No one wants to be white in prison. My (black) drug dealer, the same one who set me up on the first dope case, told me that long ago. I’ve learned that the hard way.
On the ride in from county jail, I was the only white guy out of a dozen in the transport van. Everyone was falling asleep because we’d been awoken and placed in a holding cell at 4am, except for one loudmouth.
I kinda gleaned he was a parole violator for new federal murder charges, and seemed giddy to return to prison. It was all he knew, though just in his 30s.
Only his lackey paid much attention, if just to nod and laugh at everything he said. The PV loved to talk about prison and hype it up to the rest of us, who were all A prefixes.
At one point, he turns to me.
“Aw man, you gonna have a tough time, bro. You white and got no tattoos? Shiet, they gonna love you. Some big nigga gonna knock you out and suck yo dick.”
The van erupts in laughter. I only manage a smile or grimace or something between the two, tired, terrified, and hoping that THAT was just a joke.
(Later, I learned that it was actually a thing, although much more common in the higher levels where you’re locked in a room with one other person.)