Not My Finest Hour

*This story contains sensitive material about prison and what happens behind bars.

Word Count -1219

"Alright, y'all know the drill," said one of the guards sternly, as all the women groaned. Another guard yelled,”Shut up!” and I stood frozen just standing there and looking around. Which is the last thing I should EVER get caught doing.  Having never been to prison before, I most certainly did not know what ‘the drill’ was. But I learned very quickly and began to follow suit-the whole time being screamed at by the guards about what trash we were and how slow we were. 

    We turned around, dropped our pants and went through the whole routine you hear about or watch on TV and movies. All while 5 female officers walked up and down the row, looking at us from behind. I remember thinking the only thing more degrading would be to be one of the poor souls that was having their period. (I would later find out that each inmate was only allowed 3 pads a day, and 3 rolls of toilet paper a week. And tampons were only available on commissary.) But, apparently, that's irrelevant.

     After having every cavity thoroughly searched and checked for lice, and contraband, only then were we allowed to put on our granny panties and sports bras.

    I didn't mind the granny panties--to me they felt like pregnancy panties, when you FINALLY need them, and they feel SO good? Women who have had children will understand what I mean. They were that comfortable–even if we did have to wash them in the shower everyday and hang them on the bed post every night to dry.

    But the bras? For those of us on the 'larger' side, it took at least 2 bras to even remotely feel any sort of support for the ‘girls’. Three was ideal, but once I got caught with three, it was over. I was busted. I felt like I was in my pajamas everyday...the SAME pajamas everyday. 

     But I remember the day the package came. It was a sports bra that I had picked out of a catalog that we had. I had begged my mom for it, and she had come through! It was better than Christmas! And even though I felt strapped in with that thing on, I was so much more 'myself', I really don't know how to explain it. Like when she sent me earrings. It made me feel a little more human. Especially the way she sent them...

     She had sent me a book, in a book size package, so when they looked in the envelope and saw a book, they allowed it, because, why wouldn't they, right? But they didn’t take the book out of the envelope, which they should have-because my mom had put a pair of hoop earrings in the bottom of the envelope. Large hoops-bigger than a quarter, the kind that was not allowed! But the mail room screwed up, so they were mine! 

    They became my safety net, a sort of insurance. Because everyone wanted them. And every guard was so mad they’d made it through the mail room. But they were a comfort to me for a few reasons. First, for some reason, because I knew how valuable they were and also because I knew I had ‘protection’ as far as running low on money or anything. Because I could get a lot for them, if I ever got myself in a situation. The highest offer I ever got was 5 cartons of Newport’s! Which is a ridiculous amount amount of money in prison. 

      But I never sold them. I didn’t end up even wearing them, because they were too big for me. Which was the funniest part. Everyone knew I had them, but didn’t wear them. So the offers got pretty crazy.

    But I never felt fear, like someone would hurt me for them. I was treated very respectfully there by the other inmates. Probably because I was so much older. They called me Mrs. So the earrings stayed hidden until I left. I ended up giving them to my best friend there. Who I still talk to this day. They looked beautiful on her. 

    Now this story of how the earrings made it in, is in and if itself funny, but the best part of the whole thing is that my mother no idea she had sent in contraband! She would never do that!

     But that, and my other hustle–that my mother inadvertedly helped me with, again- by sending in the greatest idea ever for a hustle at a female prison. Without even knowing it....greeting cards, of all things. Genius. 

      Everyone wanted greeting cards. Happy birthday, I miss you, Happy Valentines  and Merry Christmas! I had it all. Plus blank ones that were a big hit! 

    I remember the safety and security that those two things gave me. A large pair of  silver earrings, and a box of greeting cards. I was good, I was set. . My Mom--without even knowing what she was doing, really, took care of me just by those two things. As far as knew, she'd sent, a book, a pair of earrings, and some greeting cards she thought I might use for letters home...

     She didn't realize that by giving me a hustle, things to 'work' with, brought safety and security to me, in a place where that was hard to find. 

    And it made me feel closer to my mother. Which oddly occurred a lot during my time. Our relationship really grew, as we saw more of our true sides of each other and broke down barriers to see and really feel unconditional love-even when you’re mad and disappointed as hell.

     There were times during prison, where I definitely felt her presence, even though we were never that close. But I can recall several times when I felt she was with me.

      I remember another time. Not so much that I felt her presence, but it was the one time I remember really, really wishing my mom was there-and knowing it should be her there, and it should be her hand I was holding. Even though we weren’t close, I know she would have held my hand for this…

    I was told I was getting a mammogram. Which is always fun, especially when you’re in chains, and a guard escort, in a public hospital. But when it came back that I needed a biopsy, and it was the same guard that escorted me to the procedure. And she was known to be a beast, very strict and tough. She’d been ok with me so far, but softened up quick when she saw the size of the needle that they had to use. She told me not to tell anyone because it would ruin her reputation , of course, but if I wanted to, I could hold her hand. And boy did I wish my mom was there then. 

     And I squeezed her hand so hard and tried not to cry out for my mom. And I’ve never missed my mom more than that moment. 

     Now, several years later, looking back.. the lessons learned, the trust lost (working on getting it back), friendships lost and relationships severed ….

    I realize all those things can be blessings, as I navigate my way through a new life. As a new person.