. Here the basic principle is to retain a maximal faithfulness in relation to the described reality. There can be no bending of the actual social process to an assumed theory, nor the possibility of employing conceived research techniques.

• I am ignorant, and each of my interlocutors is a competent and equally valuable informer.

• I am a humble and patient pupil. If someone makes a statement concerning life in the penal institution, I have to wait patiently with pretended or authentic interest. I must take on the attitude of a pupil in relation to the narrator—he is the “professor” and I the good listener, modest and interested in the topic. I also used to ask for an explanation and, when necessary, repeated his thoughts in my own words, requesting confirmation that I had understood.

• I am amoral. I reject the possibility of evaluating deeds from the point of view of ethical criteria. I neither condemn nor praise that which I see and hear.

• I am a piggybank. I collect more or less secret information and offer none myself. I do not tell others what I have found out and from whom.

The acceptance of the cognitively naive stand generated certain directives for the behavior of the investigator in prison. They can be described most briefly as an unstructured way of spending time. Analogically stated, if one wants to familiarize oneself with the inner working of some machine, one should allow oneself to become part of it—to pass through all of its parts. No opportunity was too reprehensible for me not to learn the truth. If someone wanted to speak, I began a conversation. If someone wished to talk on a topic chosen by him, I discussed that subject. If a functionary invited me home, to a restaurant, or to go fishing, I accepted. If someone wanted my advice, I offered it. I did not define that which I wished to accomplish. The plan of my visit in the institution was a function of coincidences, chances, and opportune occasions. My behavior was submissive; others decided what I was to do, where I was to be taken, and what I talked about. I waited for proposals and made none myself, remaining a hunter who sought opportunities to make an acquaintance, to obtain some information or to scrutinize prison life.

From a certain moment, when a picture of the structure of the prison community emerged, my behavior became purposeful. I arranged meetings with certain persons in a discreet way. I stayed more often in chosen quarters or tried to establish rapport with people who interested me, because they were better sources of information or facilitated contacts with a larger number of people, or because I felt that for the general acceptance it would be better to seek the company of precisely those persons.

One has to assume that a certain period of time in prison and the collection of information contribute to losing naivete. There was a point when my attitude became dual: I behaved like a mirror, reflecting all information, but at the same time I turned my attention to those repetitive concurrences which create a picture of the relations within the prison community. On the basis of that knowledge I construed certain hypotheses and resultant questions, the answers to which would verify the correctness of my suppositions.

The Weak Aspects of the Secret

The characteristic feature of the secret is the fact that it conceals a certain state of affairs directed against someone or something. There is always an “addressee” or “addressees” (persons, institutions) from whom the secret keeper wishes that the information about the given state of affairs would be kept. For various reasons (official duties, threatened interests, suffered wrongs, the loss of good reputation) well known to those who share the secret, the “addressees” could react to the news in a way feared by the authors, and for this reason they keep the sources of their apprehension secret. They can divulge the secret only to those whom they trust, i.e., with whom they also share other secrets, and against whom they have a sanction. The prison community is well aware of such interaction mechanisms. It is also conscious of the fact that for someone to obtain information about an isolated group he must have a sanction against one of its members and, within the secret interaction imposed upon that person, obtain information about the remaining people. The awareness of this situation forms the basic premise for the emergence of prison paranoia. In the penal community special attention is concentrated on who contacts whom. Keeping track of contacts comes down to an estimation of whether those whom we know (with whom we keep company, with whom we share secrets) have contacts with people who could become undesirable addressees of our secrets—could prove to be harmful or lead us to harm. A functionary could jeopardize the prisoners, and therefore they keep track of the functionaries who contact the administration. Members of the privileged group in the prison community are careful of contacts between “their own” and members of other groups. A single functionary or prisoner will evaluate the contacts of his colleagues or friends from the same point of view. In such instances the intriguing thought always arises, “What did they talk about? What did he tell him?” Everyone’s contacts are closely scrutinized to discover who keeps company with whom and to recognize the peril such eventual contact with another person invokes.

Inappropriate contacts can give rise to suspicion and seriously hamper life in prison for those who are unaware of the existence of such a basis for their evaluation. These contacts are simply avoided. This is why physical (or other) contact between members of the prison community makes it possible to notice and distinguish various groups.

What are investigators to do, or any other strangers, about the assumption that they are “unclean,” i.e., that they can inform, and, willingly or not, harm others? If one keeps company with the prison staff, one is labeled “unclean” by the prisoners, and if one cohorts with the inmates, then one is regarded with suspicion by the administration who fear that the inmates “sell out the prison” and for whom the investigator becomes in convenient. The best method is to talk with everyone. One must exploit every opportunity even if only to greet someone, to stop a passing person for a moment, to exchange a few words about the weather. It is best if such an encounter can be seen by others, but it should not be overheard. One has to act in this way with prison staff who hold different posts and ranks, are of various ages, and work in different places. The same holds true for prisoners who should be different ages, from various cells, pavilions, and places of work—in other words, with anyone who crosses our path. One should walk up and ask about anything at all: the whereabouts of the exit, the washroom, whether we are not disturbing them, and so on. Ignorant about the arrangements in the community, and by contacting everyone whom we encounter, we avoid an association with a certain category of members of the prison community which could prejudice others to see us as enemies. This makes it possible for our position as a blind person who does not know with whom he is really speaking, to be acknowledged as a normal state of affairs, and to assure that our contacts not become a source of surprise and speculations. The situation in which a stranger talks with everyone is recognized as quite normal.

This state of normalcy is a necessary condition for conducting research. Building on such a foundation by developing closer contacts with certain persons, but not forgoing certain tactical contacts, we safeguard the former from suspicions. Moreover, those who wish to establish rapport with us know that it isn’t dangerous. Others merely register the contact itself. They shouldn’t overhear conversations, and this holds true not only for the useful but also for the tactical contacts. The impression that contact with us is safe is intensified by a certain way of thinking on the part of the persons under examination in the situation of “universal contacts” created by us. The person who has tactical contacts can assume that those are the type of contacts we also maintain with others. The interlocutor who discloses details of prison life, on the other hand can suppose that this is what the contact with all the others consists of; as a result he feels safe, believing that everyone else does as well. Just in case, the whole community could accuse each other of secrets. The multiplicity of my contacts made it feasible to formulate such a charge against everyone. But let us remember that the basis for such an accusation is only contact with the investigator—one never strikes out with something which could be used to hit us.

Of course, it is not enough for persons under examination to talk with us on every subject without any apprehension. What follows is a brief discussion of what inclines inmates and functionaries to disclose secrets and the ways in which I induced them to do so.

The first contact with secrets. When gathering indelible impressions, it is important for the task to begin as early as possible, immediately after initiating field work. We cease to notice certain subtle traits or characteristics whose novelty was so striking, once they grow more familiar. Therefore, we are concerned with registering above all the reactions of the prison community to the very appearance of the investigator or the appearance and disappearance of certain persons in the social domain of the penitentiary.

When I found myself at a certain distance from a group of functionaries standing in the courtyard of the institution, I observed that they talked loudly and merrily, patting each other and moving around freely. As I approached so that I could distinguish what was being said, they grew quiet, stopped laughing, and moved less energetically than before. After I passed by, they resumed their previous behavior. I recognized that I was regarded as sufficiently alien to make it impossible for them to speak freely and on every topic in my presence—they had their own affairs. Similarly certain groups of the personnel preoccupied with themselves behaved this way toward their own colleagues. And there were those who caused no such changes in behavior.

While among the functionaries I noticed that the colleagues who approached them behaved unrestrainedly until they saw me. My presence embarrassed them. They became silent and then asked whether they were interrupting or whether they could come in for a moment because they had “something to discuss.”

My curiosity was aroused by other situations as well—why, for example, did prisoners standing in the corridor make way for one functionary while others had to pass them as if they were on a slalom course? Why did the inmates walk up to certain functionaries and talk quite freely and move away at the very sight of another? Why, when I looked through the peephole into the cell, did the prisoner standing opposite the door who noticed that he was being observed say something to the other inmates out of sight at that moment (I found out later that he says: “Peephole” or “Attention, peephole”), while at other times no one watched the peephole?

Those and other similar situations made me aware of the existence in the prison of issues about which none of those present wanted me to hear. I also noticed that I was by no means an exception and that if one were to become sensitive to this sort of variegated and irregular “spatial” behavior, then one could see that it is quite considerable.

Past secrets enable the investigator to approach the secrets of the prison in general. With little effort much can be discovered about past events, already irrelevant in the sense that their disclosure causes no negative consequences for anyone (for example, the people involved have been released, have left the place of work, etc.). However, it should be remembered that there is always some conjecture that this event from the past could upset someone since it reflects discredit on the prison system as a whole.

Just as the absence from the prison of the person sanctioned reveals past events, so too can information be obtained about events which occurred in other penal institutions. Data of this sort are not dangerous for anyone, and although they may not have anything in common with the reality currently examined by the investigator, they reveal the world of the prison showing what takes place there and what is possible. Moreover, they train the imagination, make us sensitive to problems crucial for this particular community, restrict speculation about life in prison, and show what the community notices and finds particularly disturbing in related stories.

The relationship of the secret. The violation of norms which were devised to regulate coexistence in the prison community is guarded by sanctions. In order to apply a sanction for breaking a norm, someone must register the incompatibility of the behavior with the norms. Every community develops a certain system of vigilance comprised of formalized and non-formalized ways of detecting undesirable deeds and conduct. This system includes not only the organized institutions of the police, officers of investigation, detective agencies, and so on, but also daily observations made by members of the individual’s social milieu. This informal system of vigilance which assumes various forms depending on the type of culture, customs, political system, religion, etc., is particularly effective for the regulation of behavior in daily contact, the settling of certain matters, professional work, and the like.⁷ Its absence makes the application of sanctions impossible.

The nature of many social events is such that if not registered at the moment they occur then it is as if they never happened. We find out from the victim and the perpetrator that someone verbally insulted someone or slapped someone’s face, assuming that the given blow left no traces on the victim’s body. If the witnesses and participants share the secret, then the news about this event will never reach us.

We are dealing with a reality which is regulated by officially accepted norms. I have stated that behavior contrary to the norms is concealed—it is secret. But I have also noted that this type of behavior itself calls for regulation—and the latter is devised in prison. We are thus dealing with a new reality which is ruled by norms different from the “official” ones and which have been described as secret. There are, however, possible behaviors which break the principles of the secret world but which must also seek refuge in secrets. This third level of reality can, but does not have to, remain secret in relation to the first one. A certain relativity of secrets comes to the forefront.

If a prisoner had stolen an item from another prisoner, who is his colleague, then he infringed upon a norm which forbids theft both in the official and in the secret code—thieves can steal but not from each other. But if the inmate shakes hands with a functionary, something he is forbidden to do by the code of the prisoners, then the offender will try to keep this fact a secret. He does not have to do this in relation to other functionaries and can even calmly perform such an act before their eyes. Neither is shaking hands with a functionary kept secret from the investigator. By avoiding affiliation with both the prisoners and the prison staff—if possible—the investigator will quite easily find out about events which violate the norms of the outside world. In this way the investigator learns about the brutal treatment of the inmates by the staff from the prisoners themselves, and vice versa.

Disclosed secrets and enemy secrets. One can also discover the contents of disclosed secrets which the whole prison knows about. Relaying such information to the investigator is safe since the person involved can assume that everyone knows about the given event or fact and that the investigator could have found out about it from anyone. The inmates under examination also disclosed secrets of their enemies—individuals and groups—an act which could be used predominantly against those enemies.⁸

Unidentifiable secrets. Inmates talked about life in prison mainly in a general way, without giving detailed data identifying time, situations, and persons. They left many things unsaid and their stories were rather enigmatic. Later, having learned more about the penitentiary, it was possible to decipher their meaning.

The temptation of betrayal. Georg Simmel argued that a secret is accompanied by the temptation of betrayal similar to the pull of a precipice. It is true that many of the subjects succumbed to this temptation, usually in connection with a violation which they had committed or, as they admitted, with undiscovered “crooked deals.” By keeping them to themselves the inmates were unable to revel in their own skillfulness, intelligence, courage, etc. They needed recognition, to make an impression, to boast; in an unrestricted conversation they were unable to refuse this temptation and, to use an expression taken from the inmates’ vocabulary, they “told on themselves.” But this wasn’t the only motivation. Sometimes they were deeply dissatisfied with relations with fellow inmates or harbored resentment about wrongs suffered. The interview made it possible to relieve these pent up feelings.

“Losing one’s head’’ in a conversation. Many of the interlocutors who had the opportunity to talk with an educated stranger rambled excessively and lost control over what they said, revealing events which I felt were secrets.⁹ This was sometimes shown by their own reactions to the stories—having realized that too much had been said, they suddenly stopped and completely changed the subject or, claiming that they had made a mistake, corrected the narrative.

Illusory sanction. Since the initiation of secret interaction is possible only if one has, or thinks that one has, a sanction against one’s partner, then, if that partner wishes to become part of the interaction, he should provide such a sanction against the other person. As a rule, people are unaware that having an effective sanction against another person is not at all that simple. Usually a sanction is identified with what is a sanction for ourselves. The disclosure of a violation committed by someone could in fact have negative effects, but the disclosure of the same act committed by another person does not necessarily have the same negative effect. This always depends on the specific situation of each of the persons. If, for example, the investigator curses, no one will do anything about it, but a prisoner in a similar situation risks at least a reprimand from the guard. The sanction is identified with something whose performance or disclosure is feared. Frequently, however, this fear is unnecessary—the disclosure proves not to produce any negative effects. These are the psychological traps into which we fall—sanctions in such cases are illusory. Nonetheless, if someone knows what it is that the other person fears, possession of a sanction can be assumed. In order to establish secret interactions with my interlocutors I provided them with sanctions against me. I drank vodka with the guards and “tea” with the prisoners. I brought the inmates tea, cigarettes, and food, traded with them, and passed correspondence. I admitted to crimes never committed and to my own immorality. This type of interaction, in fact, produced the best effects. Drinking vodka with the staff inside the penal institutions—the glasses were filled with a small portion of tea extract and pure vodka was added—and outside the prison was especially effective. Joint drunkenness brought us closer together. It was presumed that a drunken investigator shows his true self. It was on such occasions that I was asked what I “really came” for.

Loosening the tongues of the staff was different than that of the prisoners. In one respect, however, both communities were similar—they spoke more eagerly about others than about themselves.

I. The prison staff unwillingly described life in prison, and for this reason I spent more time observing their behavior, while the convicts provided much pertinent information. The technique of conducting interviews with the staff could be described as indirect provocation.¹⁰

1. The technique of demonstrating erroneous knowledge was used citing opinions of a fictional third person who was supposed to have uttered some totally false statement. For example, I said that I had met someone who claimed that he had sat in prison where the inmates performed the same work as the functionaries and even ate with them. This drew laughter or anger, and the functionary immediately responded: “That fool never sat in prison or if he did, they gave him so much crap he didn’t want to admit it. Mister, here it’s like this. ...” “Faulty knowledge” gave rise to a wish to correct the false opinions and encouraged the functionary to speak so openly that he returned to the theme during the following meetings, still correcting the wrong opinion and providing me with much information.

2. The application of the technique of the conjectured thoughts and feelings of the persons under investigation was linked with a presumed critical evaluation by the staff of a certain state of affairs, their feeling of having suffered some wrong or being unappreciated, etc. In this case one should present a certain critical evaluation as one’s point of view or point out the injustice experienced by the staff: “People think that you have nothing to do here. Lock up the prisoners in the cells and not much more. But I see hard work and aggravation.” The reaction can be: “You’re right. People don’t know this and you too, after all, cannot see everything. There are such things here. ...” Another possible approach is: “This warden seems to be acting so strangely toward me, that I’m afraid.” The staff member retorts: “Not only toward you. Me and others too. You should see what he manages to do. ...”

3. There is also the technique of expressing disbelief. If a staff member says something which could interest us, expressing his emotional involvement, then in order to continue or develop that trend we show our disbelief: “We drank for about a week then.” “Impossible, you must be boasting.” “It’s the truth, and that was nothing compared to a year ago when. ...” Disbelief intensified in the interlocutor the need to convince us about the veracity of his story; as a rule he would cite numerous examples in order to confirm it.

4. An example of the technique of reticence is: if a functionary describes a secret (a breach of rules), then it is sometimes better to act as if nothing had made a great impression on us or interested us. One should simply listen as if the narrative concerned something normal or behave in a way which corresponds to the anticipated reaction. The wrong reaction in such a conversation results in changing the topic.

5. The technique of conformation is also used. If the subject of the interview is difficult (for example, if it concerns the immoral behavior of a member of the staff) and is connected with anxiety about our eventual reaction, then we need to meet him halfway and say something derogatory about ourselves. The purpose of this step is to make the narrator conscious of the fact that he is not speaking to a prude and that his words do not cause shock or disgust.

As a rule I used these techniques during the first stage of the interviews. My informant became accustomed to me and realized that he should not expect any repercussions. He simply became used to my presence. The degree of familiarity achieved later depended in part on the personality of the informants. It often happened that in making closer contact with a subject, it was subconsciously expected that I disclose some shortcoming of my own, or better, that I misbehave (e.g., drink vodka and get drunk).

II. The technique of holding a conversation with the prisoners can be described as sustaining. We begin with a neutral topic and at a certain stage notice that the prisoner is speaking. Showing interest in the conversation and accepting the prisoner is often sufficient to sustain the interview.

Prisoners are inclined to narrate events in an unstructured manner— they spin out associations.¹¹ Consequently at times we are simply flooded with a great number of stories told in a haphazard manner interlaced with unfamiliar abbreviations. It is difficult to concentrate the convict’s attention on a single theme. When interrupted, the prisoners shy away and lose their train of thought and willingness to talk. It is much more politic to steer the conversation by showing increased attention during a description of some particularly interesting event, thus achieving a further expansion of that theme in the story. A similar effect is gained by nodding one’s head at given points in the narrative. The absence of reaction or lack of interest curtails the statement and the inmate changes the subject.

A feature which is almost universal both in the thought and in the narrative of the inmates (and often of the prison staff) is thinking on the level of specifics. In the narrative this tendency is revealed in precise descriptions of activities performed or past events, often combined with an emotional attitude toward events and persons. Since these descriptions are rather picturesque they are easy to understand. The only problem is in understanding abbreviations or unfamiliar concepts.

Sources often feel protection in the often correct assumption that the investigator understands little of what is being said, which is usually the case at the beginning of the study. But with time and increased knowledge the situation totally changes. The investigator is capable of guessing many things and makes predictions and conjectures about them. At that point conversations intentionally held or overheard become increasingly meaningful and informative. But one should not correct the first impression of total ignorance regarding prison affairs which the investigator had made on his sources; it is much better to pretend to be deaf even if our hearing has returned.

In every conversation it is best to maintain a reticence. Excessive interest in prison matters should not be revealed. Although the time of the prison visit is usually restricted, one should not hurry—the knowledge must come naturally. What a subject says often prompts further questions in order to have everything explained to the very end. But this could be interpreted as suspicious curiosity and betray the investigator’s considerable knowledge. At other times, disclosing one’s knowledge and comprehension is very useful since it encourages the informant to further confession once he sees that he is understood and is not speaking to someone naive. Nonetheless, one should not demonstrate a great desire to know anything. This could give rise to wariness and paranoid fear of revealing something which could prove to be harmful. It is better to seem uninformed rather than guess more than the informant would wish. The attitude of being unsatisfied or being more or less suspicious about our interest in the inmates’ “shady” deals gives the best results. By not flooding my sources with questions, I avoid revealing my own knowledge. In this way I put his suspicions at rest. This may even lead to some frustration that I am not sufficiently interested in his person and problems. This is just as well—one can’t satisfy the subject with our interest in them without awakening suspicions about the purpose of the interviews. Through this an extremely important thing can be achieved: we leave the impression that the value of the information is not particularly relevant for us or in general. At the same time, we make the subject less suspicious.

“Breaking” the Prison Language

Wilhelm von Humboldt said that man lives only in such a world whose image is contained in language. My investigations basically dealt with secret prison reality to be found in prison language—the fundamental source of the data gathered was interviews. But one cannot describe human behavior in purely external terms—the social situation is created due to the meaning with which the actors endow their actions. This meaning is reflected above all in naming these actions and in a linguistic capturing of its principles. The intra-cultural way of interpreting phenomena is their essential feature and without taking into consideration the consciousness of the members of the group and their attitude toward their own activities and those of others (expressed linguistically), the phenomenon itself wouldn’t be understandable.¹²

The process of becoming acquainted with the secrets of a prison community articulated in its language is connected with the necessity of a transmission into the investigator’s language. This constitutes a framework for the explication of the vernacular of the prisoners. It is as if the same language and speech community were treated as “a field of action where the distribution of linguistic variants is a reflection of social fact.”¹³ The strange sound of the speech used by the persons under examination can, therefore, be the outcome of our ignorance about events which they know and describe. We are unable, even if we learn the vocabulary, to use it suitably for a given situation or in a context in which it could be aptly applied; in other words, we lack what is known as linguistic competence.¹⁴ Gaining linguistic competence is possible only for those familiar with relations prevalent in a given community.

This unfamiliarity can be of another nature as well. Namely we are dealing “with a specific code which serves to conceal the ways that groups and individuals act, conscious of the fact that they are the object of exclusion and repression, and that their way of life remains in contradiction to the binding norms.”¹⁵

The participants of undercover interactions can create a secret code, as a result both of the linguistic ambiguity of their activities and of the wish for safe communication.¹⁶ The code can also become “a defensive measure in the cohesion of the group and at the same time a sign of closing up or the superiority of a given group in relation to others (...) The jargon is actually a counter-language of an ethnic community but also in the sense that its purpose is a conscious break with the universal nature of linguistic communication between people. Simultaneously, it is supposed to construct an intimate bond of communication within a certain group.”¹⁷

The languages used by the inmates and the functionaries are decidedly different. The first, often described in literature on the subject as a “code” (grypsera), is full of unfamiliar expressions. Even those which sound familiar can have a meaning completely different for the inmates than for us. The strange sound of the speech of the prisoners can signify that its designates are just an unfamiliar state of affairs, by which I mean things not encountered in our daily lives. This is the case, for example, with the expression ‘‘paying out,” which means to hit or touch a second person with the penis and which is a way inmates are degraded in the informal structure of their community. This strangeness does not necessarily mean that the investigator hasn’t heard the designates—sometimes we are dealing with a different name for something that is well known to us: ‘‘to veq” means the same as to smoke cigarettes, ‘‘to grub” means to eat, and “screws” are functionaries of the prison staff. Many familiar expressions mean something quite different for the prisoners: “derby” for us is a type of a horse race while for the inmates it means group masturbation. “Horse” is one of the names for the penis, “hitting” or “whipping the horse” means masturbation, and a group masturbation to see who will reach orgasm first is known as a “derby.”

The expressions created by the prisoners include all classes of relationships for which there are no detailed descriptions in our vocabulary: “red spiders” are party members as well as those who cooperate or maintain close contacts with communists, “reptiles” are functionaries of the militia and the prison staff, and “reptile seed” are those who intend to work in one of the two services. Special names are given to inmates who come from various parts of Poland. They not only indicate the place where they were born but a certain characteristic feature of criminals from those regions: “wise guys” come from Warsaw, “pen knives” from Lodz Rzeszow, “hobbyhorses” from Cracow, “Hans” from Silesia, “spuds” from Poznan, “kangaroos” from Szczecin, and “Knights of the Cross” from Olsztyn.

This description of some of the expressions and terms taken from the slang of the prisoners pertains to the relation between the sign and the object of its reference in extra-sign reality. So this is a semantic relation.¹⁸ Linguistic signs can also be characterized from the point of view of their relation to the user—this relation is known as pragmatic.¹⁹ The pragmatic relation expresses its interpreter (its certain states or properties) and in no case leads to the sign denoting its interpreter. But the pragmatic relation also creates the meaning of the sign. The latter is composed of both its relation toward the designated object and an inclination toward a definite reaction to that sign on the part of the persons using it.²⁰

The pragmatic dimension of the meaning of the sign can be actually ascribed to each of the above mentioned prison expressions: “to pay out” means something negative, and the person using this sign knows that being “paid out” signifies humiliation and social degradation, while the “red spider” is a contemptuous expression, similar to “reptile” and “reptile seed.”

Certain expressions used by the inmates have special pragmatic relevance. Saying them establishes important social facts. These signs are generally known as “curses” which, when addressed by one person to another contaminate the latter—degrade him and transfer him to the class of “suckers.”²¹ The “curses” include such terms as: cock, whore, lesbian, pretty, darling. A certain category of expression exists which annuls the effect of the “curses” and overrides the eventual outcome.

It seems that the pragmatic relation which expresses the attitude of the person using the sign as such supposes his knowledge both regarding the reference meaning of the sign and the social context of its application, its pragmatic meaning for others. It remains, therefore, connected with that which Kaymes calls linguistic competence. The way in which the user defines the situational context influences the choice of linguistic signs employed by him. The situation of speaking, therefore, is one of choice, which, in the case of the prison, is regulated by subculturally molded patterns.

The argot of the prisoners is a domain of exploration which is safer because it remains natural. I listened and encouraged the inmates to use it in conversation with me. The meanings of expression were explained using my own vocabulary which fulfilled the function of a meta-language, i.e., one in which sentences about a language are formulated—in this case about the speech of the inmate. This is how I attained my linguistic competence. The unfamiliar reality coded in it was possibly the greatest source of information about it.

The language devised by the functionaries did not constitute any kind of a distinct system. If a conversation with the staff dealt with any sort of a language then this was primarily that of the inmates. In this respect the personnel was more competent than I. Among the staff, I encountered the use of phrases borrowed from the prisoners—which they called the “prisoners’ gabble”—as well as elements of the professional slang of the staff, but these occasions were few. In such instances I acted similarly as with the inmates and translated using my own vocabulary.

The Reconstruction of Social Reality of the Prison

Observed facts are always rooted in specific circumstances. Consequently, the first ascertainment of these facts is of an inferential nature—it is the result of selecting one of the many possible explanations of the given facts. The circumstances make it possible to recognize and create the meaning of that which occurred in the social exchange being observed.²²

The first aspect of this logic says that the participants of the social exchange are perceived in categories which have a culturally prepared and disseminated meaning. Moreover, in the perceived situation there must be appearances which enable one to maintain those premises. The investigator must accept those premises despite the fact that the social context of the interaction is often unfamiliar and incomprehensible. Inferences made on the basis of the context of the interactions create, suitable for the given situation, a basis for predicting the future of the interaction and a general interpretation of what is happening. Principles deduced on this occasion are not isolated. When they are confronted with new experiences, it might prove necessary (or not) to prepare a new interpretation or later to recognize it as typical for isolated events. This reflection, or inference of principles, might signify the elimination or addition of information to the experiences stored in our memory, making it possible to formulate statements of a higher level of generality.

The following example illustrates this entire process.²³ A convict told me that some time ago a new inmate was assigned to his cell. Upon arrival, in front of everyone else, he touched his own sexual organs with both hands and then dipped his hands into a bowl of cottage cheese standing on a table by the door. He then stretched out his hands and, lightly shaking them, proceeded further into the cell, approaching each of the prisoners in turn.

At first it seemed to me that this could be a scene from an insane asylum—devoid of logic or sense. It proved to have been extremely sensible, and the behavior of the new inmate was rational, reflecting the rigid order ruling this community. The existence of this social context as well as of the fact that the action is understood by the persons being studied can be disclosed by a so-called reflective approach to isolated information simply by raising questions such as: “why?” and “what for?”²⁴

Why did the prisoner act in the way he did? The response given by my source was this:

• the described inmate was a “git person” and wanted to belong to the “git people” in this particular penitentiary;

• “git people” form a privileged group;

• new prisoners are tested to see whether they are suitable to belong to the “git people”;

• for example, they can be beaten and then the rest will see whether they inform the administration;

• information disqualifies every inmate;

• if new prisoners immediately show their anxiety, they can be labeled as “victims” through special ritual methods;

• one of the ways of “victimizing” is to touch a prisoner with sexual organs or touch something which came into contact with them;

• “the victims” are deprived of privileges, held in contempt by the “git people,” and exploited by them;

• this particular person protected himself against eventual “victimization” or painful methods of testing him: by spilling the cottage cheese which came into direct contact with his sexual organs on his eventual aggressors, he could turn them into “victims”;

• by approaching each of the inmates in the cell, the prisoner sensed who avoided contact with him—these were the “git people,” while those who did not do so were the “victims”;

• in this way the inmate identified the “victims” and discovered with whom he should not shake hands, an act that could “bring harm upon himself”;

• the prisoner revealed familiarity with the principles of “hidden life” (social competence);

• he communicated that he is a “git person” and wishes to remain one (by his behavior he affirmed the existing informal structure).

From the description of this simple incident I found out about: the existence of informal divisions among the inmates; relations between distinct categories of the prisoners; ways of testing newcomers; ways of “victimization” and its avoidance; the prohibition of filing complaints to the administration.

The reconstruction of the prison social reality consisted precisely of the formation of a structure by using basic data. I accepted the universally expressed statements as true. I also treated as credible those statements which the other informants did not necessarily confirm in their “reflective preparation of isolated events” but which they did not negate. I accepted or rejected individual information pertaining to events either for reasons of discretion or because it was impossible to test them, depending on my estimation of their probability or occurrence. I estimated the veracity of those individual pieces of information on the basis of what I already knew about the community of the penal institution, and whose occurrence seemed to be likely in accordance with the specific rationality functioning in the given community. This is why the estimation of the truthfulness of certain information changed during the course of my stay in the institution.

The field work of the investigator does not consist merely of collecting data. Each cognitive act should constantly be accompanied by reflection on the very nature of the cognitive process²⁵ as well as by the continual intellectual examination of the material collected and its repeated confrontation with reality.

When I left the prison and did not have to meet any staff, I wrote down the events I had noticed and remembered, at the same time putting them into order. This was like trying to fit together fragments of a mirror dropped from a great height. The comparison of the data and the attempt to embody them into a whole often revealed gaps and imperfections in the findings which, in turn, led me toward further research.

It is impossible, of course, to gather all the fragments, but as their number grows and they are assembled into matching sections, a probable picture emerges of the whole—deformed and incomplete. But it grows less so from day to day, and at a certain stage it is possible to perform a general theoretical analysis.

The fragments collected in prison, the basis of which I reconstructed a picture of social reality, originated from diverse sources: data from observation, information taken from personal history files of the inmates, documents and studies made by the prison system, interviews with prisoners and staff, and items produced by the inmates.

Undoubtedly, the place where the picture of prison reality took shape was my imagination: it was more implanted in my head than in notes. I believe that I understand it much better than I am able to express it. After all, Cicourel argues that generally we are able to understand more in comparison with that which we can formulate according to normatively (grammatically) proper rules and suitable dictionary descriptions of objects and events.²⁶ This state of affairs is inherent in the very nature of cognition which consists of understanding based on empathy for someone else’s experiences which are compared with our own. If one were to characterize the process of understanding according to Dilthey, then this is a certain ability to evoke in oneself a recreative experience, to put oneself in the situation of the subject, to accept and acknowledge the obviousness of his order of values.²⁷ The outcome of such research is always expressed in the investigator’s particular subjective categories.

The Organizational-Technical Aspects of Investigations

Unfortunately, it was possible to make only a few on-the-spot notes from interviews and observations. Noting anything down in the presence of the inmates made them unwilling to continue talking and gave rise to fears that the notes could be used for something else. I never tried to take notes in front of the functionaries, and as a rule I prepared notes in my quarters in the evening, when I was no longer constrained by someone else’s presence. The suspicions of the persons under examination and the anxiety not to act to their own detriment by talking with me were ever present and revealed whenever I tried to note down something or when I wanted to obtain more details about the subject. They unwillingly related personal information, and the interview usually ended in a fiasco. I therefore stopped trying to identify the subjects in that way. I recognized almost all of them by sight but rarely knew their names or anything at all about them. Even after starting to use the familiar “you,” we addressed each other without knowing each other’s Christian names. The majority of my informants were, therefore, anonymous sources of information which I would note down without associating it with its author.

I recognized those persons and talked to them in various places: at work and in school, in the cells, recreation hall, corridors, courtyard, outside the prison, in the homes of functionaries, in a restaurant, or while fishing. These conversations lasted for a few minutes or several hours. I talked with persons whom I knew more closely for a few hours every day. Others I saw more rarely. There were also people with whom I conversed only once for a short period of time.

Sometimes the conversations were held with a large group of inmates or functionaries. Although I spoke with them I did not know them previously nor did I remember them later. But they, as a rule, remembered me, and then it seemed that strangers greeted me and talked with me as if I were their close acquaintance. The actual degree of close contacts with my informants thus varied. The contacts ranged from being told family secrets and asked, for example, to mediate in marriage problems or sharing the most intimate thoughts and problems (e.g., homosexual inclinations among the prisoners), to very superficial and formal ones. I tried to make these contacts as varied as possible—I talked with prison functionaries of different ranks and duties, from all age groups, and with inmates of different ages, employment, quarters, and position in the informal structure.

The prisoners whom I contacted were predominantly selected at random for parallel research with the aid of a questionnaire, and those who held different ancillary functions in the prison administration and to whom access was easiest. As for the functionaries, my contacts were primarily those responsible for the organization and course of my investigations, i. e., mainly the counselors and guards. Through them I became acquainted with the remaining functionaries and employees of other departments of the prison staff.

As a result of the way I worked in the penal institutions I was unable to calculate precisely the number of people with whom I talked. In institution A I met about 300 prisoners—30 percent of the total number of inmates, and 40 functionaries. In B I talked with about 200 prisoners—14 percent of the population—and about 25 functionaries, and in C—with 80 prisoners—that is 9 percent of the total number—and 25 functionaries.

I usually spent from six to ten hours daily in the given prison and met its staff members outside the institution. Whenever there was an opportunity I collected and photographed various objects connected with prison life: items made by the prisoners, drawings, and souvenirs. Many of them I either purchased from the inmates or received as gifts because, for example, they were confiscated during a search and were to be destroyed. I was greatly assisted in this task by the students. I was also able to use a study dealing with the informal structure of the inmate community prepared by the functionaries from the institution. Finally, I became ac quainted with other documents, mainly with the personal history folders of the convicts.

I spent six weeks in institution A: four weeks at the end of January and the beginning of February 1975, and two weeks in May 1977. In institution B I worked for four weeks altogether: two weeks in July 1977, and two weeks in July 1978. In August and September 1980, I stayed for two weeks in institution C. In the course of my research, I lived in the guest rooms belonging to all three prisons.