Peter Pan & Captain Hook - Riker’s Island Style
Growing up, Hook with Robin Williams and Dustin Hoffman wasn’t just a movie for me—it was a lifeline, a world where imagination battled darkness, and where good always triumphed over evil. Lines like “Lookie, lookie, I’ve got a hookie,” and the unforgettable chant of “Roofio, Roofio, Roof-i-ooo!” echo in my mind, stirring up nostalgia and a rush of endorphins even now. Whenever I ask fellow inmates, “If you were doing life in solitary confinement and could take just one movie with you, what would it be?” my answer is always Hook. Maybe it always will be. What would yours be? Drop it in the comments below.
Stepping into jail for the first time is a jarring experience, but nothing compares to the nightmare of landing on Riker’s Island—a place so broken it feels like it’s in a state of perpetual collapse. The infrastructure is crumbling, the air conditioning barely works, and in a dorm crammed with 80 inmates, only 2 out of 6 showers dribble water, and just 1 out of 3 toilets works. But the worst part isn’t the decay—it’s the intake process. In a well-run facility, you’d be assessed and classified, with violent offenders separated from petty criminals. Not on Riker’s. Here, you’re thrown into a holding tank that quickly becomes a pressure cooker, filling with 40-plus men in a 15 by 20-foot cell. After days of this, you’re all dumped into a dorm already packed with inmates, and what follows is a recipe for chaos.
I’ve always leaned on my faith to guide me through dark times. At Riker’s, I’d read the Bible, craft rosaries, and encourage others to join me in spiritual reflection. The prison offered Catholic and Muslim services, but little else, so I made my own space for prayer. One afternoon, as I was deep into making a rosary, a towering inmate named Melo caught my eye and beckoned me over to his bunk. Everything about Melo screamed danger—his face was a roadmap of scars, his teeth were almost non-existent, and his reputation as a killer was known throughout the dorm. He’d spent most of his time in isolation and made it clear to everyone that this was his first taste of general population in a long time.
As I approached Melo’s bunk, every instinct told me to turn and run, but there was no escaping the situation. He commanded me to sit on the bunk opposite him, so I sat, trying to mask my fear with a casual “What’s up, man?” Melo’s response was a slow, deliberate lift of his mattress, revealing a shank—a crude, deadly blade crafted within the prison walls. My heart pounded as he explained what he wanted: a custom handle for his weapon, made with the same skill I used to craft my rosaries. The room seemed to shrink as I weighed my options. I could agree, make a powerful ally in this dangerous place—or I could refuse, trusting in my faith rather than in fear.
My decision came in a rush of clarity. “Sorry, man, I can’t help you,” I said firmly, pointing to the surveillance camera as my excuse. “I can’t touch that.” Melo’s eyes narrowed in disbelief and rage, but I stood and walked back to my bunk, feeling his gaze bore into my back. When I dared to glance over, he was gripping the shank tightly, his face twisted with anger. I had just made an enemy.
That night, as I lay in bed, I felt Melo’s presence long before I saw him. He was pacing the floor, huffing like a predator on the hunt, his fists clenched, eyes locked on me. My heart raced as he shadowboxed, each swing punctuated by the heavy thud of his fists against the air. Fear gripped me tighter than any shank could. I prayed, pleading for protection, and finally, exhausted by fear, I fell asleep.
A few hours later, chaos erupted in the dorm. A porter’s furious voice sliced through the night: “Who the F took a shit in the toilet and didn’t flush it?” Accusations flew, and fingers pointed to a short, overly friendly Dominican named Sunny. Sunny had introduced himself to me and everyone else as the guy who could get you anything—tobacco, weed, spice, you name it. Despite his business, Sunny had a positive energy, and I’d been encouraging him to come to church. Naively, I thought he was making progress. Little did I know he was using pages from my Bible to roll his joints.
Melo, still seething from my refusal earlier, saw his opportunity. The porter enlisted him to deal with Sunny, and Melo didn’t hesitate. He stormed to his bunk, retrieved his shank, and marched towards Sunny’s bed with murderous intent. The dorm fell into a tense silence, everyone watching, waiting for the inevitable violence. Melo grunted at Sunny to get up, and when Sunny opened his eyes to see Melo standing over him with a shank, he did something that stunned us all. With a calm that defied the situation, Sunny rolled out of bed and reached under his mattress. When he stood, he held an 18-inch machete blade.
In an instant, the dorm transformed into a battleground. Melo, the ruthless killer, swung his shank, but Sunny, the underestimated underdog, parried with his massive blade. It was like Peter Pan versus Captain Hook—only this time, the stakes were real, and the good guy had the upper hand. Melo quickly realized he was outmatched. His shank was no match for Sunny’s improvised machete. He turned and ran, with Sunny hot on his heels, swinging his blade as they tore through the dorm and into the day room. The dorm erupted into chaos as everyone scrambled to stay out of their way.
When the goon squad—the prison’s riot crew—finally stormed in, the fight was over. They hauled Melo off to solitary, and just like that, the dorm was calm again. I approached Sunny afterward, amazed to find him completely unharmed. I had to know—where did he get that machete? He grinned and told me, “Today at church.” I blinked in disbelief. Seeing my confusion, he explained that as we passed through the metal detectors, he’d noticed a piece of the detector coming loose. He broke it off, crafted it into a weapon, and hid it under his mattress.
Sunny then looked at me with a seriousness that caught me off guard. “Thanks for inviting me to church today. I was meant to go. I was protected.” I smiled, keeping to myself the prayer I had whispered just a few hours earlier. In that moment, it was clear—we were both protected. Not by our own hands, but by something greater.
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