Part 1: Paying for an Old Mistake
A drunken-driving arrest comes back to haunt the author, who spends six weeks in jail as a result. This three-part story is part of Truthdig's "Violence Against Women" series.
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“These young bitches got me fucked up in here! I’ll go to the hole! I don’t give a fuck! I’m gonna kill one of these bitches … pushing me out the motherfucking way! I gotta use the phone, too!” she yells.
I lie quietly on a top bunk. I am thankful I have a blanket.
I am only in N-Pod for a day, then I am moved to U-pod, where there are only 16 women. I eat very little the first couple of days. I sleep a lot. Some people think I’m detoxing. I am, in my own way. I’m clearing my mind. I’m refocusing. When I sleep, I dream of my loved ones: my parents, grandmother, aunts, cousins, my boyfriend, his son, my best friend, her son. I wake feeling supported and loved. I recover my appetite.
I listen to other women. They cry for their children. They cry for their mistakes. They cry because they think they aren’t good enough. They confess to me. They tell me what they did. They downplay the severity of their crimes. Many have mental health issues. The hardest is listening to women crying as they talk on the phones to their children.
I am Catholic. I am wearing a black scarf. The guards and the women assume I am Muslim. I am never asked about dietary restrictions. There are special blue diet trays, but I don’t know how to get them. I think they are vegetarian. The meals on the blue trays look like clumps of Play-Doh. The meals on the brown trays look like dog food. We do not get fruit, although those who are pregnant are given an apple. We get a cup of 1 percent milk every morning. Every meal includes two slices of bread.
Women are here for stealing from places like Wal-Mart. Or they are addicts. Or they violated probation. Or they had a DUI. I don’t understand why these women could not serve their time under house arrest.
I sit up talking one night to a beautiful 21-year-old. She is petite, with long, curly blond hair and emerald-green eyes. She is a heroin addict. “There are blisters on my feet from walking back and forth to my dealer all summer,” she says. She shows me her marks and scars. I want to close my eyes. She is adorable and funny and sweet. She has no intention of quitting drugs. She could be dead within a year.
It is late at night. A pregnant prisoner has to pee. She pushes the call button. The guards ignore her. She pees in an old milk carton. Several other women push the call button during the night. The guard yells into the speaker, “I will break your fingers if you push that button again.” Most of the guards seem to enjoy the power they have over us.
I am awakened this morning by a woman shouting for medical. A prisoner in the bottom bunk next to mine fainted when she tried to get out of bed, but the medics did not come. A prisoner lifts the woman who fainted up by her arms. She walks her to medical for treatment. There isn’t even a wheelchair. Her blood pressure spiked because she was given the wrong meds.
My paperwork is messed up. I did six weeks of weekends to try and work off this sentence. I had fines of $15 a day. That’s $180. This jail is claiming I owe a balance of $600. A clerical error is keeping me from getting commissary items. My boyfriend, Walt, is calling and emailing relentlessly to fix this. What about the women who don’t have anyone? A prisoner found out today that she’s going to be here six more months. Her family isn’t talking to her. She doesn’t have any money for commissary.
There are mostly white women here. But we are only divided by character. Dr. King, your work in jail is done.
This place is a vortex. Time slows down. I’ve been here five days. I’ve met so many women already, none of whom I would strike up a convo with in a regular setting.
I can hear myself think. No one is talking to me, tagging me, texting me, emailing me, @-ing me, calling me, ringing my doorbell, telling me they are hungry or need something from me. I can be selfish with my thoughts. I can finish a whole rosary. I can have a creative roundtable with myself. When I am home, I lose myself. I lose my connection with God. I pray a lot in jail. My being here is a direct work of the Lord. He’s talking to me.
I’ve read a couple of Nicholas Sparks books: “Dear John,” “A Walk to Remember,” “The Longest Ride” and “Nights in Rodanthe.” That’s about all they have to read on this pod.
I wear a sports bra and baggy blue pants that are too short. My little pot belly is on the more attractive side of the in-house sexy meter. Other women comment approvingly about the purple lotus flower tattooed on my back, the curve of my backside and the shape of my legs. They do not mention my acne, my extra weight or my chipped toenail polish.
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