Heterodox
One day I showed my father a copy of some tattoos from the ‘Crosses’ (solitary confinement cells), where I worked as a supervisor, and he said to me, ‘My son, collect the tattoos, the convicts’ customs, their anti-social drawings, or it will all go to the grave with them.’ He taught me the methodology for documenting prison folklore and how to encode material, which was essential to the dangerous undertaking. For thirty-three years I, a ward of a home for children of ‘enemies of the...
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