A friend is one who walks in when others walk out.
Walter Winchell
A single note rises, then falls like a raindrop at my feet, shattering into a thousand tiny rainbows. I think there must be an angel caged in the cell next to mine. If I could play the instrument of my voice as miraculously, would I be closer to God? It seems my destiny is to be an ordinary raven, even here, where birds are forbidden to fly.
The jangling of keys and slamming of gates break my reverie. A prison guard bellows, “Get out here, crack head!”
I rise, as do the over forty other women who have shared this cell with me over the past three days. None of us is certain to whom she refers. It is not me, not this time.
I sink back to the floor that has become so cold I could ice skate on it. I seek out the largest woman (the fat ones give off the most body heat), and huddle close to her. In here we have no prejudice or pride. Out there we took each other’s money and drugs, in here we give each other warmth and comfort.
A harsh voice shouts, “Barr!” It is my turn. I enter the shower room and strip quickly. I immediately squat and cough. I want to please the guards. I have been here before and I know the rules well. I am shoved into an icy shower and sprayed with horrid smelling lotion to “de-louse” me. I wonder why they bother when they don’t wash our clothes. I am pushed soaking wet into another freezing cell. I dry off as best as I can with my filthy pants.
Just as sleep comes to steal me from this misery, another voice intrudes, this one much kinder than I am used to.
“Ladies, my name is Mr. Smith. A few years ago I was in a worse position than you, and look at me now. I have a fine job, fine clothes and I’m fine lookin’ too. If you want what I’ve got, you’ve got to do what I did to get it. I pledge my support to anyone willing to make a change.”
I step out of my cell not even flinching when the gate clangs shut behind me. As we are walking to the dormitory where I will be housed I hear shouting and stomping. I am amazed when we arrive and I see that it is military marching.
“My God, Mr. Smith,” I exclaim, “you didn’t tell me I was joining the army!”
“There’s a lot more to it than this, Mary,” he says.
A woman detaches herself from a marching group and comes towards me. “Hi, I’m Lori, the unit captain. In this program it’s mandatory that we attend school. We have five minutes to line up so let’s go.”
We march down the bleak hallways to school shouting an army cadence. I suppress an urge to giggle, especially since other women are watching us with interest. Unlike the adolescent population housed in jail, adults do not get to go to school. Most of the women in general population spend their days bored and frustrated, sometimes fighting, and getting high. Yes, there are drugs in jail.
After two hours we march back to our dorm where a social worker greets us. She is the only social worker for over two thousand women so we are fortunate to have her tonight. She suggests that we go into residential treatment when we leave, but I can’t see myself doing that after being locked up for a year. We meet with her in a group to discuss our issues, which run the gamut from being abused, to being illiterate. This is one time when I am glad there are only one hundred beds available for treatment; so I may get a chance to ask her a question.
A lady I don’t know starts the group. “I’m lucky they let me back in here,” she says through tears. “They told me not to go home, but I missed my kids so much. When I got there they just wanted to go out with friends, and my daughter hid her purse from me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I didn’t want her to see me crying so I went to a friend’s house. Just like when I got busted, she was gettin’ high. I was upset so I got high right along with her. This time I am going to take the cotton out of my ears and stick it in my mouth.”
God works in mysterious ways. Though our stories are not the same I feel the same way. I have not seen my children or their father for two years. I do not want to make the same mistakes as this woman. I was no longer afraid to die, I was afraid of living my life the way I was. I decided to go to residential treatment when I was released and tried to convince my peers to do the same.
The day of my release has come and I am sent off with hugs. I await the volunteer who will drive me from jail to the program and I laugh aloud when I see that it is Mr. Smith. There is a certain symmetry to arriving at yet another program with Mr. Smith, and I pray I will be as successful in this one.
A single note rises then falls like a raindrop at my feet, shattering into a thousand tiny rainbows. I step up to the cell and say, “Honey, you sing like an angel. A few years ago I was in a worse position than you, and look at me now. Would you like to hear more?” The angel looks at me and smiles.
Mary Barr