There is No Brunch at the Prison

And a BIG Update for Mother's Day

It feels like I should have something profound to say this week but I don't.

Whether I am just tired or living in a new stage of acceptance—the second Sunday in May is just the second Sunday in May. I will be skipping past the Mothers Day posts kindly exposing how “hard" this weekend can be. It is no longer consolation that other women are suffering—and it is certainly not a revelation.

Motherhood is nothing but the Olympics of holding on and letting go.

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Prior to being the mother of an inmate, I assumed that the bad guys were locked up for a good reason, and that we were all safer as a result. I never asked what was happening in our prisons and frankly, I never cared. That is called passive indifference, and I no longer have the luxury.

Especially on family-centric holidays.

This past week, I heard a mom speak about her son’s suicide inside a local county jail. He had been in a solitary cell for 30 days and all family contact had been denied. After banging on his windowless door for an hour— pleading for help— he hung himself. His mom only knows of his last hours because his fellow inmates wrote to her after his death.

I heard another mom speak about her young daughter who was left alone in a cell, enduring a horrific series of seizures over a 72-hour period. Instead of medical care, she was given solitary confinement—where she died.

I know a mom who called the cops on her teenage son during a mental health crisis in their home, which resulted in him being arrested, charged, and put in an adult prison where he spent five formative years, mostly in an isolation cell.

Happy Mother's Day.

Because all prisoners have moms—Moms who are not allowed to visit, moms who can’t afford to visit, moms who are too far away to visit, moms who can no longer stand to visit, and moms who secretly visit without their friends or family knowing.

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I am in the Not Allowed to visit category again this year (more on that here), but it is just one of the many barriers between us.

My son's facility just denied him my snail mail this week—marking it a violation of Prisoner Mail Policy QQ. #22: “Voluminous.” It was a paper print-out of my latest blog post which totaled 13 single-sided pages. Policy states anything beyond 12 pages “poses a threat to security, good order, and discipline.”

They also refused my son several of the books that I sent him last month because they did not have the proper receipt. Though I sent a receipt via email to the warden’s office, it was not the “Invoice Copy” which is, as of recent changes, the required documentation. This receipt, should you ever need it, is buried three layers deep in your Amazon account, accessible on your laptop only. Look for the one labeled packing receipt.

And no—they will not return those books. The mail room employees must have one hell of a library somewhere. I will have to reorder those books, re-paying for the exact same ones.

When you say, Do the Crime—Do The Time, you have no idea what we are saying. Mom, if she hangs in there, does the time too.

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I gave birth to my son when I was 20-years-old.

I did not have a college education, I was unmarried, and I lived four hours away from my own family. Determined to do my best, I rushed head-long into being a mom—marrying his dad and inhabiting his dad’s world. We added two more kids before I turned 25. We built a home. I got my first degree. My husband worked from dawn until dusk, and I spent those years moonlighting as a martyr.

Being a stay-at-home mom was the hardest job I have ever done, until I became a prison mom.

Whenever anyone asks, “What would you tell your younger self?” I always think of that naïve and neurotic girl trying to do it all, trying to be all. I want to pull her aside to show her our wrinkles and greys.

What would I say to her? How about, “Slow the fuck down.”

I treated that whole season like a marathon, running breathlessly toward the balloon arch and medal ceremony at the end. For those just tuning in—there is no end and there certainly is no medal.

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There are 80,000 moms in a U.S. prison right now. There are 1.25 million kids this weekend with a parent inside razor wire. There are two million American people locked in a cell the size of your half bathroom—and almost 30,000 more will get arrested today.

Never in my younger years did I think my Mother’s Day reflections would include thoughts about prisons and punishment and system failures, but here we are. I introduced myself to a room full of strangers this week as the Black Sheep Mom—and they immediately understood the moniker. I am not, by any measure, alone in this perspective.

When 50% of Americans have had an immediate family member in some type of locked cell, it is an epidemic. Half of our flock are black sheep.

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So, no, there will be no brunch at the prison this weekend. There is no hug from my oldest child awaiting me. There is, however, a phone bank in the yard.

My son will wait in a long line this Sunday—no matter the weather—to make a call home. Before I hear his voice, I will be warned that it is a call from a Correctional Facility. I will be offered the option to report this prisoner for extortion or victimization, and I will be given the choice to block the number. I will be thanked for spending my money with GTL on my Mother’s Day and eventually, I will be told that I have one minute to say what's left to say. Then, I'll be hung up on.

And I will be more thankful for these difficult moments than you could ever imagine.

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UPDATE:

This Sunday will, Lord willing, be the last Mother's Day that I will have to take a call or visit my oldest child inside prison walls.

He has been granted parole.

Though this is not breaking news for our paid subscribers, I want to thank ALL of the readers who have supported us through these difficult years.

Truth: I am struggling with the enormity of this new chapter, but we are hopeful and grateful and ready as we'll ever be. We have waited so long for this news.

Your subscription to Black Sheep Mom has and will continue to help us with transitions, and the blog will continue to center on carceral themes, the parole processes, and stories of other inmates and their families. My son wants to be a part of telling the truth, post-incarceration. We will NEVER not be working in this space.

My book is also in the works, and I will be releasing some of it sporadically as we move toward publishing.

The Ask: My son will be coming home with no worldly possessions—other than the books we've sent him in prison. From toiletries to bedding to clothing to a phone to a vehicle, he will have to build again from scratch.

If you would like to offer a one-time donation to secure basic necessities for him, we would be so thankful. You can gift any amount through this LINK. Conversely, if you can consider bumping your subscription up to paid during this transition time, I will make sure that every dollar goes toward furnishing his room and meeting his other basic needs. Even $8 a month buys toothpaste, soap, and shampoo!

Mostly, just thank you for being our supporters. You've made all the difference to us. Stay tuned for more reality as it comes. 🖤

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The note below is a JPay message from my first Mother’s Day as a prison mom (during Covid lockdowns). What a heartbreak and a blessing to be able to look back, knowing how far we have come.