That he even said it told Cal that it was true; this was a serious moment. This was the second one in a string of deflections and wisecracking, and he'd be a fool to ignore it. "No, I did a few times," Cal admitted, slipping his glasses off and idly cleaning the lenses on his shirt sleeve. "Yeah, college had some rough times to it for sure. I was a scholarship case, and there were some folks 'round there who thought that meant all I could do was play ball. Small minds, you know? Seein' something new and decidin' it's not worth processing, so they fall back on hate."
He had a slight hesitance, though, a deliberate and careful selection of wording that said that maybe it had bothered him more than he let on. "Med school was a different story, man. You didn't get in without the grades, and you didn't last without the guts, no pun intended," he said with a laugh. "But prison? Hell, don't think I got called 'house nigger' as much in my whole life as I did in my first month there. Guards told me every dude with more than a tan heard the same shit, and from what I saw? When you're in a cage all you can do is throw stuff out."
Still, Cal was thoughtful before he spoke again. "I wish I knew, man, I really do. Maybe someone lifted it off another inmate and figured they'd stash it, but I left before they could get it back. Maybe one of those cons that had it in for me figured this was better than sneakin' a shiv into the ward. I mean, people aren't born social creatures, you know? Like you said, little kids givin' you shit? Kids are basically sociopaths, they don't get the concept of ethics or conduct or even civilization yet, and inmates? Shit, lock a man up long enough and you'll strip all that away, leave behind a pissed off eight year old's mind in a four hundred pound body that's probably got a shiv, definitely has a swastika tattoo, and just decides he wants to tear you down," he rambled, nearly a rant but for his even cadence as he spoke.