“Orange Is the New Black”: The real story of my year in a women’s prison
The next morning I and eight other new arrivals reported for a day-long orientation session, held in the smallest of the TV rooms. Among the group was one of my roommates, a zaftig Dominican girl who was an odd combination of sulky and helpful. She had a little tattoo of a dancing Mephistopheles figure on her arm, with the letters JC. I tentatively asked her if they stood for Jesus Christ—maybe protecting her from the festive devil?
She looked at me as if I were completely insane, then rolled her eyes. “That’s my boyfriend’s initials.”