Rise and Shine

Returning to my cell after a state breakfast

Of watery hot wheat cereal (that reminds me

Of my free-life wall paper-pasting days),

Stony cold biscuits, and salty beef bouillon gravy,

I recline on my bunk to let the heaviness settle

Before it's time to head off to my job detail.

Four words form inside my head:

I'm never going home.

 

My soul shudders with the weight of truth which tightens my heart to squeeze tears behind closed lids.

A cellmate is stirring, and the TV isn't on,

So I can't cry openly

Pretending that amped-up Ty has just cued

The deserving family to chant, "Bus driver, move that bus!"

 

Rolling to face the colorless concrete block wall,

I wad the hem of my sheet onto eye ducts

To silently absorb the grievous overflow.

 

I'm

Never

Going

Home;

I'm never going to sleep on a real-world bed

Cuddled with grandkids;

I'm never going to Mardi Gras;

I'm never going to swim in a salty ocean

Or taste kumquats;

I'm never going to hike the Appalachian Trail;

I'm

Never

Going

To.

 

Heaving pathetically I mourn my passing

For a few selfish seconds.

Time's up. Rise and shine.

Play the hand I'm dealt

(after I hide my soaked sheet corner under the pillow).

I certainly am not the first to be forever punished

for unjust cause,

and I certainly will not be the last.

 

With head down, armed with soap dish and face cloth,

I destroy the evidence

At the porcelain sink down the hall.

No one pries. It's early.

We all look weirded-out.

 

Patricia Prewitt

July 28, 2010

July 9, 2010 - “I Vas Only Following Orders”

When I was 13 and in my Ann Frank phase, my naïve mind marveled at how the young Nazi soldiers, many just boys, became capable of committing such unthinkable atrocities to their fellow human beings. How did they justify their actions? How could they hate people who had done nothing to them? How could any commander or mission force a normal person to torture and murder women, children, the elderly and, for that matter, anyone? (Colonel Klink excused his actions in a heavy comic German accent, "I vas only following orders." But I never found that funny.) As an adult those nagging questions never left me and were never answered until I became an innocent prisoner myself.

After nearly a quarter of a century of imprisonment, I've come to the conclusion that a uniform and a handbook of rules are all it takes to transform a regular Joe or Jane into a mean-spirited soldier. I observe the transformation daily. New officer trainees show up here wearing their own jeans and tee-shirts. They are shy but mannerly-the gentlemen even occasionally open doors for inmates—until they get their polyester uniform, belt with loops for mace and a radio, proper training, and a book of rules. I'm not saying that this is 100%, but a good portion of the officers then turn cold with power. Who in their right mind would begrudge anyone toilet paper?

Yesterday my brother Frank gathered up and drove our Momma and Daddy from their country home across the state to see me. They have been visiting me for over two decades, so the visiting ordeal is certainly not new to them. They do their best to make sure they wear the proper clothing—for example, no sleeveless shirts, no shorts above the knee, no skirts with side slits or kick pleats (no matter if they are long enough to drag the ground), no hats or caps, (which really burns Daddy to leave his Stetson in the car), no bracelets, no sunglasses, etc. They must also bring the vending machine money in a clear baggie with no bills greater than fives, have their driver's licenses or state ID's ready, and so on. Everything went smoothly for them until I showed up fresh from my strip search and uniform change. I hugged my wonderful "little" brother successfully briefly, but Daddy's no so easy to please. Daddy's old school. He desires (and deserves) a healthy bone-crushing bear hug—and not just from me. From everyone.

A split second after our embrace began, I heard the trio of officers screaming (literally screaming, "BRIEF! BRIEF HUG! BRIEF! BRIEF HUG!!!!!!! BRIEEEEEEEFFF!!!!!!" Fear gripped my heart but not Daddy's. He's not only nearly blind, he's about half deaf, and he was not paying them any mind at all. Daddy's a champion hugger, and he was doing what he does best: hugging. While fruitlessly struggling to release his vise grip, O ordered in his ear, "Daddy! You have to let go!" Daddy kept hugging, "I miss you too, Honey." Oy Vay!!! By this time the hug was over and I ran to Momma, gave her an extra fast hug, then threw my butt in the fourth plastic chair nervously hoping nothing more would be said which might hurt my Daddy's feelings or put my own tentative degree of freedom in jeopardy. To relieve the tension, Frank, always a joker, said something funny which caused us all to laugh. The officers momentarily forgot about the last sin and hollered at us to "HOLD IT DOWN OVER THERE OR YOUR VISIT WILL BE TERMINATED." We now were guilty of loud joy.

Later in the visit my nearly blind Daddy mistook the bucket room/broom closet for the men's room for a minute, but he got himself straightened out quick enough that they didn't yell. While at the vending machine, a little girl asked Frank a question about the sandwich machine, and of course he responded. For that polite exchange, eh was admonished, "Hey, you can't talk to other visitors."

Thank Heaven that as the day wore on more visitors showed up, so they had others at whom to yell. A sweet family of happy little kids showed up and got the brunt of the yelling, "QUIET! BE QUIET! YOU'RE DISTURBING EVERYONE!" Which was not true. We welcome the music made by children giggling. Frank got to tell me all about his beloved Cowboy Church and how he's now a pastor. I can't tell you how happy I am that he found his niche. This career is a perfect fit. We shared our favorite childhood stories, old and new jokes, and even got ourselves worked up about the tragedy and mishandling of the horrible Gulf oil catastrophe. (I refuse to call this a mere spill.) It was a great and loving day even by prison visiting room standards.

After our goodbyes (although it hurt my broken heart to do it, I hurriedly hugged Daddy so he couldn't get a good grip), Momma started in as usual about how mad she is that I can't eve come home and how something has to give, while I waved them out through the heavy steel door to the free world that I can't ever see. I was then herded through the steel door that does not lead to freedom.

After the exit strip search, the officer started in on me, "Mrs. Prewitt, hold up. I have to talk to you. You have to explain to your father that he can't hug you like that. The rules specifically state that the two hugs you can have, one at the beginning of the visit and one at the end, must be brief. If he hugs you like that again, you will get a violation." And I know it will be a violation for sexual misconduct which will result in at least 10 days in the hole. Sex with my daddy. Get real!

I started to plead and explain about my sweet, loving 86-year-old cowboy daddy and his glass eye and macular degeneration in the remaining eye and his bad hearing and that every visit could be the last time we see each other on this earth, but her stone face stopped me in my tracks. I was attempting to extract sympathy from a soldier. I nearly forgot that I am the enemy, therefore so are my loved ones. The lines were drawn on April 29, 1986. I'm on the wrong side. Ann Frank and her family received no mercy, and no mercy is exactly what I and my family also deserve. This is how people can be so cruel to their fellow human beings. Soldiers declare them enemies. Nothing is fair in war.

July 1, 2010 - Eggshells

Years ago when Food Service stopped feeding us real eggs (our eggs now come in big boil-in-bags and therefore are always served scrambled); the eggshell irony hit my funny bone. Although there will never again be any chicken-created eggshells in prison, every prison step I take is tread on the eggshells of trepidation and fear strewn by the administration, guards and rules. I am liable to get in trouble any minute of any day no matter where I go or what I do.

Last weekend I promised to work with my theatre class girls to run lines, so we all headed to Recreation with scripts in hand. Some of us were stopped, "What's there? A script? A play? Class? Well, ya can't take it to the yard. Take it back or I'm gonna write ya up." Thankfully enough of us made it through with our scripts to be able to rehearse. The others had inadvertently broken some eggshells on their walk to our meeting. There's no rhyme or reason.

Tuesday was my canteen day, so at my appointed time, I took my mesh combination laundry/canteen bag to the store and waited. After everyone was served but me, the lady asked me what I was doing. I knew this was a trick, so I carefully and politely answered, "I'm waiting to spend." She informed me curtly that my list was not there and accused, "Did you turn in a list?" It hardly seemed reasonable that I'd wait in the store line in the sun for an hour if I hadn't turned in a canteen list, but I didn't bother her with logic and simply answered, "Yes, I did."

(We are allowed to make our canteen trip only once a week on our designated day. The day before our canteen spend day, we each must fill out a form listing exactly what we want to purchase and drop this sheet of paper into a brown wooden box outside the door of our respective wing. The lists are picked up at eleven at night and transported to somewhere up in the administration area or mailroom for the canteen personnel to pick up the next day on their way to the canteen. There inmate canteen workers/pickers grab lists from the pile and fill tubs with the items on our lists. If we forget to write an item on our list, we cannot add it at the window. No mercy is the motto at canteen these days.)

The canteen supervisor eyed me dubiously, so I added, "If you look at my spend record, I haven't missed a canteen day in decades." With no hesitation, she pronounced, "Well, you can't spend this week." The COI sitting nearby added, "Now, don't have a fit. It is what it is." If she'd looked at my dropped jaw, she would have seen that I was far from the fit stage. I was in shock. I was nearly out of stamps and envelopes, had only a liver of soap in my soap dish, and dearly wanted a couple of bags of tuna to tide me over when the chow hall meals were inedible, but I simply turned and left. I knew that one word could be one too many and might crush a fragile canteen eggshell which would land me in big trouble.

When I arrived empty-bagged back on my wing, my nosy friends questioned me, and from that conversation I learned that Ruby-Doo had seen a couple of canteen sheets still in the brown box that morning and had told the officer. He simply replied that it wasn't his job. I also found out that another gal was affected too, but she was crying and nearly hysterical because has serious addictions: coffee and cigarettes.

This gal made her way back to classification to complain, but the FUM wouldn't budge. Somehow it is our fault that our particular canteen sheets were not pulled, although we did exactly what we are supposed to do—and both of us have witnesses who saw us deposit our lists. Kelly asked the FUM to roll back the tapes because everything is on camera, but he stated that occasions like that are not what the cameras are for. The tapes are to only be used against us—not to help prove our cases.

After aerobics class that night, I heard that this happened recently to several girls on another house and the officer found the sheets in the box, but the canteen still wouldn't let them spend. According to the canteen chief, the sheets must travel the prescribed course. Any deviation from that course and they are void. Anything that happens to the sheets when they are out of our sight (after we deposit them) is our fault, and any fuss we make will result in a conduct violation. Eggshells. This place is lousy with eggshells. But we have no real eggs. Don't forget that.

Monday evening after we'd performed our Prison Performing Arts play in the visiting room and had been strip searched yet again, I looked up to see the most spectacular orange and hot pink sunset shining down on me. I yelled to Megan, who was ahead of me on the walk, for her to look. She turned her head to exclaim to me about the beauty before us when three officers on break and smoking (while leaning on the building, which is against the rules) hollered nastily, "Keep moving. Face forward! Kick dust or I'll…" More eggshells.

Tuesday evening after church, I had made my way into my wing and upstairs when I passed Robin standing in the dayroom sobbing. She'd run out of toilet paper and kindly asked the officer for a roll. He'd yelled at her and refused to give her any. He told her she could only get toilet paper from the FUM, who works days. After further investigation, I found out that there had been a staff meeting that very day, and a directive came down from administration that the FUMS and officers have been too lenient with the toilet paper. By God, the three rolls issued each Thursday are to last the whole week no matter what. Robin is a mild-mannered, middle-aged lady with a bunch of health issues. That night she was also distraught at the thought of waiting at least 12 hours to pee. More eggshells. Simply because we all possess body functions that are creating a burden on the state budget.

Why not let some people go? We have a whole housing unit full of gals who are scheduled to leave within the next six months. Why wait six months? Let them go now. Trust me. Six months makes no difference in rehabilitation. We also have a population of elderly prisoners, me included. We have OG's (old gals) who are in their 60's and 70's and a few in their 80's. Good Lord! Cut us loose. None of us are going to leave prison to work at a strip joint or walk the streets. Every old lady I know has a loving family who will welcome her. But instead, Missouri locks up more women every day. When I first came to prison, there were around 150 female prisoners. Now we have over 4000. This has gotten out of hand.

And the hapless ignorant taxpayers keep paying, thinking that these thousands of thousands of prisoners are necessary evil. If prisoners were sentenced to community service, think of all the free workers the state would have. There would be no litter on the highways, public parks would be clean, e coli could be eradicated from our lakes and streams, and rest stops would be spotless. After a few years, we'd be as gorgeous as New Zealand! And community work would be a worse punishment for most lazy prisoners than a few years of laying on a bunk sleeping or zoned out on the TV. Talk would change to conversations like this: "No, John, I won't cook meth (or rob that bank or hold up that store or beat up that noisy neighbor or write that bad check or kill your wife or sell that heroin) with you because there's the possibility that I may end up cutting brush at the state park in the blazing heat with bugs biting me and poison ivy all over. My second cousin Al nearly got snake bit when he was out there on community service. That's hard work! So thanks but no thanks!"

Always eggshells.

May 12, 2010 – Up in Smoke

Yesterday after aerobics class I was in a shower happily lathering the sweat off when I heard the horribly shrill fire alarm that goes off in the rotunda. Dag-nab-it! That sound means that we must all hurry outside and lien up by wing on the basketball court—the court where no basketball can be played. Although each housing unit has a big basketball court with two opposing hoops at regulation height, these courts are only used for smoke breaks and fire drills. The only passing will be the passing of contraband and the only dribbling will be from someone's lazy lips. There will be no ball game on the asphalt court. (Don't waste brain cells pondering the insanity of that one. It's merely a prison thing.)

I yelped a warning in case the girls in the other three showers didn't hear the alarm, "Fire alarm, girls!" Watered down groans and expletives ensued. I dried quickly and rushed to wrestle on undies, tee-shirt and shorts. No article of clothing was cooperating either! Thank heaven for warm weather. I've gone out many a time with wet hair and shivered in the snow wearing only thin shower flip flops and cotton pajamas.

As I exited the shower area, I noticed that my cellmate had been cooking spaghetti noodles. She wore that Charlie Brown look of exasperation as she set her half-cooked noodles out of the microwave and abandoned them. The dripping girl behind me still had shampoo in her hair and was slip-sliding on her wet shower shoes. These come-as-you-are parties are a royal pain.

We never have a real fire. We have smoking in the bathrooms that alarms the smoke detectors. This time the upper tier of c-wing was the culprit. After we assembled in our four lines on the basketball court, a sauntering sergeant scolded us all for having the audacity to talk during this code 70. It kinda cracks me up that anyone can expect a few hundred women to travel anywhere absolutely silently. It's my opinion that expectations should be realistic, but the sergeant evidently is a dreamer. (Every time I'm in the middle of a chew-out, I flash to the scene where the wormy warden drawls to Paul Newman, "What we have here is a failure to communicate.")

Since it was time for chow to be called, we weren't in line for long before they ordered us to single-file back inside—except for the sinners, who were culled from the herd and left standing with heads bowed and tails between their legs. This morning at breakfast one of the c-wing upper gals told me that the officers gave them the blues all evening, wouldn't let them go to recreation or church, and made them all GI (scrub and scour). We are not supposed to be "mass disciplined", but regardless, it's a very common prison practice. Guards are not supposed to curse at us, but that's also a common occurrence. This is offensive to some, but I figure these people talk like that all the time, so how can they edit themselves when they are upset at us. I'm not saying I like it. I guess I've grown immune to colorful abusive language, although I can recall a time when I was horrified, too.

It's a state law that no one can smoke in a state building, but the smoke is so thick in our housing units that during peak hours clouds hang, resembling a smoky bar—a gal could choke. I've been exposed to second-hand smoke for nearly a quarter of a century and can't help but worry about the effects. We have inmates with COPD who suffer greatly from the pollution. Indoor smokers set off fire alarms at all times day and night which disrupts the prison routine and creates security risks for both inmates and staff. And even with all this, Missouri will not make their prisons smoke-free. We're one of the few remaining states who hang on to the notion that it's every smokers' right to indulge their addiction any-damn-where they please.

There are punishments for smoking inside. Stupid smokers get caught. Smart ones always have someone to stand bust for them. Many officers turn a blind eye to the smoke. They are smokers themselves and don't want to statistically prove that there is too much indoor smoking by giving tickets to indoor smokers. I've heard guards swear that if the prison becomes smoke-free that they will quit. Smoking is more important to them than their economic livelihood.

Also state law prohibits smoking within so many feet of a state building, but our staff smokes while leaning on the exterior walls and as they stroll on the sidewalks around buildings. We have picnic tables for staff right up against the housing units for staff smokers who don't have the strength to stand. Why? For the same reason inmates smoke indoors. Because they can. There is little enforcement of the state's smoking rules. And in Missouri prisons, there are absolutely no rights for those who wish to breathe clean air. Unfortunately we all have our daily intake of nicotine and poisonous gases.

Every year the rumor washes over camp that as of July 1^st, our prisons will be mandated as smoke-free. I have no idea why the date is always July 1^st, but I do know that this rumor has yet to come to fruition. Until that fateful day of decision, I will continue to shower with an ear perked to alarms and I will keep clothes handy for the middle-of-the-night drills. What's the boy scouts' motto? Ah, yes, "Be prepared."

May 11, 2010 - Tribute to Momma

Dearest Sarah,

Saturday morning, after I read my monthly StoryLink book on tape, I stopped by the chapel and joined the Residents Encounter Christ monthly fellowship service. After we'd sung some old hymns, Carlene asked if I'd say a few words about my mother. I agreed, and while we sang another song, I thought about your Grandma.

As you know, we come from country people on both sides. My mother's family lived on maybe 80 acres several miles north of the village of Lone Jack. They'd been there for several generations. Momma was born well after the first three children that Granny and Grandpa Snow brought into the world. As the story goes, at bedtime one night Grandpa suggested, "Mom, it's awful lonesome now that the kids are grown and gone. Let's have a baby." Evidently Granny agreed and at 40 years old which was nearly unheard of in those days, Granny gave birth to my mother, whose flashing brown eyes were so dark that it was said they looked like two burnt holes in a blanket. No baby was ever wanted more than this one.

I've seen the pictures and heard the stories, so I can guarantee that my mother was extraordinarily beautiful and talented. She sat at the big upright piano before she started school and played beautifully. She was routinely pulled out of her grade school classes to play piano for high school functions. If Momma hears a tune, she can play it. (I'd always heard that Momma's amazing ability to play by ear was a God-given talent, so all during my grade school years, I climbed up on the piano bench and ordered God to bestow upon me the same talent. This ploy never worked. Maybe I was too pushy, Lord.)

I may have the story wrong, but I heard that Daddy, not long after he graduated, noticed my junior-high-age momma in downtown Lone Jack and commented to his brother Joe that he planned to marry that girl when she grew up. (My mother blossomed early, not like me who is still waiting to bloom.) I think that Momma was keeping an eye on the tall handsome Frank Slaughter, too, so after she graduated from high school and went to live in a boarding house in the city to work for Hallmark Cards, Daddy drove his Model A out to the Snow farm, knocked on the door, and asked my Grandpa Snow if he could court his daughter. Grandpa must have liked the look of Daddy, because he gave his consent. Momma and Daddy married a few months later on Labor Day of 1948. (I came alone in July of the next year.)

Times were hard for country people in those days. Momma carried every drop of water that we used a long distance from the well to our old wood frame house. This water was heated on the stove for cooking, dishwashing, laundry, and bathing. We had no central furnace. All the heat came from a wood stove in the kitchen and a gas heater in the living room. When I was very young, Momma cooked on a wood stove. We had no indoor plumbing, so the outhouse was our toilet. If we didn't grow it or raise it, it was a luxury. Clothes were hand sewn. Shoes were precious because they were store bought.

As I painted this picture to the girls in the chapel, I clearly saw their expressions of disbelief and horror. These young city girls could not imagine existing with no running water. When I mentioned that my momma and granny made our dresses out of feed sacks, the girls pictured rough burlap bags. They didn't have the slightest idea that feed and flour came in bags made of pretty cotton prints. Maybe you don't either, Sarah!

If we wanted fried chicken, someone had to kill the chicken first and that person was Momma. The first time I really noticed how Momma stepped on a chicken's head to yank it off; it occurred to me that this was not the kind of woman to cross. Momma canned nearly everything that came out of our huge garden. She worked hard. She was up long before we were and was still working long after she tucked us in our clean sun-scented beds.

And with all this back-breaking unrelenting work, our house as happy and full of music and laughter. Momma loved big band tunes and classical piano. Daddy loved country, so we were raised with a wide variety of music. Television was not important in those days. When we did get one, it rarely worked, so we played games and music and were mostly outside. I always had a pony. Our life was glorious.

Momma and Daddy were young and so in love. My brother, sister, and I used to catch them "playing around" in the kitchen all the time. Momma rode in the front seat of our Nash Rambler snuggled up under Daddy's protective arm. Mary, Frankie and I loved that. To live in a house of love is a special gift.

During Saturday's service the young girls were visibly appalled at stories of my sweet young life, while the older men and women volunteers smiled dreamily to remember the simple times of our youth. We toiled diligently with few modern conveniences, but life was sweeter for it. I'd go back to those peaceful old days in a heartbeat.

I owe so much to my parents, my ancestors, and my whole family, but this weekend was focused on our mothers. While I spoke to the congregation about my mother Saturday, you, Carrie and Jane were taking your Grandma and Aunt Mary out to eat for Mother's Day. Somehow the timing seemed right—for me to honor her in word while you girls honored her in deed. I think the women-folk in our family are pretty doggone amazing, and I'm proud to be a mother in a long line of loving mothers!

May 3, 2010 – Mother’s Day

Dearest Sarah,

Yesterday morning as I sat on my bunk crocheting a birthday doll for Will, I heard this plaintive plea from down the hall, "Does anyone have an old Mother's Day card I could have?" A beat of silence, then another voice asked, "Whadyamean—Old?" The whiner bleated, "I have no card to send my momma and if I had one to look at, maybe I could draw up something. A week from today is Mother's Day and Friday is Truman Day (whatever that is) so no mail goes out Thursday. I gotta get on it nnnoooowwwwww!!!" I don't know if she ever found a prototype, but the exchange made me think of the upcoming day set aside for mothers.

Sunday will make 25 Mother's days that I've spent away from my mother and you kids. In general Mother's Day is not a happy day in prison. We gals, who are fortunate enough to have living mothers, get in long lines for the phone just to say, "I love you, Mom—and I miss you."

Most incarcerated women are mothers. We get in the long lines for the phones to call our children. If we're lucky enough to connect, the conversations are laced with love, lonesomeness and heaped with guilt.

I never dreamed that anyone or anything could drag me away from you kids and that I'd miss even one Mother's Day—much less 25—and still counting. You ranged in ages from 16 to 8 when I was sent to prison. Now look at you. Jane will be 41 in August. You will be 39, Sarah. Our Matthew is gone, but he'd be 37. Carrie will be 35 next week, and Morgan will be 33 in June. And between you: Ten gorgeous talented offspring.

You've heard this story all your life, but I love telling it: When Carrie was born on Mother's Day of '75, a wide-eyed intern in the hospital exclaimed, "Wow! You became a Mother on Mother's Day." I hated to burst his bubble, but I came clean, "Not exactly. This is my fourth baby." He blinked, and then asked, "Fourth? Don't you have a television?" I guess he was implying that we needed to watch the entire Johnny Carson show and not get side-tracked, but he couldn't rain on my parade. That Mother's Day was most wonderful with my perfect brown-eyed package safely tucked in the crook of my arm.

(You know I have a birth story for each of you, but I'll only bore you with Carrie's since hers is the Mother's Day story.)

When our sweet life was together and safe, you kids picked me dandelions without stems, and I floated them in jar lids on the kitchen windowsill. You drew Mother's Day cards with hearts, stick figures and peanut butter fingerprints. Frugal Matthew, who never wanted to spend his own money, once bought me a pair of dime store "ruby" post earrings that he adored. I wore them to a PTA meeting, and my lobes swelled up hot like well-fed ticks. He later asked me why I never wore his earrings, so I slathered them with Vaseline and wore them only in his presence.

I've been mulling over a Mother's Day poem for you girls, but I can't seem to get it together. This flood of memories from when you were small floods my eyes. We were cheated! We were cheated out of your dedicated Daddy. And while we were still reeling from his awful death, I was snatched away to prison. We were ALL cheated—and still are—and it never stops!!!!

This is why I can't seem to write a Mother's Day poem for you girls. I'm too sad and too mad. To write something palatable, I need to locate a peaceful place in my head. I'm too sad and too mad to go to the peaceful place. Right now I could curse and shake my first at the heavens and kick and scream and roll around on the tile while foaming at the mouth. A caniption fit, as your grandma calls it. That's what I could have. A caniption fit. (I have no idea how to spell that specific type of fit, although I've heard about it all my life and could perform it if it would help.)

Well, this is not exactly the sweet Mother's Day letter that you expected, now is it? Sorry, but I just go a bit nuts every day wondering how much longer this nightmare will endure. I've given up on the thought of vindication. I don't even care anymore if some people erroneously believe that I'm a cold-blooded killer. I don't care what anyone thinks except for you kids, the rest of the family and friends who have become family. I just want to come back home to exist peacefully and productively as a real mother and granny and daughter.

I want to be able to help you with your children. I want to cheer at all the ball games, proudly attend all the piano recitals, all the swim meets, all the award ceremonies, all the school open houses. I want to chip in on all the chores—from mowing, to painting, to housekeeping, to cooking and dishwashing and everything! (I'm very handy.)

I've missed every graduation, every wedding, every funeral, every holiday get-together, every birthday party, every anniversary celebration, every illness, every speaking engagement—and now I've missed the last 25 Mother's Days. DAMNATION!

Happy Mother's Day, Sarah. You're a wonderful mother, and I'm so proud of you. I feel the same way about your sisters. The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, and your children are vivid proof of what great mothers all three of you girls are! God bless.

April 30, 2010

As for the latest news, 43-year-old April was transported out Wednesday for a hysterectomy, but before surgery, thankfully, the hospital staff discovered that her painful tumor is actually a baby. I wonder if she'll name him "Tooma".

The canteen is now selling us men's athletic shoes for $13-something a pair, and they are so cheaply made that there's no brand name. The sign simply reads, "SHOE". What kind of shoe has no brand? And if they are selling them to us for that price, they must cost the canteen a buck 92 a pair. They will last a gal about a week on these rough sidewalks. I bet the right and left are identical, so that they can begin selling the shoes separately for $8 each or more in case just one falls apart first. Cha-ching.

Oh, the canteen is now selling us state toilet paper for sixty-three cents a roll. They have none to freely issue. They only have extras to sell to people who are making between $7.50 and $8.50 a month. I smell the acrid stench of exploitation in the air. Cha-ching, again!

The canteen sells us packaged food that must be cooked like rice in a bag, but they no longer sell the microwave bowls to cook in. They now only sell think plastic cereal bowls that can't take heat. I'm curious to see how the girls boil up mac'n cheese in the cardboard box.

We only get ice once a day—at around 8:30 at night. The poor fools who want a cold drink at a reasonable hour, say after work at 4, are out-of-luck. We used to get ice three times a day, but that privilege died away with the budget cuts. Can't afford to repair the ice machines.

The two most disgusting modern words are "budget cuts". (I'm sure free people feel the same way.) Our food is slop because of budget cuts. Can't have enough toilet paper for the same reason. Can't have special programs to help rehabilitate prisoners because of budget cuts. No ice water in Hell. Our uniforms are frayed and torn. (The visiting room uniforms are so bad that my mother once asked if I needed money to replace my shirt! She's clueless. One Christmas I folded her an origami bird, and she asked if I bought it at the prison "gift shop".) The plumbing is crumbling. Slave wages for workers. No raises or incentive pay. No Pell Grants so prisoners can continue their education. You get the picture.

I really realize that I've tumbled down the rabbit hole when I hear insane policies like the "work release" qualifications. To explain work release, there are crews of gals who leave the prison grounds (without chains and shackles and handcuffs) to mow grass, clean up the highways, weed eat, etc. We also have the nursing home gals who take all the jobs that free people don't want in a local nursing home. I've heard such great stories about our gals who make it their business to keep the clients happy and clean. They are angelic orderlies—probably because a nursing home is very similar to a prison, and the inmates have compassion for the elderly whose only crime is not dying sooner.

Even if we get to be less than five years from freedom, by policy we are not qualified for work release eligibility if we have a "first-degree" crime. So when Janiece and Kris are within five years of parole, only Kris can go to work release. Janiece has a first-degree assault conviction—25 years with an 85% mandatory minimum. No one was killed, but a young woman was hurt—and Janiece was convicted even though she wasn't even at the scene of the crime. (BUT the crime scene was in her house.) Kris, on the other hand, is serving 25 years with an 85% mandatory minimum for second-degree murder for taking the life of her abusive beau, while saving her own. But still… Someone died. Which is more severe? Assault or death? But the policy is clearly written to preclude first-degree crimes.

In a decade or so when Janiece is within five years of leaving prison, I bet she begins the grievance procedure and fights this policy. But till then, a murderer can go to work release but an assaulter cannot, although I think each candidate should be examined on a case-by-case basis—not that anyone who wears a suit care what I think. It's my understanding that this policy comes from Central Office and was not designed here—only implemented. I'd have more to say about this and other issues, but I'm still locked up. I tip toe on the edge of danger as it is with my candid reporting.

I gotta run and teach aerobics! I'm doing a "weight-less" class today (with no hand weights) for weight loss. I can't wait. (Why am I such a sucker for puns?)

April 29, 2010 – Bonnie and Mac

Because I was at the gym for aerobics, I missed all the excitement Tuesday during the 4:30 count. We are supposed to remain quietly in our cells during count, but good ole room 206 was hopping like usual—whopping and hollering during a raucous card game. A fed-up sixty-five-year-old Bonnie across the hall snapped and hollered, "SHUT UP!" (The gals told me that she blurted out exactly what everyone else was thinking.)

(You girls know Bonnie from 4h. She's from St. Charles and has three adoring grown children and a host of grandkids. Her granddaughter Savannah is friends with Abbey, Callie, and Megan. Bonnie is serving something like 30 years for the '94 death of her husband during a domestic altercation.)

For one beat, all was still. That's how long it took for Mac to decide that "them's fighting words"! She stomped to her doorway threatening, "I'll kick your old wrinkled white ass!" I'm sure she said more, but that's the only sentence that was quoted to me consistently upon the telling. Mac then barged out of her cell and across the hall to Bonnie's doorway. (That was a daring move in lieu of the fact that the security cameras point down the hall and we are not supposed to be out of our cells during count, unless we must use the restroom.)

Bonnie stood her ground in the doorway of her cell, "Well, I would hope a girl of your weight and age could kick my broke-down crippled ass, BUT it's not going to be as easy as you think!" Mac is a strong-looking young black woman of considerable girth who sports wild dreads and attitude, but as they say in here, "Bonnie ain't no punk-ass bitch."

Mac may have considered Bonnie's warning, because she merely cursed and threatened and puffed up like a blow fish as she retreated to the safety of her cell. Then she and the girls of her room hooted and laughed and made more noise than before as a show of solidarity and bravery—from the safety of their cell.

When I talked to Bonnie about it later, she admitted, "I could have come to them a bit softer and asked politely for them to zip their lips, but they woke me out of a sleep and I was not as polite as I should have been." Bonnie labors long days at the clothing factory and rises about 4:30 every morning to get ready for work. Her sewing job plays hell on her arthritis, too. Mac, on the other hand, works as a dorm tender (cleaner on the wing) for about 10 minutes a day—and has plenty of opportunity to rest.

Before I could walk the length of the downstairs dayroom and climb the stairs on my way back from aerobics, I got the scoop. Of course, I took Bonnie's side. Is respect for our elders a lost art? And on top of that, we OGs (Old Gals) and even most of the kids are sick of Mac's big loud mouth and mooching manner.

Yesterday morning when I came home from work at eleven for the 11:30 count, Mac's name was called over the loudspeaker. By golly, she returned with a move sheet in her hand and was packed up and relocated before count—to another wing. Didn't take long for our caseworker to take care of that problem.

I also heard that her cell was tossed that morning and the officer found items that she did not purchase, so she received a big fat ticket for contraband AND she was under investigation for wandering out-of-bounds into other cells. Life is a series of choices. If she has a modicum of sense, she might think about her choices—especially since she's a recidivist (has been in prison several different times) and doesn't seem to learn her lesson. Oh, well, too bad for her. Last evening was quiet and mellow for us.

April 27, 2010 The Tissue Issue

THE TISSUE ISSUE
 

Our most recent institutional problem is toilet paper. But then it's always been an issue—the tissue issue. Since I've been locked up, prison administrators continue to be shocked and appalled by the amount of toilet paper female prisoners use in comparison to males. Evidently they never got the birds and bees lecture at home.

Until last week each housing unit was issued 12 boxes of toilet paper per week. (There can be 384 to 256 inmates on a House.) This week they cut us down to eight boxes. I'm sure this is all budget cut stuff, although they never cut the budget for stupid stuff like huge highway-grade signs informing us the number of each House and that if we are not assigned to that House, it's out-of-bounds. (Everyone already knows that for free.)

We are issued three rolls of this cheap "as far from Charmin as the factory can possibly get" tissue at the Thursday night "tissue issue". That's all we can have until the next Thursday. There will be no mercy.

(FYI: Toilet paper is not kept in the housing unit bathrooms. We must carry our own tp and hand soap with us to the bathroom. So when I come home, if you catch me carrying your toilet paper out of your bathroom, gently remind me that I no longer have to guard my own roll.)

Personally I have used nearly a whole roll after I ate something tainted in the chow hall that gave me severe diarrhea. Now and then I spend the best part of the evening huddled in a bathroom stall while my body is bent on getting rid of whatever poison I ingested at chow. The administration did not take "prison food poisoning" into consideration.

Nor did they think about the fact that 90% of the females here are pre-menopausal. They have monthly cycles, and to be halfway clean, ya gotta use a lot of tp. I won't go into a graphic description, but you all get the idea—and it's a known fact that stress causes periods to be longer and heavier. This is a stressful environment on the best day.

(Don't get me started about the awful old-fashioned sanitary napkins issued here. These are NOT modern absorbent Maxi Thins! Girls must wear three or more of what are called "mattresses" at once on a light day just to prevent leaking. And these flimsy things tear up while they walk-not to mention during exercise. If the purchasing agent for the Department of Corrections bought a decent brand, the prison could save millions AND save the landfill. Bit I digress…)

They also don't seem to care that women must/should use toilet paper after every bathroom visit, since they cannot just shake the dew off the lily. We keep getting the lecture about how much more toilet paper we use than the men at some other prison, "Do you have any idea how much more toilet paper you women use in comparison to the men at Bowling Green? It isn't even funny! You've got to conserve!" If they issued us some sort of penis or peeing device, that might help, but then again that wouldn't be a good idea on several levels.

Also, we use toilet paper in place of Kleenex. When I have to blow my nose, I must use toilet paper—and I must double it or I'll blow right through the thin tissue. Think of the poor girls with sinus issues, allergies, or head colds. They are in a world of hurt and cannot make three rolls last seven days.

Whenever an administration decides to cut back severely on our tissue issue, the other departments pay. For example, if you're out of tissue and it's only Tuesday, you might be inclined to "appropriate" a roll from recreation or Education or Vo-Tech or whatever bathroom you might visit. It's only natural. Self-preservation. (Do you see how the Department of Corrections forces us to break the law? One gal recently told me that they force her to resort to her old criminal ways. So much for rehabilitation in MO.)

In the early 90's we went through a similar severe limit, but somehow the National Organization of Women got wind of our tissue issue and sent a tractor trailer load of tissue and a reporter to our prison just north of Jeff City. That surprise delivery made a strong statement, and our warden never mentioned rationing again. Help! Does anyone know an activist member of NOW now?

Yesterday evening on my way back from dinner, I overheard Kelly ask the bubble officer what she should do because she's nearly out of tp. The tissue issue is of great interest to me, so I slowed down to hear his answer, and I was not pleased. In a snotty tone, he informed her that when she reports that she is completely out, officers will search her cell thoroughly (which means that everything she owns will be uprooted and tossed) and if anyone in the cell has tp, the matter stops there. (Even though we have a rule that we can't share anything, they are ordering us to break the rule and share tp.) If no one in the cell has a shred of tp, then Kelly can talk to the functional unit manager of our housing unit the next day. The FUM will decide the appropriate action.

Are they serious? The guards expect girls to go without ANY tp for hours and days? That's it. I'm fighting this. I'm now urging every woman here to file a grievance for sexual discrimination. Then I want to file a class action suit against the Department of Corrections. We've done it before. This is inhumane treatment! And in the name of Susan B. Anthony, women are NOT second-class citizens! We need to wipe out sexual discrimination, but first we need to wipe our butts!

Mom sent me this update about the "Tissue Issue" today. ~Sarah

We're still battling the toilet paper problem. It's such a mean deal. Last night the officer had a roll on his desk and was having girls roll off of what they need from the community roll. That's certainly hygenic. NOT! One gal was crying because she was on her period and felt embarrassed to keep coming to the bubble to ask for more toilet paper. And no one can even approach the officer except at 10 til the hour. That's the only window of opportunity on the evening shift.

When we had this tissue restriction about 20 years ago, the staff felt sorry for us and made sure we had paper even though the administration was against us. Now we have no sympathy anywhere. We are stupid idiot women who use way too much toilet paper. That's the consensus. This is a sorry place to live. ~Patty 4/29/2010

April 22, 2010 - Nanny Kris

Nanny Kris

Sarah, it's occurred to me that I mention my friend and co-worker Kris all the time, but you don't know her story. Do you remember her from 4H several years ago? She has no children, but she came to the Saturday visit/meetings as a helper before the administration changed the policy to disallow 4h helpers. You and Carrie called her "Nanny Kris", and Carrie offered to let her live in their basement when she paroles because the kids adore her. Kris, who's a big kid herself, always jumped down on the floor and played like one of them.

Kris is in her late 20's, gorgeous, tall, and thin, with waist length straight dark blonde hair— usually pulled back in a ponytail. She's got a Nordic surfer girl physicality, if there could be such a creature. Lithe but strong. In her free life she worked for a veterinarian's assistant, which was perfect for a gal who adores all animals and isn't afraid to get messy. She also comes from a dysfunctional broken home with a sweet mother and dear father who didn't seem to know what to do with a daughter like Kris—plagued with OCD, ADHD and every other initialed psychological issue. Kristin has more issues than a magazine stand.

I was not there, of course, but I believe that Kris was cohabitating with her boyfriend, and the relationship was toxic, abusive. Her head-shaved bully of a boyfriend, a steroid-enhanced body builder, displayed a quick and foul temper. Violent. And I'm sure that stubborn, hardheaded Kris didn't make matters any better by refusing to bend to his every whim.

Yes, Kris should have moved on, hidden away, changed her whole life to stay away from him, but hindsight is 20/20. (Or 180 like I heard on the sidewalk recently. "Hindsight is 180, ya know, Boo.") And we must remember that she thought she loved him and could save him from himself. (If I had a nickel for every deluded woman who thinks that very lie this very day, I could buy this prison and kick everyone out.) Kris was also very young, barely out of her teens, which equals inexperienced. Sometimes it takes some years and mileage on our tachometer before we realize that a bad apple is just a bad apple.

During a domestic dispute that escalated into an argument that turned into a fight that grew into a beating, Kris grabbed what we call back home "an equalizer" (a Louisville Slugger) and slammed the aggressive and scary body builder beau in the head with such force that not only did she stop the beating, he unfortunately died. The story could have gone the other way. He could easily have won the fight, and I would know nothing of Kristin.

Because Kris didn't have a hospital history of abuse with photos and corroborating testimony and money for expert legal representation, her lawyer suggested that she take a deal. If she held out for a trial, the jury could easily decide to give her Life with No Parole. After rotting in the infamous Hellhole called the St. Louis Work House for two torturous years, she copped a plea for 25 years, second degree murder, with a mandatory minimum of 85% before she's eligible for parole. To do the math for you, she must serve 21 years and three months before she can even be considered for parole.

She'll serve over two decades in prison because she survived. But I have got to hand it to Kris, who has served around nine long years so far. She looks for the humor in most any situation. No one is sillier than my friend—or as quick witted. She stays busy with meaningful endeavors and is much loved by her family and admired by inmates and staff alike. In December she brilliantly played the athletic Scarecrow in our production of "The Wizard of Oz". Her parents came to the visiting room show, separately, of course. They were the biggest ducks in the puddle and enjoyed their daughter's evident preparation and characterization so much that it was infectious. Her daddy laughed so big that he became part of the show! I had trouble staying in character as the disgruntled Wicked Witch of the West.

Also Kris is not one of these prisoners who exhibits no remorse for the horror of taking a life. This burden and the cloud of guilt will forever hang over her head. But she's worked to the point where she refuses to let the mistakes of the past kill her, too.

I pray that the 85% mandatory minimum law that was passed in 1994 will be rescinded. It's not only glutting the expensive prison system, but it's not a fair and just law for victims who survived like Kristin—who deserve a chance at a good life outside these razor wire fences before she's too old to find a good life.

When I was first locked up in 1986, prisoners who acted halfway decently served around 10-12 years on a life sentence—now it's near 30. The ones serving a number of years, like 25, served one-third of the years. I knew a young girl, exactly Jane's age (16 when we met with the very same birthday) who served 8.5 years on her 25 for second degree murder. She had been sitting unawares in the car while her boyfriend killed former employers. Sherry knew nothing of the murders until he jumped back in the driver's seat, sped off, and bragged to her of what he'd done. He threatened her life if she didn't keep her mouth shut. She believed him—after all, he'd just killed a family. Of course the truth eventually came out (he couldn't help but boast), and naïve teeny-bopper Sherry was considered an accessory after the fact.

If this same case had happened after August 28, 1994, Sherry would still be locked up and serving the same lengthy amount of time as Kris. Back in the 80's we thought that 8.5 years was too much time for poor Sherry to have to serve. Boy, have times changed. Vengeance is no longer mine, sayeth the Lord.

April 14, 2010 - Bananas

We had bananas for breakfast!!! That's a big thing in my world. I keep track of bananas. The fruit truck delivers on Tuesdays (unless there's yet another Monday state holiday), so usually we get one banana each at breakfast on Wednesdays. That's the only chance at a banana we get each week. (The remaining bananas are whisked away to the PDR for staff.)

And the reason bananas are served only at the one breakfast is to save money. Many fewer inmates rise and shine at 5:30 to stumble to the chow hall for grits and toast, but there are those of us who never miss breakfast because of the milk. (Milk is only served at breakfast, and as a small-boned Caucasian woman, I must protect my bone density at all cost.) This morning I traded my white rice for a banana, so I had TWO WHOLE BANANAS! I was in banana hog heaven!

Fresh fruit is a big deal to me every day. I peruse the weekly menu on the bulletin board with a hawk eye. Prison fruit is apples, oranges, an occasional pear in season, and every few months a grapefruit half. I'm always amazed at the fact that the majority of prisoners in my prison do not appreciate fresh fruit. Most much prefer their fruit canned and swimming in heavy syrup to a crisp apple.

Part of the problem is teeth. Good strong teeth, the kind needed for apple munching, are rare. I can't tell you how many times I've heard this comment: "I'd sure like to eat that apple, but I'm afraid it'll break off the teeth I have left. Miss Patty, do you want this?" Bet your booties, I do! Yum! (As long as my teeth hold out….) The other factor is laziness. "I'll eat my orange if you peel it for me." What? Peel your own damn orange, for crying out loud!

Also most prisoners would rather have a cupcake for dessert than a piece of fresh fruit—even if the dry state-made cupcakes leave much to be desired. If the menu lists "gelatin or fruit", you can bet your bottom dollar that it will be jello or canned apples, canned peaches, canned pears, or canned crushed pineapple. Those four are the canned fruit choices. The jello can be plain or the cooks can add the canned fruit. The cooks are also creative and add ingredients like shredded cabbage to green jello. I just haven't gotten used to it. Give me a piece of relatively fresh recognizable fruit that actually saw it's mother tree in the not too distant past.

But today is a good day. I got to eat not one but two bananas for breakfast! Yippee! I can't wait until next Wednesday morning.

March 29, 2010

 

My cellmate Angie (43) moved out of our room this morning to the work release dorm, and I'll miss her terribly. Good Catholic Angie, from the Bootheel, wife and mother of 3 young boys, embezzled from the car dealership for which she worked. I've never in my too-long incarceration seen an inmate suffer so for her sins. Her guilt for shattering the trust of her family and employers is immense. Even so she possesses a dry sense of intellectual humor and a sweetness that I just adore. This morning as she packed to leave, I gave her the special candy Easter egg that I'd bought for her. I didn't mean to open the floodgates, but that offering was the final straw. She wept in my arms for all the reasons women weep. Angie has just over a year to serve before she can run home into the waiting arms of her loyal husband and rambunctious sons. I have no doubt that she'll rebuild a great life with them.

The MO Senate has been all over the TV news trying to cut the state budget. Hello! You can let me go and save a bundle! In fact, I can give them a list.
 

At theatre class yesterday afternoon, a twit who has been here only a matter of months and just chatters inanely all the time whined to no one in particular, "I was supposed to leave July 5^th—but now it's July 6^th—a whole 24 hours more!" Big dramatic sigh. I caught the eyes of a young black life-with-no-parole gal across the table, so I turned to the twit and schooled her, "You might watch what you say in here since you're at a table with lifers." Each word I pronounced distinctly and slowly to allow the message to sink in. I turned back to Lawanda, who smiled at me with her big brown eyes. I have no problem informing short-timer twits of the facts of life.

Yesterday about 6 gals were cuffed and taken to the hole for stealing out of the canteen. This was organized crime. The canteen workers was shoving the loot out of the back and the warehouse workers were in charge of transporting and distributing—under the unblinking eyes of dozens of security cameras. But honestly the canteen and warehouse supervisors are to blame. They hired known thieves. If you play with snakes and get bit, whose fault is it? I guess the mob had quite a hussle going on and was selling Kools for $2! Free enterprise, the prison way.

March 26, 2010 - Ruby

Ya know, ya think that after you've been locked up for 24 years you wouldn't see or hear anything especially new. Every once in a while, I'm proven wrong in that theory. Kristin came to work this morning with a tale that shocked even me. Saturday at 10pm when count cleared, Kris descended the stairs, entered the ph one room and called her mother. The phone room is separated from the dayroom by a windowed wall with one windowed door. The rotunda officers have a clear view of this room, as you can imagine.

As mother and daughter chatted, Ruby waltzed in, sat in the other chair facing Kris (there are two phones about 6 inches apart on the wall in the phone room), punched out the code to make a call, and as the phone rang on the other end, Ruby slunk down, pulled out her battery-powered electric razor and, over the buzz of the appliance, mouthed to Kris, "I'm going to masturbate." (Got your attention, didn't I.)

Ruby had called her lover, Boo, who had just paroled a week or so ago. Can you picture this? Kris, who's sitting only a few inches from Ruby, is attempting to act normal and talk to her mother as if this peculiar show were not happening. By this time, Ruby is making all sorts of moans and howls while grinding this buzzing prison vibrator into her crotch—making a big verbal show for Boo on the end of the line. Officers are milling around the rotunda. Other inmates are in the dayroom playing cards and visiting.

Kris gives up and gives some bogus excuse to her mother as to why she needs to say goodbye right now. No one I know can keep this kind of information to herself, so as she's telling a group of card-playing friends, she sees this tiny older black lady who resembles a Ninja turtle enter the phone room, turn on her heel, and immediately emerge with the same weirded-out look on her face that Kris must have worn.

Since you don't know Ruby, let me attempt to describe her. She's not young, but not old, black, tall and wiry, with semi-unkept braids. She's mentally ill, and everyone knows it except Ruby. No one in the history of the world has ever had a sane conversation with her. When I see Ruby staring at me with those wild buggy eyes, I hasten for an exit. She usually asks me some legal question that F. Lee Bailey (I'm sure his name dates me tremendously) could never have answered or complains to me about some prison rule that no one will ever change because it doesn't exist. I enjoy hearing about her off-the-wall exploits, but I never want to be involved with them. Right before Boo paroled, the pair attended aerobic classes just to be together. I tried my best to ignore them then.

Janiece did not do a good job of ignoring them during one class in which we were tag-teaming teachers. Ruby kept wandering around not working out, as usual, but when I had the mic leading step aerobics, Ruby sat down on the bleachers, which is a no-no during aerobics. Janiece went straight for her and out of the corner of my eye, I first thought that Janiece had struck her because Ruby fell back and rolled around wailing on the foot area between the seats of the bleachers. In reality, Ruby had seen Janiece coming for her and hurled herself backward acting like she was hurt. Janiece was mad as a wet hen.

To finish this Ruby story, about 30 minutes after Kris gave up on her call; Ruby left the phone, went straight to the bathroom to was her hands, and then wandered around the dayroom bothering people as if nothing strange had happened. Kris is still shaking her head in disbelief.

March 18, 2010

 

Today we're in deep fog which is not good on a prison camp. We can only move if escorted. Security, ya know. But the fog is pretty to me. And I smell spring in the air.

 

My robin is back. He perches on the one puny over-peed-on little oak tree in the dog pen and sings to me when I walk to breakfast at 5:30. He just showed up a week or so ago and sings to me all spring and into the summer until it gets too hot. He's proud of his red breast and puffs it out as he turns his beak up to the sky and belts out my favorite spring song. Between verses, he cocks his head over to see if I'm watching. I always smile at my Rockin Robin and call, "I see you!" Spectators think I'm nuts, until I advise them that God sent him to remind us that everything is going to be OK. Can't argue with that.

 

My stupid little cellmate who chatters all the time and is giving up her 8^th baby for adoption is moving out of our room this morning. YEAH! She's OK, just a pest. Constantly asking how to spell the simplest words, writing sex to male inmates, and ignoring her children because she's a brainless drug addict child herself. We are happy that we will now be able to think and study in the room!

 

So now we have four of us in the room. Stacy, (39) half Mexican, half middle-eastern, is at my feet. Amy, (43) a nice white Catholic embezzler from the bootheel, is across from me. Sara, (36) black gal with an assault and a 3^rd grade mentality who calls me mom is catty-corner. I should tell you about Stacy. That's a story.

 

Stacy's serving 30 years with an 85% mandatory minimum for first degree assault. She, a successful hairdresser and graphic artist, and her handsome husband were excitedly expecting their first child. They had a name picked out, the nursery in their gorgeous country home decorated, and Christmas gifts for the baby under the tree. Everything was joyously going as scheduled until the delivery. The baby was stillborn. Their precious daughter never drew a breath.

 

It's not uncommon for new mothers to have post-partum depression and Stacy had battled depression all her adult life anyway, but the devastating loss of this child, whom she had nurtured for nine months, already loved, and ached to have and to hold kicked her over the emotional edge.

 

Stacy remembers none of what occurred next, but I've heard that she walked out of the hospital in her gown, ended up at a house which advertized their new baby with balloons on the porch and a big sign, "Welcome Home Our Baby Girl!" When the mother of the house opened the door to the knock, Stacy burst in, somehow cut the mother's throat superficially with a knife from the mom's home, and stole the tiny infant. I can only imagine the terror of that event for that young mother.

 

I think that Stacy's sister called the police when she realized that this was not Stacy's baby. The story got big news coverage in St. Louis. "Crazed Mexican breaks into private home, cuts throat of new mother and steals newborn baby." Of course the prosecutor wangled to make sure they didn't get a female judge, she was portrayed as a tormenting monster, and Stacy was handed the maximum sentence for assault. She's required to serve 25.5 years on this 30 year sentence, and I understand that punishment is necessary—but is there no compassion for this form of mental illness? We have dozens of women in here for murder who are serving half that time.

 

Her husband cut all ties to her because he couldn't handle the emotional strain of visiting her in prison and not knowing how long she would be here. She's not in any contact with him, although she still loves him and showed me photos of them cuddling during happy times. She and her sister were pregnant at the same time, so when I saw her 6 year old nephew recently in the visiting room, I thought of Stacy's baby. I'm sure Stacy does.

 

Like I mentioned, Martha is busy gathering the paperwork to give her eighth child away to adoptive parents. Only 26 she has already lost the other seven to the state because of her irresponsible druggie lifestyle. This baby is the first one she wasn't "using" while pregnant—only because she was locked up for most of the pregnancy. Stacy rarely discusses anyone's business, but the casual way that Martha is handing over her beautiful blonde baby girl has caused Stacy to share a bit of how much she misses her own daughter and how her life would be different if her baby had survived.

 

Stacy has lived in my room since December of 08, nearly 15 months, but not until recently has she opened up. I was fearful that her depression had swallowed her whole. In the past few months, she started exercising with me faithfully every day and is not only losing weight, she is energized. She's chatting about her life and the reason she's here. She's laughing and joking and sleeping much less. Recently she let the cosmo students cut her extremely long thick black stringy hair into a stylish shoulder-length swing, and I can't tell you how thrilled I am that this pretty young woman is coming to life.

 

Everyone in here is a broken sparrow, some more injured than others. My hope for us all is that we can all regain our strength and fly. Stacy is on her way and will soar again. I see it coming.

March 4, 2010

 

I have theatre class today, so this letter is nearly done. No time. I run too much on Thursdays.

 

OH MY GOD!!! We had "Food Inc" as our state movie yesterday. Every human being needs to see it! No wonder I feel poisoned most of the time. And Linda pointed out that our food is processed in JC, put in plastic bags, frozen, and shipped to prisons around the state. To serve the gruel, they boil the water to 400 degrees and plop the bags in the pot. The plastic MUST leech out into our foods and that's' why we get so sick. She has Crohn's Disease and no one in her family has ever had it.

 

My druggie cellmate Martha (26), who has lost 7 children to the state for foolishness, is adopting out her 5 month old baby, #8 and counting. I think it's for the best, but the other cellmates disagree. I advised Martha to get "fixed" ASAP! The state doesn't need druggie babies in droves with no one to care for them. She's such a dummy! I mean it. I've never known anyone so stupid—but sweet!

January 21, 2010

 

Yesterday one of my cellmates was transferred to Chillicothe. Before she left, she stole a pack of cigs and a lighter from Melanie, my Korean friend. This Jessie is a mess. Just turned 21 and is already labeled as "prior persistent" on her face sheet, which means she must do no less than 60% of her sentence. This is not her first time here. She's not stupid—just spoiled and headstrong. From Springfield, but her mother won't allow her to parole to her. Now, that's pretty bad when your own momma doesn't want you. (By the way, she's here for forging checks she's stolen, running credit cards, and marijuana possession.)

 

Got a new cellmate today. Mandy is very young, blonde, short, and odd. She was raised in a car by a daddy who was on the run and a drug addict. She has a 5 month old baby in the care of the Mennonites. She's kind of annoying. Talks too much, is too friendly, has nothing except rotten meth mouth, and is in her Bible all the time looking for something. Patience, Grasshopper. The good thing is that she's supposed to go to drug treatment—and is overdue to go. So any day…

 

In the bathroom, a gal up the hall told me that she had started her period and looked glum. I cheerily noted, "Well, at least you're not pregnant!" She observed, "If I was, the father would have to be my battery-operated razor!" That's funny to me.

April 13, 2010 - Guards Who Stare At Goats

Guards Who Stare At Goats
 

It occurred to me that I never told you the saga of my kidney stones. I guess I didn't wish to relive it for you so soon after the hurt. I'm strong and ready now.
 

Tuesday, February 23^rd, in the middle of the night, I found myself on my bony knees in the not-very-clean four-stall bathroom in gear-grinding pain. My lower back felt like one of those crazed Sci-Fi monster villains had hooked a vise-grip to my midsection and was steadily tightening. If that weren't bad enough, I struggled to my feet, perched on the cold toilet while cradling my abdomen in my trembling arms and attempted to pee shards of sharp glass. It must have sounded like a wounded animal was trying to die in that dingy stale toilet. My nightclothes went from clammy to wringing wet with fevered sweat. The entire experience was the stuff of torture films and not anything a peaceful gal like me should be so directly and personally involved in.
 

By morning, the pain was pretty much gone, but my "whizzler" was sore from the glass-laced pee. Wednesday day and night brought nothing horrible although I felt incredibly fatigued like I'd lost a bout of midnight bear wrestling, but I bucked up and taught my 4:00 aerobics class like a champ. My whizzler was still talking to me Thursday, but nothing had knocked me on my knees, so I felt pretty confident that Tuesday night was nothing more than a random bad night. Since I'm the opposite of a hypochondriac, I ignore most aches and pains as par for the course of mammals. Thus I was ill prepared for Thursday night.
 

Again in the dark hours prior to dawn I ended up on the floor of the community bathroom—an area where most anything related to body fluids can and will be found. After lights-out at 10:30, only dim lights are left on in the halls and bathrooms. In the semi-darkness, doubled over and making the unearthly sounds of extreme suffering, I huddled alone for hours. By this time, I was also scarily and painfully peeing bright red blood with the glass.
 

With steely-jawed determination, I managed to get dressed in my grey uniform and sit up, as required, on my bunk for the 5 a.m. count. As soon as count cleared and we were released to leave our cells, I grabbed my jacket and made my way down the stairs to the rotunda.
 

The rotunda officer popped the door for me, probably expecting me to ask for a roll of toilet paper. When I told her that I had to "self-declare" and go to medical, she shook her head and advised, "Well, ah, it won't do ya any good. You'll have to wait for 7:00 sick call.
 

The male officer noticed, "I've never seen you look like this before, Mrs. Prewitt. Are you okay?" He's a nice guy, so I couldn't form any words fit for an answer; I merely grimaced and unsteadily stood my ground in the rotunda while silently bearing the unrelenting pain in my lower back and all the way up my urethra. (There has got to be a better word for pain—one with more umph—but I'm at a loss!)
 

This scene might have resulted in a Mexican standoff, but my dear old lifer friend Ruby Doo, who has a host of ailments and knows Medical better than anyone including the Medical staff, appeared at my side and mumbled the most beautiful words I'd ever heard, "Patty, come on with me." In my fevered pain, I noticed how angelic she looks—with caring dark chocolate eyes and creamy milk chocolate face. My Hershey angel.
 

Safely inside the Medical waiting area we found a fairly new COI (Correctional Officer I) babysitter at the desk who was the first to remark that he didn't know anything about Medical, "Hey, I'd never even been in here before tonight."
 

As he tells his story to Ruby Doo, I rush into the inmate toilet to hurt privately and pee some more glass. This toilet is brightly lit with full-throttle fluorescent bulbs, so the toilet full of shockingly red blood and the toilet paper full of clots gives me even weaker knees. Remembering that nurses need proof, I didn't flush. Ruby was there for her insulin shot, but she also stood guard over the toilet and pestered the one nurse behind the glass to come out and see the blood.
 

The anticipation of pending treatment leaped into my aching heart when the young nurse with a kind face recoiled at the sight, "WOW! That's fresh blood!" That's when I decided I needed to tell her, "And it's not menstrual blood. I don't even own a uterus and haven't for 26 years."
 

If I could have danced during this ordeal, I would have demonstrated an Irish jig when she ordered me, "Come back to the examining room with me." Yes!!! I was going to get to leave the waiting room and enter the part of Medical where there are examining tables, instruments, medication and, most importantly, salvation. I won't die curled around the brown-sticky base of a porcelain prison toilet!"
 

Of course I had to step on the scale. No matter what's happening, we must weigh first as if our ailment might be related to our poundage. Then she took my temperature and blood pressure in the hall, but when she led me to the exam room and motioned for me to sit on the end of the table on white butcher paper crinkled by the last customer, I exhaled. I'm in.
 

I told her what had been going on with me while she entered my inmate number in the computer to find my file. She admittedly didn't know what to do so she picked up the phone and called. The person on the other end suggested she take my hemoglobin count. This gal had never used that particular hand-held instrument, but between us we milked enough blood from my pricked finger to get a reading, and the numbers looked good to the phone voice. We had ruled out the possibility that I'm bleeding to death. She then told me that I had to come back for sick call. Here we go again.
 

I ended up back in the waiting room hunched up on a hard wooden bench a few feet from the fidgety guard who also waited impatiently for his relief officer to show. I hurt too much to chat, which suited him just fine since all he did was stare out the window and nervously tap his pencil and his foot.
 

A couple of hours after I started my odyssey, sick call was finally called and after a debate with the relief officer who insisted that I couldn't come to 7 a.m. sick call since I was supposed to be at work now and must come back at 4:00, I again was allowed back to an exam room. (I actually didn't debate. I merely turned away, shut my eyes, bowed my head, and would neither talk nor budge. A team of wild white shirts couldn't have driven me off. And, I might add, I learned that trick from my stubborn daughter Sarah when she was around three.)
 

Another new nice nurse. Another explanation. Another phone call. More computer pecking, and within 10 minutes I was shuffling down the sidewalk back to my dorm gripping a card of 20 antibiotics with instructions to take two a day for 10 days and drink lots of water. I longed to curl up in fetal position on my own hard bunk and nurse my pain in private.
 

When a day starts off on the wrong foot, it usually stays wrong. I entered the rotunda in hopes of passing through unnoticed like a ghost, but that dream went poof when all four officers turned their sharp eyes on me like they'd spotted Jimmy Hoffa, "There she is!"
 

They were all talking at once about contraband and waving a plastic bag containing three white plastic clothes hangers, an old black woven-leather belt from the 80's when we used to wear them tied like a saddle cinch on the side, and my stained plastic storage bowl containing a bag of dry refried beans, bag of instant rice and a small summer sausage. Evidently my cell had been "routinely" searched. (Our areas are searched/torn up at least twice a month for reasons of safety and security of the institution.)
 

Have you ever heard of fainting goats? If they are startled or stressed, they simply suspend their animation. I guess I took a cue from fainting goats, because I dropped like a rock. That shut them up for a moment—or at least I didn't hear them for the moments I was out. When sound returned to my world, a nurse had been summoned to the rotunda to check my blood pressure and pulse. One of the officers, our regular wing officer, had ordered Carlene to fetch me a cup of water and a cold wash cloth. This nurse, different one, decided that I would live and left me to deal with the rotunda.
 

I was allowed to go to my room, which was completely torn up from the search. My bed was not only unmade, it was mauled and the mattress rolled up. But I sat on the hard steel and lay over the mattress hump to rest. I didn't have the strength to tackle clean-up.
 

No rest for the wicked. Two COI's and a white shirt appeared in my room and shut the door behind them to interrogate me about my contraband. For some reason they were convinced that I was being "strong-armed" for canteen items. The strange officer (by strange, I mean she was not assigned to my House and I didn't know her) said that she'd found my bowl of food items "hidden" in the room. I assured them all that it was not hidden but tucked away at the back of my locked on the bottom shelf where it always is. I'm not the type of personality to be bulled for anything. This was the only truly pathetic day I've had in recent history. Then I just shut my eyes, like a toddler, in hopes that they would disappear. It worked!
 

Just when I thought I might live, a huge pain struck me and I hurled myself across the hall to the toilet to pass some more glass. This time I was not alone. Although I was behind the toilet door, I realized two of the girls in the bathroom had started sobbing for me when they heard my wounded moans. To top things off, the one unfamiliar female officer yelled at me to come out of the toilet NOW! Then she hollered at the girls who were crying and caused then to cry harder and louder. So we now have females wailing, moaning, screaming, sobbing and blubbering. And I'm not even talking about me!
 

I don't know how long before I finally exited, but I passed a grain of rough gravel in with all that blood. That paltry particle resting calmly on the bottom of the porcelain had caused all this trouble, but it was OUT and I felt such glorious relief! Swinging open the stall door in triumph, I realized that Mel and Jane were still there crying and the guard was also red-faced and still yelling for me to get out. Oops.
 

While I washed my hands, the officer impatiently ordered me to get my receipts and come to the rotunda right now. I could hardly hear her for the two girls babbling. I nodded yes, so she left. Mel and Jane pounced on me like I was their long lost mother. I assured them I was going to live—now.
 

Back in my cell looking for my receipt envelope in the tornado aftermath the search had left, my caseworker showed up. She, too, has a history with kidney stones and commiserated, but the visit with her had made me tardy for my appointment in the rotunda. My name was announced peevishly over the loudspeaker. I explained to my young blonde caseworker what was going on, and she walked me to the rotunda and explained to the disgruntled officer that the ladies who have been here a long time have items in their possession that they can have because these times have not been outlawed. My hangers and old belt were handed back, and since I produced receipts for the canteen food, I once again escaped the grip of wrath unscathed.
 

In case you're wondering, my whizzler was sore for a few days, but so far this old fainting nanny goat has remained pain-free to fight another day. I was called to see the doctor yesterday about my blood pressure, which keeps creeping up in response to my stressful environment and poor diet, and during our short meeting he didn't mention the February "self declare" incident. Of course I didn't either. As I said before, I do my best to forgive and forget negative situations.
 

This reminds me of several winters ago when I succumbed to a horrible stomach flu. I mean VIOLENT! Janiece was so worried about me that she begged the sergeant for permission to come upstairs to check on me. Shivering and huddled on my narrow steel bunk under every piece of bedding and fabric I own—my jacket et., I thought I heard Janiece's voice. What? That couldn't be Janiece. She lives downstairs. (We are not allowed, by housing unit rules, to travel between wings or floors or even go into someone else's cell.)
 

Next thing I know Janiece has pounced on me with her sweet face close demanding, "Are you alright? I haven't seen you in two days!" "Janiece, what are you doing out-of-bounds? Good Lord!" She explained, "I got permission. Relax! I'm sick of this. Get better right now! You look pathetic, and I don't like it." Yes, she made it all about her. Isn't that typical of kids?
 

Good taxpaying citizens may think we prisoners are scum of the earth, worthless, unredeemable, filth. But I have found the opposite to be true. When push comes to shove, we rise up and care for each other like prisoners of war. Girls kept my bedding and nightclothes washed and fresh, kept fluids nearby, and kept a watchful eye on me throughout the entire horror of my fever, vomiting, diarrhea—you get the picture.
 

When Governor John Ashcroft commuted the no-parole murder sentence of Helen Martin and after 13 years behind bars she returned to St Louis in 1994, she told me on the phone that she missed the sisterhood of prison. "Patty, if I fell out on the sidewalk on my way to work today, pedestrians would walk over and around me. But in prison someone was always there to help me when I was sick or listen to me when I was blue. I always had a shoulder to cry on, and I sure miss knowing that someone has my back. It's lonely out here."
 

Well, in this "community of suffering" we do our level best to keep everyone afloat both physically and emotionally. So don't worry, kids, I always find compassion and love—even in this hellhole.

April 12, 2010 - Prison Performing Arts

 

PRISON PERFORMING ARTS

Our prison theatre class decided not to do Shakespeare this time and instead chose a play by Bertold Brecht, evidently a famous German genius. The play is called The Caucasian Chalk Circle, and we're busy reading and blocking and trying to figure out who's playing who. In case you haven't heard of it, and I sure hadn't although I recently read a review because a troupe in San Francisco is currently performing it, it's very political and hilarious in a most strange way.

 

Since PPA began here at WERDCC, we have performed Macbeth, Crowns, Midsummer Night's Dream (my very favorite), and Twelfth Night. We work in semesters and take on a few scenes per semester. (How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.)

 

We always perform for the prisoners here, and then we perform two shows in the visiting room for staff and visitors. Anyone who's a member/contributor of Prison Performing can attend—if he or she can pass a Highway Patrol MULES check. (I guess the prison administration doesn't want unsavory characters with prison records or outstanding parking tickets coming in to the prison as a bad influence on the convicts.)

 

Our visiting room shows are scheduled for Monday, June 28, a matinee (1:00) and an evening show (6:00). Professors, attorneys, family, an occasional judge, friends of the arts and assorted other interested people attend. A fascinating bunch. And before and after the show and reading of our original poetry, we are allowed to mingle and talk with the audience members, which is always fun and enlightening for all.

 

If any perusers of Facebook, who are interested in meeting me or rubbing elbows with prisoners at the women's prison in Vandalia, want to come, all you have to do is give a donation to Prison Performing Arts and let them know that you want to attend the June 28^th show. You will then have to submit your social security number so that the prison can run a check on you. PPA takes care of all this paperwork.

 

PPA runs entirely on donations, so they always need help. Check out all the good they do for men and women in jails and prisons in Missouri: (www.prisonartsstl.org); 314-289-4190; PPA 3547 Olive Street, Suite 250, St Louis, MO 63103-1014. Any and all contributions are most welcome!

 

Our fearless leader is Professor Agnes Wilcox, who motivates us, cheers us on, corrects us, directs us, researches for us, brings in fascinating material and guest speakers, and is totally convinced that we are not to be discarded as the worthless of Missouri. She makes sure we all do the best we can and learn much about the arts and about ourselves.

 

Check out their website and contribute to this most amazing organization—and I hope to see you in June!

 

--Patty

April 6, 2010

 

I hate it. I just flat out hate it. I hate that I have to stand by and observe the verbal and emotional abuse of defenseless women—and in so many cases not be able to lift a finger to help. My husband used to call me Crusader Rabbit because I was a champion for the downtrodden, a brave soldier for justice, marching for equal rights in college, going to court about zooming laws in Jackson County when that neighbor attempted to start a rodeo arena directly across from our home outside Lee's Summit, taking on the whole Holden school board or the mayor or the Chamber of Commerce when necessary. I wonder if Bill would be ashamed of me now.

 

We BLAST girls and Recreation offer an aerobics class at 4:00 every afternoon. During that hour-long class there is not one but two prison counts. At approximately 4:20 officers march in and give the exercise class instructor the high sign. The instructor, who's on mic, hollers, "Count time. Line up by House."

 

In translation, this means for each inmate in the gym to cease exercising and position herself in the count lines according to which Housing Unit her cell is assigned. Since we have new participants nearly every day, I always add directions as to which House lines are where and add, "If you don't know what House you're from, raise your hand and someone might recognize you." Now and then I actually get a laugh, like an old comic who relies on time-tested material.

 

As soon as the officers are done walking up and down the four lines, we resume our class, only to be interrupted again in about 10 minutes for another count—only this count is not by House. We all line up on the red line around the basketball court and count off, "One, two…."

 

Thursday I wasn't teaching but I was a participant of the step aerobic class. During the warm-up Janiece asked if anyone was new to step aerobics, and I raised my hand kiddingly. That also gets a chuckle from girls who know that this old clown never misses a class. As usual Janiece ignored me, but she did acknowledge a young girl on the back row, "Are you really new? You'll catch on." I whirled around and gave the new kid thumbs up, "Don't worry. We'll get this together." The kid gave me a weak grin. She was not so sure that she'd get this so easily.

 

Class progressed, we stopped for the firs by-house count, resumed, stopped again for the count-off count, and resumed. After we finished, cooled down, and stretched out, we all put up our platforms, risers, and hand weights, and broke up into chatty groups waiting for count to clear. I did get a chance to catch the new kid and assure her of how well she'd caught on and promise that it will get easier each time she is. In a few minutes officers scurried in and call a recount by House. As we groaned to our lines (no one appreciates a recount) the female officer stated, "I don't know what happened, but I have the wrong number in the wrong House." That's when it happened.

 

The new kid, young, thin and tall with her light brown hair pulled back in a pony tail, stepped forward and with remorse dripping from her thin voice came clean, "It's me. I was in the wrong line for the first count. I'm so sorry, but I didn't realize. I don't know anyone and didn't know." Her small hands were outstretched with palms up in surrender.

 

In that instant all we inmates exhaled in defeat. We knew the end of this sad story—the punishment for this honest mistake. In that same instant the officer inhaled in triumph and coldly ordered, "Come with me." Kris felt compelled to blurt out a quick warning to our new girl, "oh, sweetie, you goin' to the hole," as the child was culled from the herd.

 

Our honest gal was escorted out of the gym as if she were an escapee from Gitmo. We lamented: "Honesty is NOT the best policy." "I hate this!" "The truth sure WON'T set you free." "She didn't know." "I've never seen her before." "That kid is just out of R&O. She didn't know to keep her mouth shut." "I hate this!" "She's going to the hole for not knowing what she was supposed to do." "I feel so badly for her." "She seemed like a good kid, too." "I hate this!" "Man, she's being cuffed right now." "She was working out in her uniform and is sweaty. They don't give no showers for days in the hole." "Well, welcome to prison, newbie. It ain't at all like the brochure." "She's just a baby." "It's written up as an attempted escape—Lord knows from your House. Why didn't you get her in the right line, dummy?" "Jeez, I wasn't paying no mind. I don't know that white girl." "That little girl just got into population." "Did ya see how happy the guards was? They was scared it was on them." "Yeh, now they have someone to punish. They's happy." "I hate this!"

 

I'm the one who kept repeating, "I hate this!" There is nothing I can do in cases like this. I am not allowed to plead her case or even look like I want to. Some consider Kris brave to have blurted out the one line, but I knew it wasn't bravery; it's compassion that forced that warning from her mouth in the face of danger. A verbal protest can buy you a ticket to the hole, too.

 

Count cleared, and we uncharacteristically exited the gym somberly in near silence as we filed past a gaggle of officers surrounding our sobbing red-faced handcuffed girl who hung her head in shame and sorrow. I had to push emotion down to the bottom of my heart and remind myself that there is nothing I can do for her. Like Alice in the rabbit hole, nothing is as it should be. Honesty is a sin. Truth is used against us. We are helpless. Hopeless.

 

Internally I lift my arms and scream to the god of bad girls, "I HATE THIS!!!!"