Why? How Perpetrators of Male-Male Homicide Explain the Crime

Explanatory narratives: locus, agency and change

The homicide itself was a central theme in the stories of the interviewed men. Nonetheless, the presence of this event in the narratives did not necessarily imply that it was presented as a biographical turning-point. The significance given to the homicide could be interpreted in accordance with the situated nature of the interviews in prisons: men were compelled to talk about their crime and about their lives (Presser, 2009). Homicide and violence are topics ‘to be addressed’ and talked about. Thus, the vocabulary of motives (Wright Mills, 1940) was a key aspect to understand that the explanations provided are social actions.

Two dimensions were recurrent in the interviews and were used to typify the narratives: locus of explanation, and notions of agency and change. The locus of explanation was the main aspect stressed by the actor to account for the homicide. In practical terms, this element was defined as the topic that ‘structured’ the plot and made it coherent (Schütze, 2008). The notions of agency and change were cross-cutting themes in their stories. Were the protagonists of the narratives able to influence other people and decide on their own pathways? In their stories, could they make decisions during confrontations? Were they the active protagonist or a victim of circumstance?

Eight narratives were identified using the two dimensions (see Table 1). For naming the narratives, the prevalent emic terms employed by the interviewees (‘rebel’, ‘victims’, etc.) were used, as well as an analytical concept that best described the ideal type (active redemption, fatalism, etc.).

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Table 1.

Typology of explanatory narratives about homicides, based on explanatory locus, and notions of agency and change.

Explanatory Locus		Notions of Agency and Change
		Capacity/potency emphasised	Lack of capacity/potency emphasises
Individual	Self-internal	‘Rebel’ or active redemption	‘Affected’ or passive redemption
	Victim or ‘the other one’ – external	‘Idiot’ or vindictive	‘Either he or me’ or impasse
Collective	Family	-	‘Repeating the story’ or familiar trap
	Group of peers	‘Gang’ or complicity	‘Betrayed’ or veiled truth
	Society	-	‘Victim’ or fatalism

The following sections present each narrative by highlighting the main analytical features, exemplified with biographical cases. Each individual person predominantly used one narrative, yet they also used other types depending on the aspects discussed during each conversation. Thus, the narratives are interpreted as scripts at hand dependent on the situational context (Atkinson & Silverman, 1997), rather than fixed discourses for each actor.

‘Rebels’ or active redemption

The narrative of ‘rebels’ implies stories that combine two elements: the emphasis on the agent himself and a depiction of full agency (Fleetwood, 2016). In this ideal type, the narrative self and the protagonist of the story are characterised by a shift: from a rebellious self who killed to a reformed present self. As Bruner (2002, pp. 93–94) points out, providing explanations automatically creates the opportunity to pronounce oneself as different from what one was before. However, the narrative of rebels is not a complete reform narrative (Presser, 2008), as the perpetrator shows continuities between the past and narrating self.

Four main characteristics were identified. First, this narrative highlights the skills and abilities of the actor: these stories are defined by explaining the homicide in terms of biographical choices and awareness of the circumstances. Being a ‘rebel’, a ‘macho’, a ‘poronga’ (hotshot) is used as a way of accounting for the homicide and, at the same time, a presentation of a strong self. This portrayal is linked both to identity and gender practices in their life course and in the interview (Flood, 2013), as well as folk theories about personality and character (Jarman, 2019).

Second, the fact that this narrative was not limited to men from marginalised neighbourhoods suggests that rebel stories are shared with other socioeconomic sectors, acquiring specific categories and rationalities within each social group.

Third, this narrative shows the weight of institutional discourses that focus the gaze on the agent and his actions, limiting contextualised interpretations of biographies. While interviewees employing this narrative mention actors, contexts and relationships that influence violence, these external aspects are underestimated.

Finally, this narrative does not imply a differentiation between life before and after the homicide (thus, it does not mark a turning-point). This feature contrasts with other explanations, in which the narrative distance – or distinction between the current and past self (Linde, 1993) – was emphasised and interviewees distanced themselves from their previous self through a reform.

Damian illustrates this narrative. He was born and raised in a wealthy neighbourhood of Buenos Aires and, after ‘rebelling’ against his family, started robbing with a group of peers. At age 20, he killed another man with whom he had a long-standing conflict. Damian described his life and the homicide itself in terms of being a rebel: he explained his pathway to delinquency as a means to turn against his relatives and neighbours’ ‘standards’.

I’ve always been against the rules of society. My parents raised me in a very posh way, in a very exclusive part of the city. (…). I think I was against their standards, and those of my classmates at school, and their families. (...). They all wanted me to have a normal life, like theirs. Study, graduate, marry, have blond children. (...). I ended up hanging out with guys from other neighbourhoods (...). I didn’t want to be like all those right-wing idiots. So, I rebelled. And ended up in a different place, following my own rules. That’s how I ended up here (Damian, 40 years old).

In his story, Damian framed the conversation in the dyad normality–abnormality, which was a frequent resource in storytelling. The disruptive element that triggered a turning-point in the life was his own decision to pursue a different goal from that of his family. ‘Rebelling’ (‘derailing’, ‘drifting’, ‘growing up’, among other expressions used) was the main way to explain a new self.

In the interviews, Damian stressed that life changes were rooted in individual aspects (‘calls for attention’, ‘nonconformity’) and he relates them to the homicide itself. Decisions are, for him, the main way to explain his life course.

Ultimately, I have to assume my [stresses ‘my’] responsibility for what I did. I mean, I screwed up back then, as a kid, and now I have to get back on track. I can’t blame others for it. (…). I got into it, and I have to get out of it (Damian, 40 years old).

‘Take the blame’ and ‘accept responsibility’ were terms used by men who employed an active redemption narrative and, thus, show the duality of the rebel account: if homicide is the result of an individual decision, redemption is equally pursued by the agents. Furthermore, not being able to ‘blame others for it’ reinforces presenting oneself independently from others.

‘Affected’ or passive redemption

Not all narrators who focused the explanation on themselves presented as individuals with capacity to intervene in their context. The narrative of the ‘affected’ is characterised by focusing on the conditioned self of the actor. The factors that constrain the protagonist vary according to the thematisations and the discourses that shape their story. Regardless of these variations, two common characteristics remained constant. First, the narrative marks a characteristic (structural or circumstantial) of the actor as the main locus on which the explanation is presented – this limits the agency of the protagonist. These stories can take the form of stability (‘I was always like this’) or elastic narratives (‘it was something of the moment, but I am different’) (Presser, 2008). Second, given the lack of agency, this narrative tends to deny the actor’s responsibility (Sykes & Matza, 1957) as a way of neutralising the homicide.

One variation of this plot is the use of psychological labels to refer to a problematic self, understating the social contexts of the actors. This medicalised narrative has different variations, depending on the stability of the story. A first form is characterised by narrating a turning-point around the process of labelling or identification with an expert category. A second form employs a stability story, in which the label does not produce a narrative inflection or distancing between the present self and the past. Both types of the narrative illustrate the active role of the interviewees in storytelling and in the articulation of biographical elements and expert knowledge to present themselves.

The labels (‘trauma’, ‘borderline personality disorder’, ‘antisocial behaviour’) are not structuring categories of the stories: they are used at specific moments in the stories. Unlike being a ‘rebel’, for example, being ‘border’ or ‘bipolar’ is used with finesse in certain moments of the accounts.

John presented himself as ‘a border’ (i.e. with borderline personality disorder). He was 39 years old in the first interview and had been in prison for 5 years, after stabbing a neighbour who had flirted with his wife.

I was really out of control back then. I mean, really, really messed up here [points vigorously at his head]. Nowadays I understand that a lot of things are out of my control, because you are as you are. Some people call them crazy [air quotes] or that there’s something wrong with their personality…or something. But it’s not that simple. Most men here [in prison] stole or were drug dealers, because they came from the slums. They didn’t have much choice. But fights are not always calculated, chosen. Choice is a loaded word, because one decides, but what if one is not fully aware of it? (...). There are names for how we are. (...). I have personality issues and…what it’s known as border personality. That’s why I told you that one is not always in control and that some of the things that one fucks up are a result of this condition. (...). I’m affected [afectado] by it. (...). And I don’t intend to wash my hands by saying this. Having a psychological problem might be the main issue, you know? (John, 39 years old).

John’s interview has several noteworthy aspects. First, the problematic self is directly treated with biomedical labels. The use and redefinition of technical terms to explain past behaviour has not only been found as an effect on professional discourses, but also as a way that offenders have to appropriate these narratives (Epele, 2019; Harding, Dobson, Wyse, & Morenoff, 2017Harding et al., 2017). Second, this medicalised form of redemption distinctively indicates a turning-point or self-fulfilment (Scott & Lyman, 1968) in their life, revolving around the identification with the expert label (‘now I understand’).

It was like he was teasing me and I snapped, but I didn’t mean to hurt him really. I felt I was out of control, by anger. (...). I think if I would have controlled myself [long pause]. Or if it didn’t… I could have just scared him, cut him, slash him, but not what I did. (...). I felt something here [points at this stomach] that made me lose it. But now I know (John, 39 years old).

Describing hypothetical scenarios was a relevant element in John’s interviews, as well as in other redemption stories. In contrast with what occurred, what could have happened serves as an evaluation: denials, modal verbs, future tenses and comparison allowed a distinction between past and present self (Labov, 1982, p. 226). By distinguishing past from counterfactual situations, John frames his field of action: the dilemma was not about the aggression itself, but its intensity. ‘Scare him’, ‘cut him’, ‘slash him’ are not disputable or regrettable actions in his presentation – the aggression itself is not problematic.

A different variation of passive redemption takes the form of a stability narrative, in which the label used does not indicate narrative distance between past and present self. August exemplifies this by saying that therapy ‘opened his eyes’. He was incarcerated at the age of 28, after shooting a neighbour who owed him money.

My psychologist told me this clever thing, that made me click. My mom wanted to abort me. When I was in her womb, but she didn’t succeed. My uncle told me. (...). She lost a lot of opportunities: work, education, a proper life. And the thing is that every time I was about to do something good with my life, I aborted it [emphasises]. I quitted jobs, dropped out of school (...), repeating the same cycle. And when I went crazy and that’s when it [the homicide] happened. (...). Talking to the psychologist opened my eyes, because I know myself better now. (...). This trauma will not disappear. It’s just how I am (August, 29 years old).

In his story, August maintained a stable self: interpreting his life in light of the ‘trauma’ does not entail a change in who he is, but rather implies a reinterpretation of this life. Other affected narratives include the use of alcohol and drugs: the reduced agency of the protagonists was tied to a situational external factor, yet the self remains invariant throughout the stories (Presser, 2008).

‘Idiot’ or vindication

Perpetrators who used the vindictive narrative emphasised that actions or characteristics of the victim initiated, allowed or justified their own aggression. Simultaneously, they described themselves as capable actors with a morally sound reaction to what had happened.

This narrative has three common characteristics. First, unlike other narratives, biographical backgrounds are not mentioned to explain the homicide. In some cases, the setting becomes relevant, but in most stories the actions of the victim were highlighted. Vindictive narratives do not emphasise a heroic struggle (Presser, 2008), moral dilemma (Adshead & Ferrito, 2015) or the context of the crime. Second, contrasting with stories of reform or redemption (in which the actor describes going through changes), the difference between the past self and the narrator is not stressed. In the unchanged self, the turning-points are not linked to the homicide. Finally, victim blaming predominates in these explanations. Accounts (accepting responsibility, but not considering the action as morally reprehensible) and excuses (for which responsibility is minimised) (Scott & Lyman, 1968) are vital resources for those who narrate stories with this structure.

Nicholas was 20 years old in the first interview and had killed a friend from his gang 11 months prior. After robbing a bar, Nicholas and his friend fought over sharing the profits and Nicholas shot him point-blank. For him, ‘settling the score’ was a valid response to this transgression.

We just barely escaped from the cops! And we knew each other very well, since we were kids. (...). But then that happened [the homicide]. He tried to outsmart me and he screwed up. What did he think? He was an idiot. (...). He wanted to take my share and Marco’s. So I had to put him in his place. (...). The situation went south for him, because he didn’t know how to behave (Nicholas, 20 years old).

Nicholas illustrates a key aspect of the vindication narrative: blame is places on the actions of other actors who operate wrongfully – although this wrongdoing varies according to different rationalities. The problematic other (‘idiot’, ‘not knowing how to behave’) can be thematised in different ways: not cooperating (Kessler, 2010, pp. 122–123), defying honour (Tomsen & Gadd, 2019) or being problematic (Polk, 1999). The locus is invariantly the other.

Compared to the other narratives, this one stands out for the identification between the self and the violence without compromising their self. Being an aggressor can be a successful presentation in the context of the interview (Baird, 2019).

‘Either him or me’ or impasse

The impasse – or the impossibility of finding an alternative resolution – is a way of explaining the homicide by emphasising the situational circumstances and the aggressiveness of the rival. This narrative has two main characteristics. First, homicide is narrated as the result of an exceptional situation, in which the protagonist does not find an alternative to resolve the conflict. This narrative contrasts with other stories, in which choices are identified, but imply a moral or material cost to the protagonist.

Second, violence is not described positively, linked to prestige, or vindicated in the presentation of the self. However, it appears as a given and logical resource to be used, despite the exceptional nature of the situation.

Mark was 29 when he killed his former girlfriend’s ex-partner. The unexpectedness of the confrontation was a key element and a distinctive feature of this trope.

We had just been to the beach with the child [he and his girlfriend] and we had the most unbelievable fight, right there, in the bus stop. She thought that I had hit her kid, but I didn’t. She was delusional, you know? (...). So, when I got back to my place, I was very devastated: I spent all the night on the route, awake. And her ex was there, waiting for me. Actually, I realised he was he just after the…what happened. I thought he was just a thief, who was trying to rob me. (...). He attacked me, and a woman was yelling: ‘Kill the fucker!’. She was her girl, then I realised. (...). He was a beast and he wasn’t going to stop. I guess he thought I attacked his kid. And there was no way to talk him out. It was truly him or me. (…) And then I obviously grabbed my gun (Mark, 32 years old).

Mark presented the fight as disjointed from his biography. He does not identify as a delinquent, a ‘lowlife’, a ‘drifter’, as other men did. This presentation differs from cases in which violence was linked to neighbourhood dynamics (Auyero, Bourgois, & Scheper-Hughes, 2015; Auyero et al., 2015) or criminal trajectories (Baird, 2019). Violence was not justified or experienced as self-righteous (Katz, 1988), but presented as a last resource.

The dichotomy He–I was a common theme in the interviews. In this narrative, this topic structures the description of the homicide, framed as a situation without alternatives. In Mark’s case, having a gun at the time of the incident and presenting its use as ‘obvious’ shows how some plots actively construct taken-for-granted topics, by selecting and excluding elements (Zerubavel, 2018, p. 3). Mark did not explain why he was carrying a gun and, similarly, other interviewees deemed irrelevant other elements of their stories. The practical know-how about guns and physical confrontations is presented, predominantly, as a tacit knowledge, owing to the norms of focusing (Zerubavel, 2006, p. 23) that turn irrelevant or politically incorrect certain aspects of the narratives.

‘Repeating the story’ or familiar trap

‘Repeating the story’ is a narrative in which the story focuses on the narrator’s family, acquaintances or neighbours. These actors were mentioned to describe feeling ‘locked-up’ in the circumstances that led to the homicide. The actor’s lack of agency is used to account for the homicide and, thus, they present themselves as ‘repeating the history’ of other actors.

Making decisions and escaping from adverse circumstances were unlikely opportunities in their stories. Change or choice are linked with the idea that social bonds prescribe their pathways (‘tied’, ‘trapped’, ‘doomed from the cradle’), implying that their lives reproduce a previously established life course.

Like any narrative, this one presents nuances in the different stories. Some men referred to their family as the main locus, thus placing the responsibility of their crime on their upbringing. Other men referred to violent neighbourhood dynamics. Despite the variations, these men accounted for the homicide by stressing contextual aspects of their life.

Peter explained that the homicide was mainly linked to his family’s dynamic. He was 18 when he shot the next-door neighbour, who had entered his house in an attempt to rob them. The relationship with his relatives, his own personal goals and his scope of action are key elements in his account.

Where should I start? My family… my family is really messed up, let’s say. (...). I live, lived with them, with my mom, dad and brothers. But… in… in 2005 my father was arrested. And then in 2009 he was arrested again, this time for dealing big guns. And then my parents split. (...). I kept on living in that same house, kept going to school, I didn’t do drugs or anything like that, because… [weeps] I didn’t want to be like them. (...). When Matías [the neighbour] stormed in, it was a shock. We spend our childhood together. He was fucking wasted. (...). He was about to shoot my little sister, and I shot him with my brother’s shotgun. (...). It was even the first time I shot. (…). I ended up repeating my family’s history [weeps]... and I tried so hard to steer clear of all that shit (Peter, 18 years old).

Peter’s story is marked by his family’s illicit practices and close contact with the penal system. The relevance of family’s dynamics was systematically indicated by several tropes: ‘burden the load of my parents’, ‘they have drawn the line’ or ‘feeling doomed’.

The overall tone of the interviews (emphasis, nervousness, physical reactions) contributed to the understanding of the plot (Gadd, 2004). In contrast to active redemption, in which the protagonists decide and choose, men who used the familiar trap narrative presented the homicide as an unwanted and unavoidable consequence of their social environment. The conversation with Peter was marked with silences, stutters and weeping: these speech marks were not merely narrative debris (McKendy, 2006), but a bodily experience of the narrative itself.

The focus on the family included two elements: the perceived limits to the action (‘they ruined my life’) and the futile attempts to redirect his own life course (‘I tried’). The distinctive aspect of this narrative is the tension between feeling conditioned and the low or non-existent agency for an alternative action.

‘Gang’ or complicity

The narrative of complicity is an explanation focused on peer networks and their role in shaping actions. In spite of this focus, the protagonists have capacity to decide regarding their own lives: thus, protagonist and peers are complicit in the performance of violence.

A first distinctive characteristic is that this narrative is intertwined with prevalent discourses in the neighbourhoods, penal devices and a range of social, cultural and psychological theories. There is a long-standing tradition in criminology, social and human sciences of analysing the role of peer groups in the performance of violence (Bottoms, 2006; Downes & Rock, 2016). Therefore, the use of this narrative should be understood as the skilled use that interviewees have on hegemonic discourses about violence.

A second characteristic is that this narrative implies that the accounts are framed in terms of other social actors (Turner, 1999). The comparison of the protagonist with peers, as negative references, is used to rationalise homicide and to differentiate narrator, peers and the general context of violence. Unlike the rebel narrative, in which the protagonist suffered a moral decay (Presser, 2008), this narrative stresses the problematic aspect of peers.

Finally, the complicity narrative highlights the role of the peers in guiding violence, although it acknowledges the narrator’s own interests. This aspect differentiates it from the rebel stories, in which the protagonist’s actions are solely emphasised.

Sandro used this plot to explain how the homicide was related to his friends and his biographical moment. He was 19 years old when he shot at a member of a rival gang in the shantytown, in the midst of a shoot-out. In his ‘derailing’ process, the role of the ‘gang’ occupied a key position in this account.

When I split up with my girl, everything changed, because we used to spend so much time together. But when we broke up, I started hanging out with the guys, started clubbing, and started derailing [descarrilar]. And it ended badly. But it was not like they forced me. No. But hanging out with them changed my life. (...). I… I was trying to be a grown man, have it all, have money and do whatever I wanted. So, it took me to that path, but because I wanted that. (…). I wanted to be a grown man, like the other guys, who had money and clothes. Nobody told them what to do. (...). What happened to Thomas [the victim], I saw it coming, but I kept on going. If I didn’t stop, I’d have been killed or I would have killed someone (Sandro, 23 years old).

Being ‘a grown man’ was a common theme with younger men from marginalised neighbourhoods, who described ‘derailing’ or a drift (Matza, 1969). For Sandro, separating and starting new friendships marked an existential crossroad. Moreover, ‘being a grown man’ was linked to the access to money, crime and guns, showing the relevance of the material dimension in subjective processes revolving around masculinity and violence (Auyero et al., 2015).

By linking the drifting process to the homicide, Sandro showed the vicissitudes of explaining violence in relation to peers: the focus on his new friends is associated with his active research of respect. Sandro sheds some light on the intersection between ‘them’ (gang) and the ‘I’ (protagonist) by means of decisions. Since conflict is a constant aspect in storytelling (Gergen, 1971), in the complicity narrative struggle is mainly explained by referencing the practices of the group of peers and the own decision to be a part of it.

‘Betrayed’ or veiled truth

The narrative of the ‘betrayed’ was presented by men who focused on the relevance of the group of peers and, unlike the complicity narrative, did not present themselves as having influence on their environment. The protagonists of these stories lack agency, due to the veiled intentions of others.

Two main characteristics were identified. First, peers were focused on to explain the event. This plot is structured by a comparison between the protagonist and others who are morally worse (Fox, 1999). Although the comparison is a constitutive process of the narrative configuration of identity (Turner, 1999), in this story it acquires a specific meaning related to the intentionality of the peers: by focusing on the lack of agency of the protagonist, the peers’ influence is highlighted. Therefore, this narrative could be associated with peer pressure stories in general.

Second, the protagonist is presented as essentially good (Presser, 2004). In the complicity narrative, the narrators emphasised their interest in belonging to a deviant group. Conversely in this narrative the desire to belong to a group is not included as an explanatory factor. The concealed actions of actors are more relevant than the decisions and awareness of the protagonist. Hence, the arc of these explanations tends to be of stability of the self or dynastic (Hankiss, 1981): there is no moral decay or transformation of the protagonist. As Maruna puts it, ‘the crime came from the outside, not from within’ (2001, p. 93).

Jack introduced himself as being ‘fooled’ by his high-school friends. The homicide took place when a classmate asked him to ‘stand by him’ and defend him from his girlfriend’s ex-partner.

His girlfriend was having issues with this guy, who was the father of her son. My friend was dating her and he was suspicious that this ex-boyfriend of hers was harassing her. And he asked me to help him, because this guy had threatened him with a hammer. (...). So, we went there, backing him up, some friends and I, and the fight started. (...). I had been at school, like two hours before, and I thought I was helping him. (...). Turns out it was all bullshit! We came to the ex-boyfriend’s house, and a fight started. I found that months later, when the trial started, that my friend was threatening the guy. And I was the idiot, the scapegoat who got fucked for this. I was naive back then, an idiot (...). I used to believe in friendship back then. And look where it drove me. (...). I had never got into trouble, never had a gun. And all of a sudden, because I was betrayed, I ended up here (Jack, 29 years old).

Jack employed this narrative, framing it in the context of interpersonal conflicts and, by doing so, he highlights three aspects. First, the relevance of loyalty served as a motive for the protagonist’s action (Schutz, 1967). ‘Backing up’ the friend was an honourable and expected action. Second, by describing himself as ‘naïve’ and an ‘idiot’, Jack not only marks narrative distance with this past self (a new, wiser self, vs. an inexperienced, gullible past), but rationalises the loyalty system. Third, Jack stresses a biographical rupture when the truth is unveiled, illustrating a major feature of this plot: violence might be the consequence of other actors’ courses of action.

By using this narrative, Jack focuses on how his friend managed the true conflict and limited his knowledge of the situation. The protagonists of these stories are deceived and their drivers are presented as morally sound. Secrets, deception and treason were common elements in these stories. Therefore, the underpinning logic of these accounts focuses on positioning the agency in ‘others’ who have control over the situational dynamic.

‘Victim’ or fatalism

The ‘victim’ is a narrative which excludes all agency from the protagonists: the homicide was the product of a ‘society’, as one of the interviewees pointed out, that misguided them. This narrative adopts themes of helplessness and lack of opportunities, in an overwhelming context.

The main characteristic of this narrative is the convergence of different lay theories in which a context frames the homicide, varying from a larger to a smaller scale. These theories articulate ideas about social exclusion, lack of access to education, economic marginalisation and even masculinity. Unlike the general explanatory patterns in which the incident is decontextualised (Hearn, 1998, p. 104), here homicide is lost in macro societal processes. A second characteristic is that the protagonists’ possibilities of change are linked to structural situations: subjective transformation is only possible if contextual change occurs. Consequently, this narrative resembles a fatalistic understanding of violence and, thus, the narrators blur the boundaries between their actions and the violence suffered.

Dogo presented himself as the victim of a society that did not provide opportunities for him. He was born in a shantytown and his family suffered severe economic hardships. After leaving his mother’s house at 15, he worked as a ‘trapito’, taking care of parked cars on the street. At the age of 28, he got in a fight with another car keeper and he stabbed him with a broken bottle.

Where should I start? Eh, because… I can tell you what happened, why I’m here. Well, you know that. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. My life was the worst thing you could imagine and everything that happened, everything that society made me, drove me here, you know? We are all victims here. Well, not all, but many are: victims of not having an opportunity, penniless, being treated as negritos [niggers] (Dogo, 34 years old).

Negotiating the frame of the interview (Flood, 2013) was a particularly relevant aspect of some interviews. As Dogo stated in the first interview, where and how to start the life story were structuring elements of their narratives. In his introduction, he presented the homicide from a fatalist logic: the adverse experiences he suffered led him to the ‘incident’. Social exclusion, discrimination and racialisation are presented as processes that define the life story: these circumstances not only contribute to the understanding of homicide, but also to the reason why these men accepted participating in the study (McBeth, 1993).

When I asked him why he had chosen that pseudonym, Dogo mentioned how adversities shaped him and his worldview.

People call me Dogo, because there’s a god, the Argentine Dogo. I’m like those: if life, cops and people gives me a hard time, I’ll keep on going. I’ll stay alive, eating whatever I can, like a dog. (...). If I would have had an education, or a family, I could probably be a doctor, have my own business. That’s why, when the guy died, or ambushed. Society doesn’t give us respite (Dogo, 34 years old).

Dogo explored two main themes: being a victim and being strong. The Dogo is used as an ambivalent figure: victim of the context and simultaneously resilient. By guiding the conversation towards his victimisation, he emphasised his limited agency and the ‘structure’ as responsible for his actions. The self-identification as a chronic victim serves as a resource to distance himself from a villain plot. Moreover, this trope enables a positive presentation, by describing honour and pride in ‘resisting’.

Other men employed this narrative with other thematisations. For instance, Howard talked about being raised in a male-chauvinistic context, which forced him to use physical violence to deal with interpersonal conflict. The use of the victim narrative in relation to gender relationships not only shows the advance of feminists discourses in Argentina, but also the recursive use men have of these terms in prisons (Di Marco & Evans, 2020; Oddone, 2020). This narrative illustrates the use that men give to prevalent discourses to form a story useful to rationalise their action and present themselves in a politically correct manner.