A Familiar, Unwanted Place

***WITH WRITING FROM A FRIEND IN PRISON***

Last night, my friend Sarah (who is not in prison) text me, saying she was hungry and asking if I wanted something to eat.

“Only brownies,” I replied. “With frosting. And hard liquor.”

Unfortunately, I am not making this up, although the last sentence was entirely sarcastic, and I did not seek out any alcoholic beverages.  I did, however, find warm brownies with ice cream, on a day when I had already discovered that I had gained about five pounds in the last few weeks.  This morning, I woke with a hangover headache, as if I had in fact found the liquor.

Earlier in the week, I found an envelope in the black tin mailbox screwed to my front porch, with a familiar return address stamped in red:  Indiana Department of Correction, Indiana Women’s Prison, 2596 North Girls School Road, Indianapolis, IN  46214.  Beneath the return address, also in red stamp, a warning box announces: This stamp identifies this correspondence as having been mailed by an offender incarcerated at the Indiana Women’s Prison. And on the back, another black stamp across the seal. 
I opened it, and a hand-written essay fell into my hands, along with a short letter of explanation.

Hey, Katrina,

I haven’t heard from you in awhile. I pray all is well. I know you may have been wondering where the essays are, but I guess I had wrote too much detail in the 1st one so I had to re-write it.  They don’t allow us to write specifics on others’ cases.  They gave me a warning because I explained my reason for writing the essays.  I’m sorry.  Hope you didn’t get disappointed in me.

….Please keep me in your prayers.  I’ve been going through a lot. Just need you to stick around and keep me encouraged.

I had told her if she writes essays, I would add money to her account for for hot meals, shampoo, and the limited things they are allowed to buy. No one thinks prison should be fun, but when you have a friend there, the stories of stale bread and slimy cold cuts are still sickening.

I unfolded the re-written essay, entitled “My Experience at IWP”.

This is my second time being incarcerated at IWP, however its not like my first. Simply because during  my first stay here, I was pregnant. Being pregnant kept me out of the midst of getting caught up in the prison lifestyle. I focused on my child and I. It is totally different now, meaning I have mingled more and actually got to know some of the ladies here. Before now, I only had heard rumors about a lot of their cases. Based off the rumors I found myself judging them. I’ve made it my business to sit with these ladies, and yes I’ve asked them numerous questions. My asking of questions by all means wasn’t to be nosy, more of just curious as to what brought their minds to the place that caused them their incarceration. I had decided to be honest and tell the ladies I have pre-judged them, but after watching them I became curious. When they finally opened up to me about their stories I began to feel their pain. I felt the pain for the victims as well in the cases. Majority of the time the victim doesn’t survive.

As I read down the penciled sheet, with “e’s” written like the number “3”, I saw the visiting room at the prison again.  A dozen girls at tables, all facing the same wall.  Girls and women, eating Skittles or warmed burgers their family had bought them from the vending machines lined on the far side of the room with the $20 each person was allowed to bring into the room, leftover quarters scattered on the institution tables.  A heavy metal door through which they entered, and then disappeared after the visit was done.  A cold but colorful corner of toys for visiting children.  No phones.  I had forgotten and brought mine in and had to walk back out to my car to leave it there.

I’ve also ran across a lot of drug users and abusers. I’ve had them tell me they use drugs to hide pain, to be numb to problems in life, and just for fun. A lot of times the drug may lead them to commit a crime because they aren’t in their right state of mind. As well as drug users there’s drug dealers.  They tell how and why they sell drugs. A lot of times its because of the lack of responsibility and desire to earn honest money, they don’t think of what comes along with it.

Hearing about the parent who murdered their child or the parent who had to watch their child be murdered at another’s hand, hurts my heart. I’ve never understood how a person could do that to their own child and I can honestly say I don’t think I’ll ever get it. I’ve learned that just because I don’t understand it doesn’t mean its okay to judge them. A lot of the stories have made me cry, wonder, and doubt…

As I looked around the visiting room that day as I waited for my friend to be permitted to come see me, I noticed beauty.  The girls and women, most of them were so beautiful! I wondered, did any of them grow up with their fathers? 

Regardless of what one has done, being it prostitution, robbery, stealing, dealing, murder, or a violation, at the end of it all it landed us all in a familiar, unwanted place “PRISON”.

Familiar, unwanted place: we all have them. Whether swallowing ibuprofen and strong coffee to combat a post-brownie hangover headache, or dealing with the consequences of gossip, insincerity, or hastiness, perhaps we all need to be saved from our addictions. Perhaps we all have a drug of choice, and know the hangover from it, the emptiness that pushes us back to the cross.  And ironically, perhaps these addictions help break down the superiority we may feel to “the bad girls in prison”.

There’s a difference between brownies and heroin, I suppose. But this re-written letter from the cold metal building on Girl’s School Road challenges me to fight my own battles with more bravery, more determination, more like a follower of Christ. 

As my neighbor Mary says, “How can you help others if you’re discouraged?”

And you have just helped encourage me and my friend, by reading her essay. 

Thank you!