These writings were from eight women incarcerated at NWACC in 2016. The prison does not allow us to use their real names. They chose the following pseudonyms: “Jake”, “Sunnie”, “Tink”, “Hope Cobain”, “Rabbit”, “Arizona”, “Nicole Green”, and “Sapphire Fogg”
From “Sunnie”:
When you think of prison, you think of criminals who deserve harsh punishments, addicts who went to extremes to get their high. You don’t see individuals, but a sea of yellow. they are more than a yellow prison uniform, a badge and a pair of Crocs. They are more than hair pulled back into a ponytail and a number. I see how each woman I come in contact with has a story, something to give the world. Some stories are sad, some tragic, some triumphant…Take “Hope Cobain” for instance. You’d notice her bubbly personality from the get-go. You’d notice her contagious laugh. You may even get the chance to know that she aspires to open up her own trailer park someday. Through her smile, you’d never know she lost a beautiful baby. You’d never know that she cut her hair to support her mother through chemotherapy. You’d never know just how positive and serious of a woman she truly is. You’d never know she was a teen mom who raised two beautiful and intelligent children. You’d never know that when she is upset her tongue will press into the sides of her cheek.
From “Hope Cobain”
Where I come from…I attempt to pry my eyes open from the seat bath I’ve endured in this heat box they call a trailer home. Before my eyes are open, I hear them, the swarm of mosquitoes and flies. They don’t bother me anymore or any less than my chigger bit covered ankles. I don’t cringe when I turn the light on and the roaches retreat any more than when I pour the sour, chunky milk onto my stale Frosted Flakes. I sigh. “Oh well.” I open the drawer to get a spoon. “Hissssss…” But not the hiss of a snake.
“Mooooommmmmm!” I shriek. “There’s an opossum in the drawer!” Then I can smell it, the waft of Old Milwaukee as my mom comes stumbling out of her bedroom drunk, again mumbling something in what must be German because it sure don’t sound like English (she knows I don’t speak German!). There’s more spit flying out of her mouth than words. I finally interpret something “Check…mail…food…stamps.” This is played out. I hop on my bike to ride the two miles to my sanctuary. Before I can leave, a familiar vehicle pulls into the driveway. I run inside. “Mom! Officer Friendly is here!” He stops by once, maybe twice a day if we’re lucky. After threats are thrown and words exchanged, my mother smiles and waves goodbye with her middle finger, salutes a farewell “FUCK! YOU! VERY! MUCH! OFFICER! FRIENDLY!” Now that was English. I ride away from this aluminum swamp. Away, anywhere from this roach-packrat-mosquito-cop-infested-trash-jungle-German-talking-slurred-speech-drunk-sorry-excuse-of-a-mother-heap-of-metal place where I am forced to lay my head at night.
From “Sunnie”:
Then there’s “Rabbit.” You’d notice how she is always so serene. You’d never know how she fought for your freedom. You’d never know she’d literally give you the shirt off her back. You’d never know what a talented artist she is. You’d never get to experience the delectable food she makes. You’d never know what it’s like to tell someone a dark secret of yours and have them keep it like she does.
From “Rabbit”:
Where I come from everyone is my cousin. According to my stepmom, that is.
There were dances at the old town hall every Friday night.
and all you can eat fried catfish at my mom’s restaurant on Saturday.
There was sweet tea and lemonade and home-grown Mary Jane.
There was always “yes, maam’s” and “no sirs” or an ass kicking was surely on its way.
There was huntin’ and fishin’ and then fried squirrel and fish tails.
There was family dinners followed by family brawls Dad was always too drunk to win.
There was moonshine and bootleggers.
There were KKK marches around the square and then dinner with them at The local Pizza Hut afterwards.
There was turkey trot then Christmas lights.
Family fun that always ended in my dad drunk
And my mom beaten to hell.
There were drugs and needles and cups.
Long summer nights and cold winters alone.
That’s where I come from.