MFT is back with another story from the island, and not the happy island of his namesake. This is the island written about by William Golding—Lord of the Flies. MFT’s journey from Chess 101 to Prison Grandmaster in a violent landscape is visceral, compelling, and unforgettable.  

Please be aware there are potential triggers in this story—brutality, gang dynamics, and isolation.

The Safe Move

I’ve been playing chess since I was thirteen. It was a symbol of achievement and safety for me. In junior high, at lunchtime, I’d go to the library and play chess, avoiding extra time on the schoolyard where I’d be bullied. So chess was a place where I felt safe, valued, and smart. In spite of my learning disabilities, I was good at it—not because I played from a book with someone else’s strategy, but by playing my own way. (My free-wheeling style really throws off my opponents.)

By the time I was incarcerated at age thirty, the game had become a mental anchor. At Wasco Reception, I still clung to the belief that I’d have some autonomy. I soon learned that even though I was eager to play chess, the prison system had already marked me as a pawn.

The First Gambit

My first dayroom opens up. I should be paying attention to the grouping of colors, but I only see the chessboard. Two Black guys are playing. In county jail, I was told that once you hit prison, you have to do time by convict rules. I don’t think much about those unwritten rules. I play by my rules. And right now I just want to play.

“Can I get next?”

They look bewildered. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I sit down and study their moves, unaware that the entire building is watching—not the board, but me.

The Forbidden Piece

When their game is over, I play the winner and lose. Losing doesn’t matter to me. I’m just hoping to get another game in. What does matter is a bigger tactical error—I’m not seeing the whole board that’s in play.

While waiting for my next game, I’m called over to a cell door to work out a trade, my Top Ramen for his postage stamps. I’m a new player. I don’t know that the man behind that steel door is a Fresno Bulldog. Because of his gang affiliation, the COs keep him segregated. He’s not allowed to play with us. In the eyes of the prison, he’s a forbidden piece on the board.

All of a sudden, I hear my name crackle over the loudspeaker.

“Thurman, you’re out of bounds. Get off the door and take it home.”

The Check

Back in my cell, I’m still thinking I’m only in trouble with the guards. Dayroom is about to end, and I’m waiting for my bunkie to come back and open the door so I can hand off the soups. When I see him step up to the cell, we nod at each other through the window, and I grab everything at once, stacking the Top Ramen in my arms.

The door cracks open.

For a split second, I think my bunkie’s coming in. I don’t see the Checker or the other white guys standing just outside the door.

Then the Checker pushes through. He’s the stereotypical seasoned white
convict—bald head, goatee, sleeved all up in prison tats, and full of excitement to build on his reputation.

He comes at me immediately, whaling away. I back up, trying to get my bearings. The soups slip from my arms and explode across the floor. Now I’ve got my footing. I start chunking him right back. There’s no room to move in the cell. No circling. No distance. Grappling ain’t gonna work in here. The fight is cramped and raw.

In the midst of our flying fists, the man darts out, signaling the end of the checking. I don’t yet understand that I’m being disciplined. I don’t know the protocol or the urgency to disappear before a CO notices. All I know is I want to finish what he started. His body is already halfway out of the cell. I grab him by the shoulders with both of my hands. Using all my strength, I try to pull him back in.

That’s when my bunkie and the other Whites step into the doorway, forcing space between us so the Checker can get away.

“It’s over. Let it go.”

I’m still raging. My heart is still pounding. But I stay in the cell, stomping around on the Ramen.

The Unwritten Playbook

This is my real awakening to what prison truly is.

My bunkie breaks it all down for me. In this game, White attacks White. To keep the board orderly and segregated, the harshest moves come from your own side.

“What you got was check,” he says. “Next time, it will be checkmate. Game over.”

I realize then that standing on principle without understanding the board isn’t bravery—it’s ignorance. I’m outnumbered. Nobody’s coming to make a movie about me. If I want to survive, I have to learn the unwritten playbook of prison politics.

The Master of the Player

But here’s the move I held onto—and still do.

They can control the board, but they will never indoctrinate my mind or my heart. I refused to take their tattoo medals onto my skin.[1]

I became a student of the environment. I learned how to move through prison without wasting any more of my major pieces. That understanding came after an escalation I couldn’t take back, one that sent me to the hole for two years. In isolation, I educated myself and learned how to step off the main board. When I returned, having declined my lightning bolt medal, I played differently. I played to last.

Through years of observation and strategy, I became a master of my own life. Today, I confidently play chess with whoever I want—Black, Brown,
Yellow, Red, Rainbow, those flying the primary colors, and yes, even
Whites.

Today, people don’t just see a number. They see a man who wrote his own strategy book. They study my moves not to win fights, but to learn how to become a positive force in their own lives and in the world around them.

I learned to play the board they gave me.

But I never let them own the player.

[1] Known as medals, these tattoos are earned through specific acts of violence. A lightning bolt, for instance, signifies that the wearer has stabbed someone.