~~Trick of Leave Woman~

Getting on With Life

2010-07-04T12:36:00.000-07:00

I hung our with a new friend last evening. We spent the evening talking about life, our pasts, our secrets and much more. When he came for dinner he brought with him a box. When I opened the box there was a beautiful brand new Thesaurus . He had read my blog "The Rules" that I had written what seems like a lifetime ago. In that writing I wrote about needing a Thesaurus. And so after several years...I am given what I needed. Just writing about it brings tears to my eyes. I think receiving that book as a gift is the single most thoughtful gift I have ever received.

Life goes on after tragedies. Long after the suffering ends, memories remain. I have tried hard not to forget my memories, at the same time the memories do not run my life. I think this is important. I can never change my past behaviors because they are in the past. I do have control over what happens this minute, this second. Will I waste precious time feeling the pain of the past,? Or will I celebrate a life that has evolved and continues to evolve? I choose to celebrate life and in that celebration bring new people into my life to join me. People like D, who brought to me the single most thoughtful gift I have ever received. Actually maybe it is the second most thoughtful. The most thoughtful gift would be answering my message on Craig s List and having the courage to come into my life and be my friend.

So D....this writing is for you....

Leyla

Poetic Justice

2010-06-22T14:33:00.000-07:00

I recently became a docent on Alcatraz island. Yep, me on the island but this time I have the keys. Whodathought? One third of my time spent on the island is doing research in the island library. There are hundreds of books that have been written, by inmates, guards, native americans and many sons and daughters of guards that use to live there. It is truly a hodge podge of stories with one common denominator....the rock.

I work the evening tour because I like anything "Ghost". And there are many ghosts on Alcatraz. Not so many phantom mists, but ghosts of memories, lost time, helplessness and hopelessness. And I feel so many of those memories inside of me. It is a visceral feeling for me.

Being on Alcatraz has made me realize that I still have many things that have been left unsaid. Stories that will be lost unless I write them down. Housekeeping duties that I have left untended for a few years. I feel those memories beginning to weigh me down a bit. So I will do what I do best, write it down. Put into words the memories that continue to haunt me and keep me company when I least need the company.

I have created "Poetic Justice" in my life by going to a place where convicts lived out most of their lives. Where the sound of cell doors slamming becomes the loudest noise that one hears. Back to a time when inmates marched in line to the dining hall, to work, and even to the showers. A time when no one was allowed to talk except out on the yard or in the dining hall. Speaking while anywhere else could cost you time in "isolation". It is easy to pick up on the heaviness of memories that have been created in that place. I wonder if my old cell still has memories of me and what I experienced in prison. I was one of the lucky ones...I did my time and got out....I have not gone back.

I think this will be good for me. A catharsis, cleaning out the small closets, remembering the stories.

May 16th 2006 Speech to VIP Mentor Fresno

2006-06-05T13:58:00.000-07:00

May 16th, 3 years ago, I was an inmate at Valley State Prison for Women. I felt like my life was over. At the age of 47 I was in prison for the first (and hopefully) the last time. A lifetime of small permissions, poor decisions, self denial and not taking care of myself resulted in me making a really bad decision. I was arrested and sentenced to 3 years and 8 months in the California Department of Corrections. I had broken the trust of many people who believed in me. I let people down. I let myself down.

Prison is a brutal place. I experienced days filled with fear for my safety, loss of dignity and unspeakable violations. Maria was a tall heavy set brown lady with cold eyes and no teeth. I met her in A Yard. She was back for her 7th time. “What are you doing here?” she asked…A little while later she said “You’ll be back. Everyone violates and comes back”. “I’m not coming back” I told her. How could anyone want to come back to this place? How could anyone allow themselves to come back to this place? Other inmates told me stories of violating parole and being brought back, sometimes after only a few days. I started to feel cold inside. I was afraid I would be one of the women who would come back. The longer I stayed the more I came to believe that the odds were against me staying out of prison. Kirk was visiting one Sunday, and it hit me like a cold wind how much I had lost and what I was up against. I finally admitted that I was homeless, I had no money or job. I did not have a community of friends to turn to for help. I realized how ill-equipped I was to live in society. To take care of myself. To make healthy decisions and ask for help.

My first step on my journey of recovery and rehabilitation began with an opportunity to go directly into a residential program the day I was released on parole. Residential Sucked!! But I was willing to do anything not to go back to prison. Living in a residential forced me to look at myself honestly. That was something I was not use to doing. I slowly came to realize (after many hours of picking weeds in the sun) that, to survive in this world I would have to change. I had absolutely no idea how to do that.

I heard about Volunteers in Parole when I first got to residential. I knew immediately that this was something I wanted to be involved in. I waited for 6 months for a mentor. I put my trust in Joanne, who found a mentor for me who became my inspiration and friend. I also found mentors and friends through a support group called Women Helping Other Women or WHOW for short. This group is facilitated by women who work for parole…for women on parole. All of these people believed in me until I could begin to believe in myself. They offered me opportunities to go into the community and tell my story. Each time I told my story I began to hold my head up a little higher. I started looking people in the eye.

My mentor was and is my cheerleader, as are all my friends at Fresno Parole. I have come to understand that it is not possible to stay out of prison on our own. It takes a community. It takes nurturing and support. It takes healthy guidance.

I got off parole almost 9 months ago, after completing 13 months of a successful parole. I could not have done this without the huge support that was given to me during my parole. I remember visiting with my Parole Officer, some months into my parole. I felt scared and discouraged. I asked her “how can I do it?” She smiled at me and touched my arm and said “Just do the next right thing Leyla, just do the next right thing”. I listened to those words. I remember them everyday as I go about my life. It’s amazing how a simple statement could become so important in my life.

Today I take every opportunity that is given to me, and there are many. I have found a community of people through AA, Alanon, The Sisters of Mercy and St. Vincent DePaul Society, who love me and guide me in doing the next right thing everyday. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think about how truly wonderful my life is today.

It started for me when I joined a group called WHOW and met a wonderful woman named Linda, who would become and remains my mentor.

In two weeks I will graduate from Skyline College in San Mateo California, with a certificate in Biotech Manufacturing. There is a whole group of people standing with me for support and encouragement as I try to find a company who is willing to give me a second chance. And…I am no longer afraid to tell my story to anyone who will listen. A story of recovery and redemption. On Monday, I will receive an award for my writings about prison. I am truly honored. I am truly grateful. Thank You

This speech was made May 16th 2006 at the Annual VIP Mentors Banquet in Fresno California.

Telling the Story

2006-05-20T20:17:00.000-07:00

This week I had the honor of being invited to be a guest speaker at a VIP Mentor banquet in Fresno. VIP Mentor is a program that has statewide recognition. The program teams a Judge or Attorney up with a person who is still on parole. The object of the program is to place parolees in a place where they can be with the "winners". People who are successful in their own lives and can share some of that wisdom with their mentees. I was lucky enough to have been a participant in this program while I was on parole. I had a wonderful mentor named Linda who is an attorney. She is also my friend and my inspiration. From her I learned that it is possible to "start again". It is possible to move forward one step at a time.

Visiting Fresno was very special for me because I had not been back since I discharged parole , gave back my number and moved here to the Bay area to live at Catherine's Center. Going back was special because it allowed me to see how far I had come. And I realized that I would not be here today had it not been for the people who work through parole and VIP Mentors who supported and believed in me until I could believe in myself. I was given the opportunity to "give back" some hope and gratitude on Tuesday night. I will print my speech later. Here are some pics that Kirk took. I was privileged to have Kirk accompany me to Fresno and meet my friends and mentors. It was cool...he knew me before prison, during prison and now after prison. I am glad he stayed around to witness the miracle...

Catherine's Center

2006-02-18T15:03:00.000-08:00

What does Catherine's Center mean to me? I think of words like Redemption, Mercy and Forgiveness. It only holds these things for me if I am willing to reach out to take them.

There is a wall in front of me. A wall built of abuse, fear, dishonesty, shame, guilt and anger. I call these things my "stuff". Any one of them could keep me from the unconditional love and mercy that is here for me.

My life has been like a shelf on a wall, deep inside a dark closet, stacked with years of hopes, dreams, shame and fear. I put these things on my shelf to deal with later or preferably not at all. Over time my shelf became laden with my stuff I had avoided and denied.

One day the shelf collapsed and my stuff came crashing out. I was standing in the way...along with countless others...people who loved and supported me and some I knew only by name. We all felt the weight of my lifetime of stuff denied and put away...out of sight but never completely out of mind.

The guilt I feel at the hurt I have caused others, joins all of the other "stuff" laying around me. Do I leave it there? Do I put it back on a shelf? First, I would have to build another one. I came to Catherine's Center to find another way.

I remember meeting the staff of Catherine's Center for the first time. I started crying when I was met at the train station. I remember saying "I don't ever cry". I have not stopped crying since. I was invited to bring myself, just as I am, to this place and call it my home.

What does Catherine's Center mean to me? I'm asked to do thing that are difficult. I am asked to pick up the jumble of mistakes and broken relationships at my feet...each one separately. I am given time to learn the difficult lessons that go along with facing myself. I have love and support as I touch each thing, dusty from being stacked away on my shelf for so long and dented from the crash.

And there are people everywhere...like angels...they reach out to help me lift and hold my stuff...I am encouraged to open my eyes and look to see each thing.

What do I do with these things? Some are so painful...

"Now...give it to God", they say with love so sweet. "Give that one to God and that one too".

I try to hold on to some...too embarrassed, too ashamed and hurt to even feel I could give it away...With voices so compassionate and tender, with eyes filled with forgiveness and love, I hear "Give that one to God...it's ok...you can let go now".

Dedicated to Sister Suzanne Toolan and Sister Marguerite Buchannan, January 22, 2006

Life goes on....

2006-02-15T11:12:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I stop and look at myself....Where I was 3 years ago...where I've been and where I am today....If I would have tried to make my life go where I thought it should go, after prison, I would not be here today...in a million years I could not have imagined the wonderful people and places and things that have come into my life...

While I am writing this I am surrounded by a room full of science students...Most of them very young although there are a few seasoned people like myself. It seems surreal and yet today is the most real thing in my life...this moment, this instant...

My story was written up in the school paper. I keep thinking "why would they want to know my story"? People tell me my story is a story of defeat turned into victory...I guess I see a lot of lives that are that way. The fact that many of us suit up boot up and show up means we are victorious over the things in our lives that would hold us back. Believe me there are more than a few things in my life that could and would hold me back if I did not get up and get out into life every day...

I am honored to be written up in the paper. I feel honored every time someone stops to listen to my story or read my writings....

Another Day for Pontius Pilate

2005-12-14T19:34:00.000-08:00

Stanley “Tookie” Williams was executed yesterday morning. His death was the subject of my dream that night. In my dream, I felt horror as I watched him die. I also felt the anguish and sadness of the victim’s families knowing their loved ones had faced their deaths afraid and alone.

There have been many executions of death row inmates during my lifetime. I lived in Texas for 10 years and became numb as countless men and women were put to death in the tough Texas prison system. I remember someone telling me "don’t commit a crime in Texas they’ll kill ya there”. I think my response was “I don’t plan on committing a crime in any State”. I get a cold feeling inside as I remember that almost prophetic statement. I did commit a crime though not in Texas but here in California…the very State that executed Tookie yesterday.

In those days, and all the days up to the day I was arrested, I considered Tookie one of “those people”…you know… those addicts, rapists, murderers, homeless, mentally -ill –beggar- criminal- type people. I felt cushioned from having to identify myself with any of “them”. I would shake my head in disgust or pity at the sight of woman panhandling money on the streets of San Francisco surrounded by her earthly possessions and the smell of too many days without a bath and clean change of clothes. I might drop a quarter or dollar in her hand and feel pretty darn good about myself. Pretty good that I was not one of “those people”.

Then…in a matter of a few days, and several terrible choices, I became one of “them”. Suddenly, I was handcuffed to a pole at the police station, being booked and fingerprinted. Made to bend over and show the most intimate parts of my body. In one day, I became homeless, jobless without money or health insurance. Everything gone…Today, the thought of a dollar being dropped into my own hand now seems pretty good to me. I have found myself thinking about how it would be living under a bridge. Where could I get a jumbo-sized refrigerator box to call my very own? What sort of bridge would offer me protection and the luxury of safety? Where would I get food to eat? I have to admit that lately I have been observing what organizations serve hot breakfasts and lunches. Now as a conversation starter, while waiting for a train, I can ask…how many places can you get a free meal in South San Francisco? I’m sure most normal people would look at me in stunned dismay. I think most homeless people (if they ever had the money to ride the train) would smile and begin to share tidbits of information on where to score the perfect meal and where to go to stay out of the rain. I am now part of that club…I feel honored.

Anyway, back to Tookie…Tookie committed a crime whether he admitted to it or not. On a scale of 1 to 10 his crime rates about a 12. My crime is somewhere down on the scale of importance. However, in the end, Tookie and I still looked for the same compassion and mercy from the same people. The days of my blind indignity are at an end. I have been humbled. Now it means something to me that a person is killed for their crime in a State that has now re-named their correctional institution The California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation. I have found that the word Rehabilitation is really just a word until there is a touch of forgiveness and mercy added in. I have not experienced a lot of that yet.

I wanted to blame the governor for Tookie’s death. In the end the governor only played the role of a modern day Pontius Pilate. He followed the wishes of the majority of people who would rather point their fingers and say “ kill him, kill that man, he broke the law”, than face their own dishonesty and criminal behaviors.

I use to think I was “better than” and in no danger of ever being “one of them”. Of course I use to do things like jay walk and walk across the street on a red light. When driving I use to speed up on a yellow light and end up going through the intersection on a red light. I use to keep the extra money that cashiers accidentally gave me as change from a purchase. So, how can I compare those things to murder? There are levels of criminal behaviors. All of the above activities go against the rules set forth by society.

Although I am not a Christian, I believe the teachings of Jesus’ life bring home an important truth for all of us. All crimes are forgivable. None of us are immune from committing crimes and all of us are in need of mercy and forgiveness. Most of all…all of us can be redeemed. All of us except Tookie Williams, it is too late for him.

This entry is dedicated to my friends and mentors at Catherine’s Center of San Mateo and to the Sisters of Mercy and St.Vincent de Paul’s society who have taught me the meaning of mercy and redemption.

The Sweet Smell of Ozone

2005-12-02T11:09:00.000-08:00

For most of my 16 months at Valley State Prison for Women (VSPW) I was blessed with a view. The window by my bed faced East. I was witness to some of the most stunning sunrises I have ever seen. ( Having lived many years in New Mexico I have seen hundreds of sunrises painted on the morning sky). Colors of rose fading to pink tuning to burnished gold as the sun played with the clouds that sat over the foothills of the Sierras. I could see the groves of almond trees that seemed to almost wrap their arms around our encapsulated world.

The view of my world was enchanting but for the ugly while guard shack sitting on the small dirt pile 500 feet past my window, and….the electric fence. VSPW was surrounded by a meshed chain fence approximately 9 feet high with razor sharp Constantine wire decorating it’s top. That sight alone was enough to deter any thoughts of escape for most run of the mill inmates as myself. I would of entertained thoughts of escape had I not spent hours listening to the guards practice their shooting skills on a practice field not far from the grounds of our prison. I harbored the belief that there was a bullet with my name on it…

I reminded here of a movie I once saw where a killer carried around a special bullet for his nemesis. It even had the recipient’s name on it. I believe there was a bullet that had “Pepper” etched into it. My friend would say here “Leyla, it’s not all about you” This is true…but being such a failure at Identity Theft, I was not about to try my hand at a prison break. Yes, I was in my own little Alcatraz….I would bide my time by doing my time.

Ok, back to my view… the big fence was daunting to be sure…but the truly scary fence was the smaller fence that stood a few feet beyond the big one. THE ELECTRIC FENCE. The electric fence was a series of wires that appeared to be spaced close enough together so on one, not even an anorexic tape worm could crawl through without brushing up against a wire. The fence stood about six feet tall and stood about six feet one the outside of the chain link fence, so unless someone could get enough speed up in 5 feet of running room and vault seven feet into the air, clearing the electric monster, my guess was that it would hold all of the residents on the inside of the fence.

The electric fence was ominous in it’s look of innocence. It emitted a hum and there was a smell an impending rain storm on the air most of the time…the smell of ozone. I could almost imagine a guard rewinding the tape of “hum noise” every morning and opening a can of something that looked like air freshener with “Ozone” printed on the outside. I got use to the sound and smell
until K reminded me of them on one of his monthly visits…I realized I had come to believe the fence posed no danger but was there for show only. After all we only had to “believe” the fence would hurt us. Who of us had the courage or stupidity to find out if the fence actually worked…I was comforted by that belief until the day I was an animal run into the fence…The animal was a small and furry one. At least it looked small from the window of my room. I am reminded here of the scene in “There’s Something About Mary” where the character, played by Ben Stiller, electrocutes the small obnoxious ball of fluff called a dog. There is a yelp and a smoking dog flies straight up as a current of electricity courses through his tiny body. That is almost what happened when that small innocent looking animal ran into the electric fence that day…It all happened very quickly…I saw movement then…no movement. The animal seemed suspended in the air…then the smoke…fried creature…

I knew then what I had not wanted to know before…the fence was real…it was on…it was waiting…

I did not look out of my window to enjoy the sunrises much after that…the almond groves turned into a dark and deadly forest and the colors of the sunrises I had once enjoyed, lost their color for me…

How very sad…

Killing Me Slowly

2005-10-14T21:24:00.000-07:00

I remember thinking, when I first got to prison, that the guards were there to keep us safe from each other. I soon found out that the guards were there to hand out toilet paper and keep themselves safe. It’s not that the guards were all bad people or even incompetent, there were just so few of them compared to the large number of inmates they were there to guard. There were not enough guards to stop the day to day predatory activities that inmates inflicted on each other and the slow killing of our spirits.

I remember mentioning this to another inmate one day. She looked at me with a sad knowing look and said “Pepper, that is what prison is all about. The predators and the preyed upon. And no safe place to hide. Our spirits die a little more each day. We’ll be lucky if we have any spirit left when we leave”.

I was one of the fortunate ones to have made it out with some of my spirit left. I left VSPW bruised and battered spiritually. I know I will never be the same person I was when I went to prison, I think that is ok because there were parts of me that needed to be changed and I did not have a clue how to do that. Going to prison caused me to take a hard look at myself and who I wanted to be and then commit myself to taking time to allow my spirit heal and grow. Now I take time every day to nurture my spirit and feed it healthy things such as honesty, acceptance and hope.

There are people I know who will never leave VSPW. They are the “lifers”. These women will live the rest of their life loosing their spirit one day at a time. My heart aches for the people I left behind. I have no answers for how to change these things. I can only change myself, one day at a time, and use my voice to tell, whoever will listen, what goes on behind the wall…

Matters of Dignity

2005-10-14T21:21:00.000-07:00

Before going to prison I took many things for granted. Things like watching television whenever I wanted to and going to the kitchen for a midnight snack. I had always taken my privacy for granted. Being able to pee or poop in private without a crowd of onlookers or listeners to support me. One day I decided that my legs were beginning to look more than a little furry. The fact that my legs were hairy in prison did not matter much to me aesthetically…I have always thought myself a man’s woman and I was not out to attract the bull dike named Money, down the hall. Besides women like other women in prison whether they have hairy legs or not. I think hairy legs might be a plus. One could close their eyes and….well, I won’t go there right now. Anyway I had some time in the middle of the day and I thought…why not?

Each cell had one toilet and one shower for 8 women. Each had a partial door, which meant the door was solid with openings cut at the top and at the bottom so that the guards, (or whoever happened by) could see feet and heads anytime they had a mind to look. I wanted to believe that this was to deter homosecting (hanky panky ) from happening between inmates but it turns out that the toilet and shower were the favored spots for intimate relationships. I now think the openings were put there to keep our private functions from being private and to inflict our personal sounds and smells on each other. The California Department of Corrections is very devious in the ways they remind us of how low we have sunk.

Anyway, on this particular day I decided to sit down on a little step to comfortably shave my legs. Things were going pretty smoothly (pun intended). I was comfortable and confident that the bottom part of the door hid my backside. Not that everyone had not seen my ass before.

So, I am shaving my legs when I hear snickering behind me. I stood up and turned around to find my roommates squatting to behold my behind in all it’s glory. Normally that would not have bothered me too much but there is sort of an unwritten code between inmates that we respect each other’s private moments and private parts. We sort of put walls up where there are no physical walls. To go out of one’s way to violate that privacy is a breech of that respect. Sort of a “bitch slap” so to speak. This was a clear sign that I was not respected in my cell.

I remember being angry, then afraid. If my cell mates would walk over that invisible line between respect and disrespect that other lines would they cross? There were very few lines that kept us safe from each other and gave us some dignity in an environment where dignity was hard to find.

After that day, whatever safety and comfort I had found in my room disappeared. I kept my ass and my heart hidden from the prying eyes of those around me.

My Life as a Climber

2005-10-11T20:57:00.000-07:00

(From a journal entry dated 4/11/05)

K says he has felt what I am feeling now. He says it is a “one day at a time” journey. He says it gets better a little at a time. I believe that there is a Higher Power that has given me the courage to live through each day up until today. But, when I look back there have been some very tough days.

Where was I three years ago? K was going to Moab and I felt lost and alone. I was on a downhill spiral and kept going down from there. Two years ago I was about to leave Bridgeport for Valley State Prison for Women. It took all that I had just to breath, on some days. A year ago Kirk told me that he had moved on. We would no longer be partners. It was at that time I was also given a “drug holiday” a fun term for having all of my medications discontinued at the same time. It was not a holiday…

It’s funny how important events seem to happen at the same time. Within days I became paralyzed and frozen within myself, unable to speak or reach out to ask for help. I had slipped below depression to a dark place I had never been before. I heard unwanted voices chattering non stop in my head. Thoughts and feelings flooded me, threatening to shatter me into pieces (or so I thought).

I did not care to breath anymore. I had a sheet from my bed. A solid door frame to the bathroom. Room checks every hour. I had seen it done before when I worked in a psychiatric hospital. A patient had hung himself between fifteen minute checks. I remember trying to breath the breath of life back into him. He was already gone… There it was….a plan…Though, not a decision yet…

I did reach outside of myself. I reached out to Mr. Moore. I remember seeing him standing outside as we came back from chow. I had not eaten for several days. I left the line and stood before him. I could not speak. He saw the tears and fear in my eyes. I told him “I think I am dying”. He believed me. I did not have to say anything else. For once the system at VSPW worked. I was given help.

That was a year ago…

Today I have finished prison. I have worked a residential program and moved on to Sober Living. I struggle on some days to put my life together in a way it has never been before. I am “doing the damn thing”.

There are times when my mind, my disease, reminds me of all that I have NOT accomplished. It reminds me of the losses and pain and shame. The truth is that I am a mountaineer, climbing for my life. Each step takes me closer to the summit . The steps are sometimes a struggle. My job is to put one foot in front of the other and be vigilant as to where I put that foot. I watch the mountain for falling ice and rocks. I watch for avalanches that will bury me under tons of snow and rob me of air forever.

There are no guarantees here. None. Yesterday I climbed…one foot in front of the other. Today I feel fit enough to climb some more. One foot in front of the other. Rest, breath….be gentle on myself…just do the damn thing.

The Last Supper

2005-10-11T20:53:00.000-07:00

I am watching Posey as she lies at my feet. Last night as I laid on K’s sofa I coaxed her up on my legs and replayed the day I went to jail. There are many moments, both before and after my arrest, that I have no clear recollection of. I try not to make more of it than it needs to have. I have to admit that my “not-remembering” scares me. What is there that my mind chooses to forget? Or do I have early onset Alzheimer’s disease or hardening of the arteries to my brain? Dear God!! Or maybe it is just that I am not ready to remember the decisions and choices I made and where they got me. Or the hurt I caused my family and loved ones. Or the trust I lost from my colleagues and peers. My therapist wisely told me that I will remember when it is time, if it is time…

Anyway, Posey is on my legs. Which brings me back to the day that I was arrested.

I stayed in bed late that day. The temperature was probably below zero outside and the snow was thick and deep. I don’t remember if the sun was shining. I was suppose to work the 3 to 11 shift in the operating room at the hospital. I had not been sleeping at night for a while. About 42 days. My concern had tuned to a cold dread that I needed serious help and would not ask for it. I had been playing the game of trying to pass myself off as being “ok” for a very long time. I guess it had been working because neither K, or the people I worked with, mentioned being concerned about my behaviors. I did not want my life to come crashing down all around me. But, my life would come crashing down to the ground, in a matter of hours.

I was tired. My insides felt fried, and numb yet I felt full of electrical current as I made my way to the kitchen that morning. The morning of January 14th 2003. K was working on his computer as he did every day. I got a drink and then laid on the sofa. Posey came to lay on my legs. I loved that she did that. I know the extent of my loneliness and lack of nurturing I had while growing up, so having this warm fluffy creature, who loved me unconditionally, keep me company, was awesome. I remember drinking in her warmth on that cold January day. I could feel her breathing. I could feel her heartbeat. I could feel a sense of dread deep within me.

I asked K if he would like something to eat. His eyes probably lit up…he had been working all morning by then. I enjoyed doing for him, he was my family. He still is.

I made bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches. The Last Supper. I wonder how Jesus felt as he looked back on his last meal as a free man. Maybe with some of the bitter sweet pain I feel. Quick freeze frame. Those would be the last moments of my life as I knew it with K and Posey…

….What would I have done differently had I known that at that time? Perhaps I would have appreciated those final minutes just a little more. I would have taken a deep breath as smelled the scent of K’s neck as I hugged him goodbye. I would have felt the softness of Posey’s coat and looked deeper into her brown eyes drinking in the memory of her love for me. I would have loaded up my pocket with enough bacon to last me for the 19 months of my prison stay…

As it is…It think about that time today…just those moments. Those were real moments. Those are my moments to remember and treasure.

Today is my time to create more moments. I am a free woman, once more…

I thank Harold Brodkey for the following quote:

“I distrust summaries, any kind of gliding through time, any too great a claim that one is in control of what one recounts; I think someone who claims to understand but is obviously calm, someone who claims to write with emotion recollected in tranquillity, is a fool and a liar. To understand it to tremble. To recollect is to re-enter and be driven…I admire the authority of being on one’s knees in front of the event”.

Cindy on my Mind

2005-10-04T20:50:00.000-07:00

I saw Nina (her name has been changed) yesterday. It was a reminder of prison. Nancy was an inmate that had lived across the hall from me. Nina was crazy. Nina drove everyone nuts. Yesterday she was a regular citizen. No longer an inmate and she did not appear the least bit crazy. Here she was dressed in “people clothes” and talking about starting school in a few days.

Nina brought me news of Cindy (her name has been changed). Cindy had gone back to prison not long after I paroled. Now I know for sure what my heart was already telling me…Cindy was back in prison…Wow…

I remember how Cindy had spoken with conviction of her intention of staying out of prison this time. She spoke of all the things she would do to stay out and stay with her son. God, how she loved her son.

I should say here that the current statistics in the State of California for the number of felons returning to prison while on parole is over 75%. That is an astounding figure. When I first heard that statistic I was still in prison and did not believe it. Then, I started seeing women I had been in prison with coming back to prison even before I paroled the first time. After my parole it seemed that almost everyone I had known was back in prison. I believed that no matter what I did I would enter those gates again as an inmate. It took me months before I understood that I could stay out of prison if I so chose.

I am coming to understand that we learn to believe our words…We believe that if we say the words “I am not going back” or “I’m staying out this time” enough times it will
somehow keep us safe from ourselves and our behaviors. I have learned that this disease of addiction and criminal thinking is a disease of the mind, a disease of the spirit.

Cindy had spoken of her hope, her belief that she could stay out from behind the wall, that she could stay clean. I have always thought that if you want something bad enough you can make it happen. I have found that it takes much more than belief itself…

What does it take? I believe that courage above all else is needed. The courage to face ourselves, the reality of who we are today. The courage to face what we do and why we do it. That hurts so damn much.

Acceptance is needed as well. Acceptance that we might not, were not, loved the way we felt we needed to be loved. We were not loved and protected by the people who were suppose to do that for us. Our families. Our Mothers and Fathers, aunts and uncles and grandparents. The people we looked to for protection in times of fear and sadness. Many times these very people were the one’s who hurt us the most. Physically, emotionally, sexually and spiritually.

Along with courage and acceptance comes the most important thing of all…I have to be willing to change my behaviors, beliefs, friends and perspectives so that when the time comes, and it will come, that I have to make some tough decisions I will have something more than hope and intention inside of me to help me make those choices. Courage to change the way I live my life. The old me would rather stay blind to me and the world around me. Sometimes I want to be blind more than anything. Being blind will not keep me safe. Being blind will not keep me out of prison.

My pain today comes from knowing and seeing just enough to know that I can never “not know” again. I know enough to know I have to know more…and sometimes I do not want to know more.

That is part of my old thinking. I am that little girl who wants to be wrapped up in my Mother’s arms, believing that all people are good and love me. Believing that I am safe from harm, from hate and other people’s hurtful actions. How long do I base my actions on that fairy tale? Who taught me that fairy tale to begin with? I can’t remember when that has actually happened in my life.

I hugged Nina goodbye yesterday. I was glad that I had seen her. I was grateful that we could meet again outside of the wall. I walked away with a belief that I could stay out of prison today and tomorrow and forever…I walked away making an important decision to do whatever it will take to change all of the things that brought me behind the wall on January 14th 2003.

Mystical Mysterious Yogurt

2005-10-01T15:17:00.000-07:00

I love yogurt...Not between my legs...not between my legs still in it's container (the edges are sharp!)

Besides taco mush, yogurt was my second favorite item to boost from the chow hall. A yummy treat that I could save for later...The same old problem arises. How to get it out of the chow hall under the watchful eyes of our beloved guards. The "tummy trick" was out of the question. Too many edges to a yogurt container. It's tough to pass a round plastic container off as fat.

"Hmmmm.... where to put it?"

Many secrets are hidden between a woman's legs. At least that is what I read once in a poem...ok so the poem was on a bathroom wall...it was still a poem. I would like to think that poem was written about me. Between my legs is a mystical, heavenly wonderland, luring men closer like the song of a siren...until he crashes against the cliffs of passion bla bla bla....I think many women have this fantasy...

So...what better place to hide a tub of strawberry banana low-fat yogurt than in the mysterious fold of my womanhood?

Ok...so the same problems arise...how to get this juicy container of yogurt from point A (my tray) to point B (my crotch)?
I have to admit, I feel a little more embarrassed sticking something between my legs with my peers looking on. My mind "goes there"... would I want to eat something that had been carried around in a spot like that? I think about it some more. The stuff is vacuum packed to keep the little yogurt bacteria safe from unwanted outside bacteria...so I'm safe there. Besides, in an institution riddled with Hepatitis C and other dangerous and often fatal diseases, what are a few innocuous crotch bacteria gonna do to me?

Which takes me back to the original question of getting from point A to point B. Do I do it while I am still sitting down? That takes considerable fidgeting to get it positioned just right. Sort of like manipulating a log between my legs. (That is another story)
The next trick is sitting with my legs far enough apart not to squeeze my savory snack container to the bursting point. I am reminded of the trials of childbirth.

Ok…so it is pretty obvious that sitting down to hide my yogurt is not the answer. I have to stand to insert. (I sound like a Tampax commercial). I quickly realize that standing while everyone is sitting could draw a lot of unwanted attention to myself. Groping in public tends to catch people’s eyes…

I decide to try the slick “stashing the loot, while standing in the line to leave” trick. I hand my tray to my trusted friend Cherie, who rolls her eyes towards the heavens and asks “Why don’t you just eat it now”? I grab my yogurt, pretending that I don’t hear her, and stuff it….I stuff it past my favorite taco mush hiding spot, down to the “jewel of my womanhood…GOD IT’S FREEZING!! My eyes tear up and my nipples become erect. I just know that some guard is going to think that I want his body badly.

The yogurt is in place. “Hey is that yogurt in your pants or are you just happy to see me?” I wonder if that voice is inside my head or if some smart ass inmate is toying with me…I realize it is my own voice I hear and try not to giggle insanely.

I place the container in my underwear I try to center it…too far forward and I will look like a man with an erection…too far back…and well…women will not want me in there line and invite me to go to the bathroom instead and get rid of the load of poop in my drawers. Ok…it’s just right…I’m set…the tasty treat is mine!!

In all of my creative planning I forgot that I have to walk with this hard plastic tub like container stashed between my legs…Cherie is in tears she is laughing so hard. I take on an air of serenity and elegance and begin to walk…One step…drag the other leg…another step…drag the other leg…I am reminded of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

I realize quickly that my greatest obstacle will be trying to walk normally without squeezing the container so tight that the yogurt is ejected into the crotch of my panties.

Two thoughts come to mind. One…If I were a man watching this play out, I would want my penis to be that container of yogurt…(I have been a long time without sex) I would yell “squeeze baby squeeze”. I wonder if the guards would see the humor in all of this?

The second thought is…now I know what a man feels like with an erection in his pants. How does he explain the wet spot once his goods have been squeezed too tightly? “Geez I can’t believe my mind just went there”

This also reminds me of another story which I will tell here…I once had a yeast infection…Yes…the dreaded loaf of smelly bread between the legs syndrome. I hate yeast infections…there are had to explain to anyone who has not experienced one. Anyway…I had a doctor who really was a cool guy…a little “off” in his thinking sometimes and maybe forgetful but I liked him a lot… his name was Dr. Fry. I made an appointment to have Dr. Fry to give me some sage advice and a script for anti-yeast cream. This is in the day when yeast infection medication was not sold over the counter.) I got the sage advice but no script. Dr. Fry had just read an article (probably in Better Homes and Gardens) that talked about a cure for yeast infections being available in the dairy case of your local supermarket. I was to douche with a yogurt and water solution…MMMMM sounds pretty messy…

Now, Dr. Fry was a good doctor and I liked him a lot. One of Dr. Fry’s weak points was not explaining procedures thoroughly before sending people off to follow Dr.’s orders. I was to experience this first hand.

I followed his directions as explained. One teaspoon of yogurt in 16 ounces of lukewarm distilled water and ….douche.

I remember thinking to myself “OOOOOAHHHH what a tasty treat…Strawberry banana yogurt douche.”

It was a disaster! Two days later I was back in Dr. Fry’s office in pain. I had a vaginal infection caused by little bits of strawberries floating around in places where strawberries are not suppose to float. Once Dr. Fry stopped laughing he explained the rest of the instructions to me. Douche with distilled water and plain unflavored yogurt. Yikes!!! I think that experience was one of the reasons I decided to become a nurse. To save society from Doctors!!

So…back to VSPW and the problem at hand. Sneaking the yogurt to my room.

I managed to limp, with the load in my pants, all the way to my hallway. I was almost home free. While taking the container out of it’s secret place two inmates made a big deal of my smelly yogurt and gross it was that I carried it in my pants. What was I to do? It’s like picking candy off of a dirty floor and popping it into my mouth with people watching….I threw the yogurt out…

The battle was lost…but in the end I would win the war…

Hope for Tomorrow

2005-09-24T14:44:00.000-07:00

I remember one lock down in particular. The event was caused by inmates who had been caught “breaking the law”…not an unusual occurrence in prison. The warden decided a message needed to be sent out to all inmates. The inmates had no control, the establishment did. We needed to be reminded of this periodically as we became comfortable and settled and our criminal thinking re-established itself in the population.

One of the ways guards reminded us of our powerlessness was by searching everything we had. (I have written about this previously). So…with our breakfast (usually a boxed breakfast of cold cereal, a fruit and a box of milk) came the directive “take everything from your drawers, lockers, underneath your mattress and under your bed and roll up your blankets and mattress…place all of your belongings on the metal platform where your mattress usually lays”….The message was, “The guards are on their way to search…by the end of the day much of your stuff will be gone”…

We had to put on our Mu Mus for this occasion. Mine was a lovely sky blue mu mu with white polka dots. It was a tent!! It made me feel like Mama Cass Elliot…I loved my Mu Mu. I had to undo my hair (all kinds of contraband can be hidden in hair I am told)…(ah…but can Taco Mush be hidden there?? I think NOT)…

So in my Mu Mu (the better to see you with Grandma) and my long flowing hair, I would wait with my heart in my throat... Sixteen hours later they would come…

Sixteen hours….a day with no place to sit or lay down…A day filled with anxiety about what I would lose today…A day of having nothing else to do but listen to the blaring hip-hop of my fellow cell mates boom box... A day of no where to go and no place to hide…Anticipation would build…

Then…the door would unlock and we would be hustled through two lines of guards…”Hands on head” I think I saw this movie…Schindler’s List wasn’t it? We were off to have our bodies violated…leaving our earthly possessions to be pawed through and discarded at our captors whim…

“Hands on head!” run the gauntlet…try not to care…try not to feel the fear, frustration and anger that threatened to suck the air out of my lungs.

Ten women in a small room…”Turn around, hands against the wall. Lift one foot and then the other…Let’s do the hokey pokey…Take your Mu Mu, bra and underwear off…turn around and face the guard”…I did not let my eyes wander to the naked bodies all around me. I saw only the guard with her flashlight and surgical gloves…I pulled my ears forward, one at a time. I opened my mouth so wide the guard could have seen my ovaries, had I had any. I flipped my hair forward and shook it out…We were all dancing the dance of inmates. Paying the price for our crimes…

Then…”Turn around and face the wall. Each one in turn…bend over…squat…cough…squat…cough…squat…cough” The moment of ultimate trauma and violation had arrived…”Bend over…spread your labia, spread your cheeks”…

I could almost feel the soft light of the flashlight as my secrets were revealed…pale white beam exploring the pink folds of my vagina…it may as well have been my heart laid open to the uncaring eyes of the female guard…

I can remember thinking “I hope I wiped my butt…I hope I didn’t leave anything behind…I wonder what I look like from out there…”

Then…I see and feel everything from a great distance…I can no longer protect the spirit of the woman who is me…I go away from me…to a place where nothingness surrounds me and fills me…

It is over…I am told to put my clothes back on. I am allowed to live another day…

How best to go on? I remember wondering that a lot. Do I go on? The choice is always mine…I put those thoughts away in my safe place to ponder at another time.

My Mu Mu in place I am led to the sofas to sit while my room is torn up. “I deserve this…This is my punishment. This is mine alone to experience”

I finally look up at those women sitting around me. I cannot meet anyone’s eyes. Some women are quiet, like me, struggling to hold on to see another day. Some women slip back into the “I don’t give a shit” attitude of indifference and feigned courage.

“What just happened?” The girl next to me shows the girl next to her the color of her new nail polish. They oooo and ahhhh…someone asks “What’s for breakfast tomorrow”? Questions about how long the motherfucker guards are gonna take in the room. I hear all of this from a great distance…

As I walk into my cell and see my bed, my violation is complete. Clothes thrown here and there, walked on. Dirty boot prints on my white prison shirts…There are things missing I know…I can’t remember what I had before…pictures gone forever…Maybe they weren’t so important after all…or maybe knowing what was gone forever would have taken my breath for the last time…

I will live to see another day. And another, and another…

Sometimes all I really have is the hope that there will be moments in my life when anything is better than what I have now…I do hope for those things.

A New Day...a New Life

2005-09-13T18:10:00.000-07:00

I visited my parole officer yesterday for the last time as a parolee. I will officially parole on September 19th. It was a bitter-sweet moment for me. Being in prison was the single most horrible event of my life, and there has been quite a few awful moments...Yet, that event has turned out to be a wonderful, life changing experience...It could have gone either way for me...I could have waited out my time both in prison and on parole and gone back to "my old ways and attitudes"...instead I made a decision to change my life...to change me...my life will never be the same.

I will continue to write about my prison experience because I think it is an important story to tell...maybe not for anyone else but certainly for myself...with the telling comes the healing I think...

The rest of the story unfolds on a daily basis...as I learn how to think and act differently. How am I doing that? I live a program of 12 simple steps. It's as simple and as complicated as that. I do it a single day at a time and sometimes in moments of pain and fear I do it a single moment at a time. I do not do it alone...I know now that I am not alone...

For all of you who have walked with me through these past months and in some cases years...this day is dedicated to you...it truly is a New Day...and forever a New Life...I love you all so much.

Survival of the Fittest

2005-09-01T15:20:00.000-07:00

I write a lot about my feelings of violation while in prison. Violation in prison was pretty complete. My body, with guards prying eyes and hands, violating even my most private places. My physical belongings were not really mine, I could not be guaranteed that even my journal would not be taken and read and used against me. It also occurs to me that the term "locked-down" is an appropriate term in describing where my mind and spirit was as I lived day to day. In order to protect what was inside of me from being violated by guards and other inmates I simply locked myself down. For 19 months there was little movement inside. I could not allow myself to think, thinking would lead to feeling. Feeling would lead to tears and tears in prison is like a neon sign to guards and inmates that there is a weak animal ready to be pounced on. Just as animals of prey wean out and kill the weakest and sickest of the herd. In prison it is truly the survival of the fittest.

The Target is ME

2005-08-30T14:42:00.000-07:00

I remember days when Corrections Officers (C/O's) were on the firing range somewhere near the prison. Around 8:30 or 9:00 the gunfire would begin. Thousands of rounds... gunfiring cutting through the quiet of the morning.

How often growing up had I heard the same sound? Growing up on or around military bases the sound of gunfire became something I was accustomed to. Soldiers practicing to kill that imagined enemy. Practicing for a war that many never come...Unseen targets.

At first, when I heard the gunfire, I felt comforted, as I did as a child, knowing that those soldiers may someday protect me from that unseen enemy. My mind did not register the significance of what I was hearing....gunfire, practice...And then I realized, there was no unseen or imagined enemy. They were practicing for me, and the thousands of women around me. I was the enemy...

I remember my heart felt like it had entered my mouth. My next thought made my blood run cold....I wondered if any of those guards saw my face on the target.

How had I gotten here? How far I had gone from that young girl living on a military base to that woman trying to survive in prison....

Is that gun for ME?

2005-08-30T14:40:00.000-07:00

I remember going to the eye doctor because I was seeing lights in the dark when I looked down. The light event came on suddenly and made me (and the doc at the infirmary) think of retinas detaching. So I saw the doctor at the infirmary who gave me a lay-in...no work, no play...and an appointment with an outside specialist in Madera with the necessary equipment to make a diagnosis.

I went back to the infirmary 3 days later to be transported to Madera for my appointment. I don't know what I thought "transporting" involved. I knew I wasn't going by limo or taxi. I felt sick when I found out. Shackles were placed around my ankles and waist and my wrist shackles were attached to the waist shackles. I have seen pictures of Timothy McVee in much the same get-up except I did not get the bullet proof vest. I could not even scratch my nose. I sort of shuffled when I walked. The cuffs themselves cut into my flesh, although not enough to break the skin (that would be abusive) but enough to cause a great deal of pain.

Even the shackles were not enough to protect society from me. Both guards had guns. Fully loaded.

At first I did not think much about the guards having guns. Police have guns to protect society from the bad guys. Then it occurred to me...Those guards had guns to use on me if necessary. I was the "bad guy". I felt sick inside.

I felt frightened and powerless. Maybe that feeling was not so bad. Because in feeling frightened and powerless I felt less humiliated shuffling past all of the clients in normal clothes, living normal lives and waiting to see the doctor. I did not, however, look up to meet anyone's eyes. That would have been more than I could have handled.

Taco Mush

2005-08-30T14:13:00.001-07:00

...did I say how much I liked the "Taco Mush" in prison? Not just liked but truly looked forward to it. I have already gone over the issues of the 15 minute window of eating opportunity we had in the mess hall, the CDC happiness rules...not to mention the issue of bacteria....
ok... so there I was... what choice would I make? Throw the food out and follow "the rules" or bring the food on home. I chose (as I would today) to bring the taco mush home, to my cell, for consumption sometime in the near future.

I went to the mess hall prepared to pilfer my supper. I brought with me a corner piece of a plastic garbage bag big enough to hold my taco treasure. In prison we learn to make do with what we have (which is not very much). For instance...a feminine pad with sticky edges become, a dishrag, a floor scrubber, a door jam not to mention a nifty picture hanger. I should write a book on the hundreds of ways to use the feminine pad. It think even the feminine product companies would be amazed. But I digress.

Now the trick is to scoop the mush into my bag while keeping an eye peeled for the ever watchful "happiness police". I would subtly look around...it did not matter that a hundred inmates watched me do this. CODE OF THE INMATES IS: Never, Never NEVER EVER snitch. Big huge rule. You could loose your life if you snitch on the wrong person. You get locked in isolation for your safety if you snitch.

Ok...so...no guard watching...quickly now...scoop it all up...Whoops....a guard.....Hide one arm hiding the loot under the table while casually eating the "green yucky jello with roach looking fruit" with the other hand...Try not to think about all of those scary lump like things floating around in the congealed jello-like substance. Hell, at least we were having something that remotely resembled desert!!! (Must have been a Sunday)

Mush in bag...Tie bag...Halfway home....Now..... society says it is not ok to be fat....slim is in...but not in prison...Fat is where it's at...Slim people do not carry taco mush back to their rooms for midnight snacks. The problem being, where on your body can you hide such a large lump of contraband? Guard's ever watchful eyes check out every lump and bump, natural and unnatural. They have contests to see who can bag the most contraband coming out of the lunch room. Women guards usually win because they can legally grope the most intimate regions where inmates hide the goodies. It becomes a game. Guards 2 Inmates 50. Just don't get caught.

One of the banes of my existence has been my issue of weight...I have learned to embrace my big beautiful woman status...in prison I learned to celebrate my weight....why? because my weight opened up hiding opportunities that might not have existed if I looked like Jennifer Aniston..,.I have a great place for contraband. Little did I know that weighing over 300lbs (20 years ago) and having a monster baby boy (11 lbs 4 1/2 oz, 24 inches long) would mold my body into a "food boosting machine". I had (still do) the perfect hidden compartment. Hell, I could boost my food and your food too! You see....I have the dreaded "tummy apron" born of excess weight being lost with the extra skin left over with nothing to do. This makes a great hiding place. Secret from the prying eyes of the curious guards. At last a sort of positive outcome for being obese.

Anyway....Let's see where I was...so here I am with a bag full of delicious taco mush. Now I must shove it down my pants in a room filled with at least 200 women and guards with sharp eyes. Did I mention the mush was hot...very hot. I slip it into it's nifty hiding spot and VIOLA --- YEOW....HOT, HOT ,VERY HOT....I cast furtive glances through my tears to see if anyone saw me. Of course most of the inmates saw me because criminals miss nothing. (They should all be guards...no one would get away with anything). But being the food criminals we are they all looked the other way or grinned and winked and me.

Snack in place...my table is being called to leave...walk casually TeDeTeDeDum...La...La....(God it's hot down there) "HEY YOU THERE!!!!" ( I think I peed my pants) I turn around and a guard is staring right at me. Thoughts of firing squads, lethal injections and gas chambers slam through my brain.... "Give it up Leyla" my mind tells me. "But I love taco mush" my other mind tells me. "Enough to die for?" "Well...... it's pretty good stuff".
What should I do???? Oh God Oh God....BLUFF!!!! You can only die once...Go for it....
"Yes sir?" I reply.
His eyes move down my body to my visible bulge bellow my belt line. (I am ashamed to say that the bulge looks there same whether there is a pound of taco mush secreted away there or not)

"What's in your pants?"

Now....if I were a man I would have taken that as an invitation. "Is that taco mush in your pants or are you happy to see me?" A smile flits across my face. Quickly I realize that this guard means business. My mind settles back on firing squads, lethal injections and gas chambers...Quickly now....

"Fat" I exclaim....looking at him in the eye, defiantly. "Fat" I say again...."Do you want to see it?" I reach for my waistband feeling beads of sweat building up around the hot bag of mush in my pants. Geez I hope this works, wondering if his bullets are hollow tipped.

His face takes on a variety of expressions as I gaze innocently into his dark brown eyes. He hesitates...in that moment I know how a poker player feels as he holds a 3, 1 seven, two 2's and a 10 and has $15,000 sitting in the pot.

He shakes his head and motions me to move on. Me and my taco mush join the line. MY SNACK IS SAVED...I have won the pot...

I have been a criminal one more time...how sad.

You know, I still find myself looking around for the plastic bag to sneak my goodies out after every meal...I'll have to watch that when a date takes me to dinner. It might be a dead give away that I have been behind the wall. "Hey is that a lobster tail or are you just happy to see me?"

The "Rules"

2005-08-25T16:19:00.000-07:00

*** Out of the ashes- Sometime (most times) it is hard to find words to describe my prison experiences. There are only so many words I know...maybe I need a Thesaurus to help me. I'll look into that.

So...ok...prison rules...

I'm sure there are good reasons for many of the rules imposed by the "captors". Not necessarily imposed to keep us safer. More to keep us in our place. How do they know what to impose? Simple rule of thumb. "If it makes more than one person happy and carefree for just a little while then a rule must be imposed to stop that." Pretty simple stuff. It works too. Kept me in my misery for a long time. I found some ways around that however. and then the very act of "getting away with finding happiness " became the thing that made me happy. MMMMM....sounds a lot like anti-social thinking doesn't it? Sad but true. I worry about that. At times the need to feel even a little happy ruled the day. Today I have a lot more legal options to find happiness. I am glad about that.

I remember loving the meal of Taco Mush that we had about once a month in the mess hall. That made me happy. I would live for that day. There was only one dark spot on my happy day. Giving prisoners enough time to eat went against the rules.

I had options. 1) I could eat so fast I could make myself sick- which took away my happiness and gave my body a whole lot of distress. 2) I could throw half my meal away and wait another month for the meal to be served again. 3) I could take what was left back to my room to eat later on. Now the third option seems like the most logical answer. It was also the "illegal" option. It was the option that would have brough happiness
THE RULE OF CALIFORNIA DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS: NO BRINGING FOOD BACK FROM THE MESS HALL. The rational behind the rule? Bacteria grows in food not kept in refrigerators. Being a nurse I know that. I really do. The real reason is...Happiness, it would have brought some inmates a modicum of happiness. How do I know that is the reason? Ok...Check this out...

We are allowed to shop at canteen and receive boxes of food sent in from family and friends. We keep this food in our lockers. We are allowed to have "stingers" to cook this food up, stingers that make the food hot and edible. But we have no refrigerators to store the food that we do not eat. So....we cooked our food, ate as much as we could and saved the rest. Bacteria, bacteria, bacteria.

Ok...this next one is a big one...We had the big KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN SALE yep we sure did....miles of chicken...chicken that was cooked at least the day before it was brought to the prison to give to us. And inmate, being inmates bought boxes and boxes of chicken and put this chicken in their lockers, and on their lockers, under their beds and under their friends beds...they put it EVERYWHERE....to eat a little at a time...until the chicken was all gone. or they were all chickened out which ever came first. I got four pieces of chicken and shared half with my friend Cherie. I ate it as soon as I picked it up and low and behold I got a doozy of a case of the jailhouse runs...(that was to be expected) That was a chance I was willing to take and a chance CDC was willing to give me. I actually think CDC knew that there was a good chance we would all get diarrhea thus their goal was reached.

Anyway, my point is, if bacteria were the reason for not letting us take food from the mess hall then they would not have allowed us to have KFC sales at all. I think they enjoyed saying NO to the taco mush and smiled when we had diarrhea when we all ate the bad chicken. "Sigh"

I'll tell you the story of the taco mush next time.

The act of "Getting Naked"

2005-08-25T16:14:00.000-07:00

***Ok another memory. The act of bending over while naked and spreading my labia for a corrections officer (C/O) to look inside of me. This is the first I have written of this experience and I am feeling a blast of emotion.

How many times did I take my clothes off for a C/O in the presence of other inmates? Twenty, thirty times? Each time no easier than the last time.

All together now. Shake each piece of clothing . Open your mouth, run your tongue around in your mouth. Bend and shake your hair out. Pull your ears forward. Lift your arms, left your breasts, lift the apron of flesh at your stomach. Turn, lift each foot. Bend over, show your anus, open your labia, squat, cough. Ok...you are through.

I am left to carry the experience until the next time. Like rape, but somehow I deserve this. We all deserve this.

I am reminded of the lost souls in concentration camps as they walked naked to their deaths. Except my last walk recycles again and again. Pain and humiliation piling up with no where to let it out. Because...no where is safe.

Life in B4 Cell 14

2005-08-25T16:11:00.000-07:00

***I have been thinking about my Top Bunk in B4. My "safe haven" never felt safe at all. Three women in the room were "Lifers" murderers. That was pretty scary by itself. Three murderers and me, who tried to steal a computer on-line, tried to lease it at that. I was pretty out classed as a criminal.

My hair was falling out. By the brushfull. Hair everywhere. I remember thinking that by the time I left prison I would only have one strand left. Another loss.
My roommates became upset when my hair began showing up on the floor in the shower and near the sink. I wiped up after myself and swept the floor many times a day in order to catch any stray hair that had fallen out of my head.

I decided the thing to do was to brush my hair on my top bunk and try to contain the hair to my small area. Still, hair would get loose and sometimes hang over the side of the bed. Another big NO-NO. I was called "dirty, nasty assed white girl" "filthy bitch" and other things. I remember getting up and going as close to the bed as I dared to look for hair hanging over the side of my bunk. My bunk mate did not like me that close to the bed except to get up and down out of bed. I could not hang around near the bed. I had huge deep bruises on my thighs from trying to get out of bed without touching the bed underneath me. "I'm gonna kick your ass, I'm gonna hurt you bad".

It didn't really matter what I did or did not do. Had I stayed in that room, sooner or later I would have been hurt. My physical safety depended on being invisible and silent. That sounds so familiar. Like the little girl hiding from Grandpa Lou, only to be found and hurt beyond words. This time there were at least 3 Grandpa Lou's in a room of 8 people. I had no one to turn to, no one who would save me when the time came.

I remember thinking, if there is a God, help me to keep breathing, help me not to make a sound, help me not to loose hair, help me to believe that I can do this.
I wonder if God really hears prayers like mine?

Beginnings

2005-08-25T16:08:00.000-07:00

*** So how will I approach this now? Writing about the experience of prison? I thought about doing it chronologically. My memories, however, are not chronological. How about in order of "awfulness and horror"? There were good memories too that I need to remember and celebrate. I think I will write my experiences as they come up. Let my own memories dictate what and when I shall write. I will just let them happen. I do, however, commit to remembering and writing these experiences to the best of my ability. No fair trying to stuff them or make them sound better (or worse) than they really were. I've got to get past the lump in my throat and chest that threatens to break through my bones and skin as I remember them.

Writings from Behind the Wall

2005-08-25T16:05:00.000-07:00

*** I have come to realize how little if any I have written about my time in jail and prison. I have carefully omitted mention of that time in all but a few conversations I have had. It is not that the months I spent behind the wall were unimportant. No...it is because they are very important. Important enough to have changed the way I see life, the world and most importantly...myself.

I feel some of the changes are "forever" changes. I feel some of these changes are for the better. It has been suggested that I write about these experiences. Put them down on paper, make a history for myself.

I notice, even as I write this, the deep aching pain that I feel in my chest. The feeling of dread and sadness.

I can commit to begin to write about experiences I've had. Maybe a little bit at a time. It is important for me and the rest of my life.

365 Days Later...

2005-08-19T16:22:00.000-07:00

Today is an anniversary for me...on August 19 2004 I was released from Valley State Prison for Women. People ask me what I remember most about that day. I have to say the clearest memory I have is turning around as I exited the sally-port and watching the gate of the prison close behind me. I remember the sound of metal hitting metal and the lock engaging. I remember vividly that first instant of freedom. I don't ever want to forget that bitter-sweet moment...I hope I never will.

My second memory is seeing Kirk and Posey standing there waiting for me to get out of the van that transported me to the main parking lot where we were to meet our rides...I did not take for granted that Kirk would be waiting for me. When I saw him I was filled with joy and relief.

I called Kirk this morning to share my thoughts about today with him... I told him that I don't think I will ever be able to adequately express the gratitude I feel that he stuck by me the whole time I was in prison. He visited me every month from the time my visits started with his last visit being 4 days before my parole. He sent me money even when he could not afford to send money to me, so that I might buy "real food and shampoo" in the canteen once a month. He put together fantastic boxes to send to me every 3 months. Carefully choosing the most important things to send to me and then making sure the box met the weight and size criteria that the prison had. Each time I went to R and R to collect my box was better than any Christmas morning I had ever experienced. And the letters and postcards he sent literally kept me from giving up when all I wanted to do was stop breathing...I will never forget these things...my gratitude makes me speechless...I cannot even write these words without crying.

The very best part was the visits I had with Kirk...I would be laying on my bunk on a Saturday morning (I did not know when Kirk was going to visit)...and I would hear on the intercom that I had a visit...my heart would race and my mouth would get dry as I quickly put on my shirt and pants that I saved for my visits...I could do this in about 3 minutes flat...I would then wait at my door until a guard came down the hall to let me out. Then I would go to the gate for D yard where I lived. I had to stand behind a line about 25 feet from the gate and wait for a guard to look out of the window to see me. The gate would be unlocked and I would make my way across the main yard which was usually full of women and drugs and sex. I would get to the visiting building where I again had to wait outside behind a line until a guard let me in... once in I would take off my shoes and shake them and take down my hair from the braid I wore it in and give them my hairties...I would then be led to the door to enter the main visiting room.

I remember all of the times I scanned the room and then I would see him. Kirk....waiting for me....Visiting lasted about 4 hours...it seemed like 4 minutes...we would eat the worse food (besides mess hall food) I have ever had...the food was heavenly....then we would talk and play scrabble...I won scrabble a lot...to this day I wonder if he let me win...it doesn't matter...Kirk's visits reminded me that there was life outside of those walls...and I could have that life again if I continued to do the right thing and had the desire to work to change my life...

Today I have a life I never thought I could have...I am learning how to live...not live again...but live for the first time...in 365 days my life has changed beyond description....just think what the rest of my life has to offer....

~~~~~~Trick of Leave Woman~~~~~