No, no, please go on. I’m listening. I’m trying to listen. I’m just going to get some more coffee. The door is open. I had to make my Christmas wreath out of toilet paper rolls, and I know it’s biased, but I think it looked just as good. You know those scenes in movies where the incarcerated person looks at their stuffed animal made of sheet … Continue reading we wore blue
I left prison today, last year. I washed before leaving, taking the longest and hottest shower I had taken in what felt like years. The girls gave me space, so I could get as clean and ready as possible. I left all my bath supplies behind, the bodywash and shampoo, the deodorants. Somebody would use it. I left everything behind. All I had was two … Continue reading roots and wings
Written July 14th, 2015 from the California Institute for Women – 100 hours before I was free, a letter never sent, to a friend I’ve not yet met. I didn’t ask her permission, so I’m not linking to her (yet), but she is a blogger, and she is loved. ________________________ Dear Gillian– Good morning! It’s 10am here in Corona, California, USA, and I’ve been up … Continue reading dear gillian
On A-Yard– prison receiving– the library was closed to us. I sold a bag a coffee for a Koontz book and first dibs on a story about a raccoon. It was my only bag of coffee for the month. The women in my room traded lunches for book dibs. There was no library access, and the books sent our way were held back for months … Continue reading no words
In the copshop, in RC– Fire Camp Training at the California Institute for Women. Mr. Darr leaned in on his chair, his body lazily relaxed, his eyes tense and alert. He had called me into the office, staring in silence before speaking. “We don’t listen to rumors, usually, but this one has some meat on its bones. Did you get punched on the yard last … Continue reading 2015, real talk.
I had locked myself in with my thoughts. The cell doors around me popped open and the cacophony of shotgun-like bangs lit the hallway with sound. The noise meant my fellow firehouse girls were home from work. I heard them stomping down the hall, our boots a trademark of the FireCamp program. They were wearing the fire-resistant monstrosities inside the unit because Mr. Ham was … Continue reading the funeral
Written November 27th, 2014 from the California Institute for Women, from room 136– the cell without a mirror or light, or doorknob, where I spent my Thanksgiving. I had a window, though, and the room to myself– and it was a lovely place to write. ________________________________________________ The fog rolled in, misting the grass with smoky sanctity. We walked a single-file line through it, one after … Continue reading unlocked: goodbye, chowchilla.
I don’t have a scanner so the comic is hard to read, unless you click to make it bigger. I’ll summarize it for you, though. It’s titled: Why Rarasaurs Make Bad Inmates Reason One : They Talk to C/Os It’s me waving to a C/O, and him waving back and calling me by name. Reason Two: They Befriend Tough-Girls It’s me, explaining to a girl … Continue reading ❤melt : they leave
rarasaur 