120. Earning Freedom (4.1) with Michael Santos Prison Professors

I’m reading from chapter 4 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term.
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Chapter Four: 1990-1992 / Months 37-57 Contractors complete the remodel of B cellblock and I join the 600 prisoners who were confined with me in A cellblock for our relocation. It’s not far from the old housing block to the new one, just across the polished corridor. I climb the zigzagging metal staircase to the top unit, B-3 carrying all of my possessions. I have sneakers, t-shirts, sweats, khakis and toiletries bundled up and tied inside my blankets and sheets that I carry over my shoulder, like a hobo. The move lifts my spirits. It’s a fresh start in a clean, new environment. Although I’m still in the same prison, the remodel replaces the hundred-year-old decaying building with modern plumbing, working lights, and air conditioning. The remodeled B cellblock brings an upgraded quality of life, much better than I’ve known for several years, and I’m learning to appreciate these incremental improvements.
In place of the old-style cages, the new housing unit features a different design. Solid steel doors enclose rooms, side-by-side, along the outer walls of the building. Community areas include an open rectangular area the size of a basketball court that prisoners call “the flats,” located in the center, and a second-tier, mezzanine level. I smell freshly painted walls, but with costs and utility in mind, the builders left the bare concrete floors unfinished. Six single-stall showers at the far end of the unit offer an illusion of privacy. An annoying fire alarm blasts repeatedly, suggesting that contractors still haven’t finished their work. Even so, I already like B cellblock better, which is good because I expect to remain here for several more years.
Prison counselors may have additional duties but, from a prisoner’s point of view, their scope of responsibility is limited primarily to assigning work details, approving visiting lists, and assigning living quarters. I don’t expect any counseling on how to cope with the inevitability of living for multiple decades in prison. I have to adjust on my own, and from the counselor’s list, I see that my next adjustment will take place in cell 616, on the top tier.  I’m assigned to share that cell with a man in his late 30s who goes by the nickname Windward. The proper term is “room” rather than cell, as it has the steel door instead of bars. But since we’re locked in, it’s still a cell to me.
Windward is a native of Georgia and his speech has that slow southern twang, peppered with lots of “y’all’s,” that I’ve become familiar with over the past two years. Windward likes to say he is American by birth but Southern by the grace of God. He takes pride in his appearance, wearing his hair in a mullet–long in the back, feathered on top, and cut short above the ears–with long, sloping sideburns that he calls the “Georgia slant.” His mustache curves down around his mouth, and he has a habit of twirling the long ends with his fingers when he talks.
Windward served a previous prison term for drug trafficking in a Georgia State prison. With that criminal conviction on his record he couldn’t find a job, so he reverted to smuggling drugs. The Coast Guard intercepted his boat–which was loaded with 300 kilograms of cocaine–as he cruised through a channel somewhere in the Caribbean known as the Windward Passage. He pleaded guilty to an importation charge and his judge imposed a 20-year term. The name Windward became his handle. I won’t mind sharing the cell with him, as he’s not dangerous, and he’s entertaining with his tall tales about thousands of female conquests.
Coordinating a schedule in our two-man room is easier than it was in the larger cell I previously shared with five men in A cellblock. I continue to work in the factory business office, attend school, volunteer on suicid