Same trauma, different woman

Incarcerated outside of her home state and seeking God: she’s been locked up for seven years and has only a couple of weeks to go. The stress of the unknown and going home is high. It’s been amped up by COVID and the threat of being in solitary confinement as a way to quarantine before going home. She’s finally secured a place to go “home” to and is nervous and excited about reuniting with her seven-year-old son. She’s worried about finding a job and how she might continue her education and re-connect with her parents and siblings. The mix of relief and anxiety is a cocktail she’s never tasted but is willing to swallow to be free of the prison bars. And then the unexpected happens. Early in the morning while her bunkie is at breakfast, an officer barges into her cell—a man with whom she’s never spoken. Without words, he pushes her against the wall and begins groping and touching her body. She is stunned and instantly knows she can do or say absolutely nothing.

Mom of two, wife and teacher: the trauma suffered by a woman who is incarcerated is deep and wide. A woman serving only a few months departs prison with traumatic scars—most of which she has no name for and doesn’t recognize upon returning home. Certainly, small issues linger. She’s been required to be in her cell and be counted six times every day at the same hour. After being released, her body clock is on alert at those six times each day; those hours will never pass by the same way again. The rate at which she chews her food has become routine. The officer’s voice resonates in her jaw: “Less talking, more chewing!”

Divorced, 50-something with a college-aged daughter: profanity has become the norm and doesn’t sound quite so bad anymore. She has picked up the habit and struggles to release it and return to her regular jargon. Her first stop for groceries is a hurdle. Not only do the crowds frighten her, but the number of choices—crackers and toothpaste and cereal—overwhelm her. She panics in aisle five and tears begin to flow. She abandons the cart and runs out the door. These kinds of upsets are to be expected.

Artist with a life sentence for protecting herself: imprison a woman for a long or life sentence, and she gains layers and layers of issues that will follow her the rest of her life. She has seen things that haunt her: women in body bags, brutal fights, women on too much medication, officers passing drugs, ladies jumping headfirst onto concrete from two flights up, stabbings,  women strapped to chairs and beaten, contraband being forced inside of a woman as a hiding place, and contaminated items being used to take drugs. She paints and draws to relieve the pressure.

Casualty of the foster care system and parent less: heterosexism, racism, ageism, sexism and every other –ism happen on a grand scale in prison. She is given permission to change rooms, and women of another color accuse her of being able to move first because of her skin. The women corner her in a staircase, spit on her and hurl racist insults at her. She is badly beaten.

Incarcerated when her dad died and no way to say goodbye: the fear of men sinks into her gut without her knowing. And then she is blessed after her release with a job working with a male co-worker. Her body resists. She is suspicious of the man and is terrified to be near him. The sound of sirens or the view of a policeman causes angst even when she knows she has done nothing wrong.

Sober for the first time since she was 12: she listens to two women having sex in her own cell—and sometimes between an officer and an inmate—because the cell is on the highest level and far from the stairs or door. She fears dying because she is without the proper mental health medication and has complained of pain in her abdomen with no follow up. She shares an inhaler with another woman and worries she won’t catch another breath.  

Mom of five and a spouse doing the best he can: each 15-minute phone call is interrupted with a recording reminding that it is a call from the prison. Another recording reminds that only two minutes are remaining or one minute. So a 15-minute call is reduced to about 10 minutes and most of that time is spent repeating what was said when the recording began. If she is fortunate, she will have a visitor each week or each month or maybe a few times a year. The dilemma is whether to have her children see her in this place. And the real trauma begins when the visit is over and the goodbye breaks her heart. She is strip searched prior to the visit and seconds after her family walks out of the room.

Completed her GED in prison and is estranged from her family: she is told daily of her worthlessness—reminded that she is no one and not smart and might as well not try to better herself. Slurs and insulting names fly around her head like Frisbees in a park.  Once out the door, she can throw away the clothes she’s worn for years and the badge with her identifying number. But what she cannot dispose of for a while is the official prison identification card. She shows the ID card at the DMV with a shaking hand and tears filling her eyes. She apologizes for having only a prison identification and begs the woman behind the counter to believe she is a nice person.

Grandmother who worries about her son serving a life sentence: she maneuvers the public library computer to fill out an online job application with some help from a stranger. She checks the box next to FELON…or should she?  She secures the interview for a minimum wage job that she can walk to in 30 minutes or spend 90 minutes on the bus to reach. The supervisor is impressed with her skills and her smile. She’s promised a job and a call back tomorrow. But once the background check is finalized, the call comes, like it does every single time. “We want you, but your felony prevents us from hiring you.”

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