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"Thank You Ladies"
FROM A FIRST TIMER MOM
This story was written by a mother who had her daughter sent to VSPW recently. It's a story that so many of us can relate to, as mothers who have lost a child to the state prison system. In many, many ways, it highlights the fear and overwhelming helplessness we can feel during the early days of incarceration of a loved one.
Sitting the back of the crowded courtroom, I looked around at a myriad of other folks, all waiting for some kind of decision that would impact their lives. Some looked scared, others irritated, a few outright bored. What we all had in common was that no one wanted to be there.
As a mom, I know the wide range of feelings that come with the territory…pride when my child masters new achievements, joy to see a face light up doing something fun, sadness when they have hurt feelings, anger when held accountable when they don’t follow the rules or simply act snotty and rude as teenagers. Now young adults, with children of their own who are the light of our lives, I thought my biggest worrying days were over. Not so. My beautiful, smart, loving and foolish 33 year old daughter Jay had been convicted of a serious felony, and faced a state prison sentence. Today was that day. This Judge, in this courtroom, would either order her away, or perhaps, I thought in complete denial, give her home confinement. Maybe he would give a date to report back, to turn herself in. But not take her right now. Not today. She stepped up to hear her sentence, I held my hands together so tightly my ring finger felt bruised, and closed my eyes when I heard the words “…. committed to the California Department of Corrections…. for a period of….” At that moment, my heart simply broke, and I felt a fear that I had never known. A bailiff took her arm, escorted her to the jury box where other inmates in stripes awaited sentencing, and whisked her down the hall. Life as I knew it was done. Or so I thought. I remember talking to myself, ‘…get up, walk, put one foot in front of the other, get out of here.” Driving home, with her purse and jacket still in the car, my stomach felt like a granite rock, and my heart was cracked in half.
And so I began a long list of “firsts”…The first sleepless night, my mind running wild with frantic worry; the first web search for a phone company that can set up collect calls from the jail; the first standing in a line of frazzled, agitated and loud folks waiting to get a visitor’s pass at county; the first smells of jail and sounds of clanking doors; the first time an officer looked at me like I was scum; the first look at my daughter dressed in saggy striped jumpsuit led in among many others, her anguished face streaming tears, whispering “I’m so sorry” behind a wall of glass; the first use of a broken phone on the other side of the glass that kept cutting out and making scratchy noises; the first seeing her stand up and walk into a door leading nowhere after our visit was over. Perhaps the worst was the long walk back to the car alone, feeling helpless and terrified. Would someone hurt her? Could she cope? How would her darling small children get by without her? When would the state bus come and get her to take her to Chowchilla? Would we know when she left? How can I find comfort from my husband, who holds his disappointment as a wall between us, and won’t talk about our child or her deep regret? His isolation leaves me out on a bleak island, very much alone. I feared that we might stay that far apart.
The next few months provided an education I never wanted, but now accept, as the layers of terror subside, and my panic has ebbed a tiny bit.
For nearly three weeks Jay was at county jail, and I used that time to “study up”. Knowledge is power, that’s always been my motto, so I started in as a Google Queen, searching late into the night. I hit paydirt with WWW.VSPW-IFC.com ….a volunteer sponsored website that literally took me out of the abyss. It laid it out for me what Jay would find at VSPW. I read every single article listed …about sending approved supplies, how children handle visits, the extraordinarily tough first few months in A Yard, living with no contact and much fear, letters from new inmates, poetry from inmates, and on and on. I wanted to know how my daughter might get her bearings, how she could avoid getting the snot knocked out of her, what she would experience as a “newby”. I felt like if I could at least know something , I could hear her more clearly, and have some vision of what was ahead. If I knew something, I could help her kids grasp what was going on in a way they could understand, could explain why mom can’t call, I could help them write to her, talk about her in the present, keep her present with us. And so the VSPW-IFC website became my new best friend. I connected by e-mail to Nancy Rubinstein, literally an angel on earth, who never thought my naďve questions were dumb, who took the time to answer endless inquiries about what Jay would be facing, about how families can be supportive, about what is realistic in a system that is as gigantic as the CDC. I asked her everything from how many women share a room, to how they get a job, to what kind of fighting is common? Often what she had to say was hard to hear, but every single thing she predicted came true, so I felt empowered and prepared. I also called and connected with an amazing woman, Sandy Weir, from Friends Outside, their number was on the web site. She gave me the insight to know that part of the biggest thing was for Jay to simply accept that she was in prison, and step into the experience to find her way. This takes time.
The loneliness of A Yard, where new inmates first land on this weird planet called prison was beyond nightmare. Certainly more for Jay than for us. Letters came slowly, telling of her despair, shame, terror, and sense of helplessness, which led to many sleepless nights and a whole lot of ice cream. As my daughter lost weight, I packed it on. There is a children’s book called The Invisible String, about a little girl who is afraid, and her mom who tells her of the “invisible” string that ties their hearts even when they are miles apart. I held my end of the string tight each night, and pulled on my end to let her know we had her back at home. She pulled on hers to feel her family with her. That helped, at least it helped me.
The art of writing letters is something we don’t do much anymore in our culture. We live in a world of the immediate…e-mail, fax, cell phones, texting keeps everyone chatting at high speed. We’ve lost the skill of waiting. Real letters, sent snail mail (and CDC gives a whole new meaning to that term) are actually quite lovely as a way to re-connect, words are balm on very sore hearts. I wrote about being angry, about my fears for her, about the details of her children’s day… who played baseball, who had a hard test in school, how they were missing their Mommy, and about how much we all loved her and would have a good life together when she came home. She wrote about ways to cope in prison, and her recognition of the personal work she had to do. I learned about “doing your own time” (minding your own business), and about staying focused in the moment and not on what we are all doing at home because that is simply too hard. I learned about how she was watching her back, and picking acquaintances very cautiously, and her meeting some amazing women who gave real meaning to “don’t judge a book by its cover….” I learned there were harsh staff and ones just doing their job, and about inmates who did just about anything to get over on people, and others who were simply trying to do their time. I came to know that A Yard and reception time was a period of anguish that seems to last forever, with no phone contact and no visiting, and nobody much giving a damn…but that it too will pass, and once again I can touch my child’s cheeks, and share her joy at rocking her children once again. But that was a long long three months. I learned the art of waiting, of letting go, of living with being helpless to change things. I am the original Fixit Fairy, and this could not be fixed.
A biggie in the list of firsts was driving miles down Avenue 24 in the early dawn light to see a huge mass of daunting looking dreary buildings rising out of orchards and farmland. Turning into the long driveway, all I could see was razor wire, and all I could think was “My child is in there ?” A first visit to VSPW is a humbling, out of body kind of experience. You get in line, you take a number, you do what they say, and you hope they let you in. There you are, a gate slamming behind you before the one in front opens, standing in a cage, waiting to be “let out” to walk to the visiting area, where you are assigned a numbered table, where you wait some more, scanning the room and looking looking looking among the hundreds of people, for that one face to come through the door. And she did… looking very much like herself, but also different…eyes a bit haunted, a little thin, sunburned face, tears streaming, arms reaching.
I am hopeful now that our lives will come back together, that our family will heal and make room for forgiveness and moving on. I’m sure the repair work will grow in fits and starts, with need for patience all the way around. This new art of waiting will come in handy. We have gone from shock, shame, fear… to sad, to a form of acceptance that means getting on with each day and learning we can still laugh. Much like you would cope with a death. They have the support to be courageous enough to ask “Why did Mommy do this?”, and in the same breath talk about how life will be when she comes home. Their life goes on, with busy days, friendships, field trips, summer vacation. So much of it seems the same, yet there is a gaping absence that we all dread, yet keep alive because it is like a space saver. I see my grandchildren thriving, albeit missing their mother terribly, but enjoying their days and moving away from acute pain. They laugh, they play, they do their homework, clean their rooms (well, not really…) they cry, they get mad, and then they do it all over again. I feel my husband easing up from his horrific shock, and smiling when he speaks of his #1 daughter who he loves to pieces. I see strength in my daughter, who is not a whiner, who is facing what she brought on herself, and what this has all meant to her family. I don’t eat ice cream every day now. I am proud of us.
GMW
As a mom, I know the wide range of feelings that come with the territory…pride when my child masters new achievements, joy to see a face light up doing something fun, sadness when they have hurt feelings, anger when held accountable when they don’t follow the rules or simply act snotty and rude as teenagers. Now young adults, with children of their own who are the light of our lives, I thought my biggest worrying days were over. Not so. My beautiful, smart, loving and foolish 33 year old daughter Jay had been convicted of a serious felony, and faced a state prison sentence. Today was that day. This Judge, in this courtroom, would either order her away, or perhaps, I thought in complete denial, give her home confinement. Maybe he would give a date to report back, to turn herself in. But not take her right now. Not today. She stepped up to hear her sentence, I held my hands together so tightly my ring finger felt bruised, and closed my eyes when I heard the words “…. committed to the California Department of Corrections…. for a period of….” At that moment, my heart simply broke, and I felt a fear that I had never known. A bailiff took her arm, escorted her to the jury box where other inmates in stripes awaited sentencing, and whisked her down the hall. Life as I knew it was done. Or so I thought. I remember talking to myself, ‘…get up, walk, put one foot in front of the other, get out of here.” Driving home, with her purse and jacket still in the car, my stomach felt like a granite rock, and my heart was cracked in half.
And so I began a long list of “firsts”…The first sleepless night, my mind running wild with frantic worry; the first web search for a phone company that can set up collect calls from the jail; the first standing in a line of frazzled, agitated and loud folks waiting to get a visitor’s pass at county; the first smells of jail and sounds of clanking doors; the first time an officer looked at me like I was scum; the first look at my daughter dressed in saggy striped jumpsuit led in among many others, her anguished face streaming tears, whispering “I’m so sorry” behind a wall of glass; the first use of a broken phone on the other side of the glass that kept cutting out and making scratchy noises; the first seeing her stand up and walk into a door leading nowhere after our visit was over. Perhaps the worst was the long walk back to the car alone, feeling helpless and terrified. Would someone hurt her? Could she cope? How would her darling small children get by without her? When would the state bus come and get her to take her to Chowchilla? Would we know when she left? How can I find comfort from my husband, who holds his disappointment as a wall between us, and won’t talk about our child or her deep regret? His isolation leaves me out on a bleak island, very much alone. I feared that we might stay that far apart.
The next few months provided an education I never wanted, but now accept, as the layers of terror subside, and my panic has ebbed a tiny bit.
For nearly three weeks Jay was at county jail, and I used that time to “study up”. Knowledge is power, that’s always been my motto, so I started in as a Google Queen, searching late into the night. I hit paydirt with WWW.VSPW-IFC.com ….a volunteer sponsored website that literally took me out of the abyss. It laid it out for me what Jay would find at VSPW. I read every single article listed …about sending approved supplies, how children handle visits, the extraordinarily tough first few months in A Yard, living with no contact and much fear, letters from new inmates, poetry from inmates, and on and on. I wanted to know how my daughter might get her bearings, how she could avoid getting the snot knocked out of her, what she would experience as a “newby”. I felt like if I could at least know something , I could hear her more clearly, and have some vision of what was ahead. If I knew something, I could help her kids grasp what was going on in a way they could understand, could explain why mom can’t call, I could help them write to her, talk about her in the present, keep her present with us. And so the VSPW-IFC website became my new best friend. I connected by e-mail to Nancy Rubinstein, literally an angel on earth, who never thought my naďve questions were dumb, who took the time to answer endless inquiries about what Jay would be facing, about how families can be supportive, about what is realistic in a system that is as gigantic as the CDC. I asked her everything from how many women share a room, to how they get a job, to what kind of fighting is common? Often what she had to say was hard to hear, but every single thing she predicted came true, so I felt empowered and prepared. I also called and connected with an amazing woman, Sandy Weir, from Friends Outside, their number was on the web site. She gave me the insight to know that part of the biggest thing was for Jay to simply accept that she was in prison, and step into the experience to find her way. This takes time.
The loneliness of A Yard, where new inmates first land on this weird planet called prison was beyond nightmare. Certainly more for Jay than for us. Letters came slowly, telling of her despair, shame, terror, and sense of helplessness, which led to many sleepless nights and a whole lot of ice cream. As my daughter lost weight, I packed it on. There is a children’s book called The Invisible String, about a little girl who is afraid, and her mom who tells her of the “invisible” string that ties their hearts even when they are miles apart. I held my end of the string tight each night, and pulled on my end to let her know we had her back at home. She pulled on hers to feel her family with her. That helped, at least it helped me.
The art of writing letters is something we don’t do much anymore in our culture. We live in a world of the immediate…e-mail, fax, cell phones, texting keeps everyone chatting at high speed. We’ve lost the skill of waiting. Real letters, sent snail mail (and CDC gives a whole new meaning to that term) are actually quite lovely as a way to re-connect, words are balm on very sore hearts. I wrote about being angry, about my fears for her, about the details of her children’s day… who played baseball, who had a hard test in school, how they were missing their Mommy, and about how much we all loved her and would have a good life together when she came home. She wrote about ways to cope in prison, and her recognition of the personal work she had to do. I learned about “doing your own time” (minding your own business), and about staying focused in the moment and not on what we are all doing at home because that is simply too hard. I learned about how she was watching her back, and picking acquaintances very cautiously, and her meeting some amazing women who gave real meaning to “don’t judge a book by its cover….” I learned there were harsh staff and ones just doing their job, and about inmates who did just about anything to get over on people, and others who were simply trying to do their time. I came to know that A Yard and reception time was a period of anguish that seems to last forever, with no phone contact and no visiting, and nobody much giving a damn…but that it too will pass, and once again I can touch my child’s cheeks, and share her joy at rocking her children once again. But that was a long long three months. I learned the art of waiting, of letting go, of living with being helpless to change things. I am the original Fixit Fairy, and this could not be fixed.
A biggie in the list of firsts was driving miles down Avenue 24 in the early dawn light to see a huge mass of daunting looking dreary buildings rising out of orchards and farmland. Turning into the long driveway, all I could see was razor wire, and all I could think was “My child is in there ?” A first visit to VSPW is a humbling, out of body kind of experience. You get in line, you take a number, you do what they say, and you hope they let you in. There you are, a gate slamming behind you before the one in front opens, standing in a cage, waiting to be “let out” to walk to the visiting area, where you are assigned a numbered table, where you wait some more, scanning the room and looking looking looking among the hundreds of people, for that one face to come through the door. And she did… looking very much like herself, but also different…eyes a bit haunted, a little thin, sunburned face, tears streaming, arms reaching.
I am hopeful now that our lives will come back together, that our family will heal and make room for forgiveness and moving on. I’m sure the repair work will grow in fits and starts, with need for patience all the way around. This new art of waiting will come in handy. We have gone from shock, shame, fear… to sad, to a form of acceptance that means getting on with each day and learning we can still laugh. Much like you would cope with a death. They have the support to be courageous enough to ask “Why did Mommy do this?”, and in the same breath talk about how life will be when she comes home. Their life goes on, with busy days, friendships, field trips, summer vacation. So much of it seems the same, yet there is a gaping absence that we all dread, yet keep alive because it is like a space saver. I see my grandchildren thriving, albeit missing their mother terribly, but enjoying their days and moving away from acute pain. They laugh, they play, they do their homework, clean their rooms (well, not really…) they cry, they get mad, and then they do it all over again. I feel my husband easing up from his horrific shock, and smiling when he speaks of his #1 daughter who he loves to pieces. I see strength in my daughter, who is not a whiner, who is facing what she brought on herself, and what this has all meant to her family. I don’t eat ice cream every day now. I am proud of us.
GMW
I hope that this story from a mother will help answer some basic questions about "what it's like" to deal with some of our California prisons. For a family member of a new inmate, any information is a God-send. It is very difficult to get information from your local authorities, and the prisons seem inapproachable at first. Please feel free to email us here at the VSPW-IFC with questions any time!
You can alo see a copy of the Reception (Orientation) Handbook in another section of this website. You should look at it to see what your loved one is being told. It will help you understand what she is dealing with. Our current copy is from 2003, but we are hoping to put an updated one up on this site soon. Click
Reception Handbook.pdf to download a copy of this handbook.
You can alo see a copy of the Reception (Orientation) Handbook in another section of this website. You should look at it to see what your loved one is being told. It will help you understand what she is dealing with. Our current copy is from 2003, but we are hoping to put an updated one up on this site soon. Click
Reception Handbook.pdf to download a copy of this handbook.
