Part 3: Who Decides What Justice Is?
The author ponders this question as she serves time for an old drunken-driving arrest and fines she failed to finish paying. This is the third of a three-part story in Truthdig’s “Violence Against Women” series.
Pixabay
1
2
3
It’s one o’clock. I just woke up. I eat a grilled cheese sandwich. I pluck the peas out of some pasta thing and eat them. I call Walt. I shower. I return to my room sans scarf to finish the last 30 pages of “Sarah’s Key.” I hear singing from downstairs. Women are listening to Usher’s “U Got It Bad” on the radio and singing along. It is so pretty. The whole pod is quiet. It is borderline angelic. It is also ironic. We’ve all got it bad. Not in the way Usher is singing about.
Someone shit in the shower. Just when I thought it had been a pretty decent day.
I miss my clothes. I miss my identity. I miss doing my hair. I miss wearing lipstick. I miss looking at myself in a full-length mirror. I miss being pleased with the reflection. I miss cooking. I miss spices and condiments. I miss restaurants and dates. I miss sitting across from my Walt and laughing and talking and playing trivia games. I miss street lights. I miss puddles after the rain. I miss social media and all of my sitcoms. I miss my laptop, my Pandora stations, the mailman, Pokémon Go.
Phone calls. To me, they are like gas stations. You’re on this journey, you notice your tank is low and you tell yourself, “Next station, I’ll stop.” Same concept. I’m awake most nights. I sleep through the mornings. By the afternoon, three things are clear—I need to pee, I need to eat something and I need to get on the phone. At the end of each phone call, I linger for a second. I’ve seen other women do it, too. It’s a disconnect from the people we know and love. We linger, knowing that our loved one is on the other end, lingering too. Aching for our presence. Wishing we’d come home. We aren’t incarcerated alone. We drag along the ones who love us. We draw our strength from our ancestors. They left this strength behind for us to soak up.
I’m calmer now. It’s 10 p.m. Krystina is gracious enough to let me listen to her radio. The JonBenét Ramsey interviews. During commercials, I flip to 105.3. There is Frankie Beverly and Maze. Hallelujah! My first bit of music in weeks!
Tears. Every day, someone is crying. It’s as though the sandman doesn’t make trips to prison, but his cousin, the crybaby, sees to it that he’s here every day. When I get worked up and need to let a few fall, I get in my bed and put my blanket over my head. I cry. I blow my nose. Then I’m back to the plain-faced woman everyone is used to seeing. I don’t want to be asked what’s wrong. I’m never going to tell the truth.
This week, I handled not getting commissary better. Last week, I was totally chewed up. Today, I’m just reading my book, wishing there weren’t so many voices around me talking about sleeping with other women’s men.
In jail, you gather your clothes, check off a few items on a sheet of paper, put it all into a bag and send it out to laundry. It is returned folded and clean. Ashley does the laundry. She makes $1.20 a day to wash all our clothes and fold them and bring them back to us. She’s an angel. Today, on top of bringing our clothes back, she also brought us each a roll of toilet paper and a bar of soap. The way women berated her about the arrival of their laundry, as if we have anywhere to go, sickened me. Finally, I said, “She’s not Cinderella. She’s nice, and she deserves patience and appreciation.” I made her a card.
There is money on my books now! I can order commissary that will come on the third of the month. This leaves me nine days in jail with things I need. I started with nothing. Women shared with me for weeks. They did not know if I’d ever be able to repay them. I’ll be able to now. Hopefully, this is a sign that the worst is over.
I’m worried. My period is going to come. I’m not going to be able to run to Rite Aid to get naproxen for my endometriosis, or my preferred sanitary napkins and painkillers. My sheets will be stained with blood. I will be writhing in pain. Endometriosis has been a big part of my life since I was 13 years old. I will be helpless. I will be embarrassed by the blood, the pain and the crying.
This morning, the guards burst in on a raid. We are taken to the gym. Eighty women and one toilet for six hours. Worst of all, my period has begun. I panic. I don’t have any meds. My period will be unbearable. I made the jail authorities aware of my endometriosis during check-in. I have filled out several medical-request slips. They never responded. I eat a grilled cheese sandwich and then vomit. I have crippling cramps. My head and back ache.
The women in the room tell the guards I am sick. The guard tells me to put my mattress on the floor, next to a trash can. I get to medical in the middle of the night. I tell them I need naproxen. They give me Motrin.
“We can’t give you naproxen; you don’t have a medical slip for it,” the nurse says.
Your support matters…
SUPPORT TRUTHDIG
Independent journalism is under threat and overshadowed by heavily funded mainstream media.
You can help level the playing field. Become a member.
Your tax-deductible contribution keeps us digging beneath the headlines to give you thought-provoking, investigative reporting and analysis that unearths what's really happening- without compromise.
Give today to support our courageous, independent journalists.
Related stories
Websites matching up rich men with young women claim to offer a mutually beneficial service. In reality, they promote sex work in disguise.
Even in countries that value press freedom, women are routinely subjected to threats of rape and other forms of online abuse.
Poverty and high rates of unemployment contribute to brutality against women in this southwestern African country.
Two young women from Berkeley watched their assailant walk free in 2008. State Sen. Connie Leyva wants to make sure it never happens again.
The effects of intimate-partner violence are a factor in more than a quarter of female suicides or suicide attempts, one study shows. They are also a leading cause of substance abuse in women.
Sexual abuse by members of organizations that provide relief to some of the world’s most vulnerable people has been more pervasive than recently reported.
Websites matching up rich men with young women claim to offer a mutually beneficial service. In reality, they promote sex work in disguise.
Even in countries that value press freedom, women are routinely subjected to threats of rape and other forms of online abuse.
Poverty and high rates of unemployment contribute to brutality against women in this southwestern African country.
Two young women from Berkeley watched their assailant walk free in 2008. State Sen. Connie Leyva wants to make sure it never happens again.
The effects of intimate-partner violence are a factor in more than a quarter of female suicides or suicide attempts, one study shows. They are also a leading cause of substance abuse in women.
Sexual abuse by members of organizations that provide relief to some of the world’s most vulnerable people has been more pervasive than recently reported.
You need to be a supporter to comment.
There are currently no responses to this article.
Be the first to respond.