The Etiquette of Groveling

Parole Board Games

Last fall, my son was denied parole.

We waited 3 months for their decision to come— and though it is the written protocol, the State Parole Board did not directly notify him. Instead, he received what is colloquially known as an “Under the Door” notice from prison medical that he had been placed on the waiting list for the prison dentist.

That is how he found out that he wasn’t coming home.

Prisoners with less than a year don't get put on waiting lists, and he knew that. A piece of paper was slid under his locked cell door and he sat alone on his bunk with the news. Then he wrote me a brief electronic message:

Miles away, his message reached me hours later where I sat under the bumping music of my youngest child’s weekly hip hop class. I re-read it twice— calmly at first. Then a desperation poured over my head and spilled down my shoulders like a warm liquid. One moment I was smiling at jumping kids, the next I was in sheer panic.

It was the wrong place for this type of news. The music distorted. The air got thick and hot. For a minute, I couldn’t move and then I was very suddenly up on my feet. It must have looked as though I had been electrocuted.

You know that scene in Steel Magnolias— the one where Sally Fields is grieving her daughter and says she just wants to hit something, “hit it hard!” she stammers? That was me right there in the middle of a dance studio. In a roomful of young, hopeful, completely unaware parents I fought the urge to scream out 4-letter words and ball up my fists in rage.

My littlest boy kept dancing.

I hurried myself into the stairwell just outside of the studio and stood with my back against the cold cinderblock wall. The echoes against steel and concrete so reminiscent of my eldest son’s surroundings that I had to keep moving. I descended the steps and exited the building, almost running to my car where I slumped with my tears and snot and Why, God? exhaustion.

He is not coming home for the holidays.

It was the death of another year. The grief of Sally Fields again— Oh, God, I wanna know why. Why? Lord, I wish I could understand.

I found a Kleenex box shoved under the passenger seat and wiped my face before returning slowly up the stairs, battered, to the dance room and the smiles and my happy, full-of-life littlest son. I am not sure what we talked about or how I entertained his 6 year-old queries during our ride home but anyway, I did.

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My incarcerated son had to manage his parole denial last year without human contact. He was kept in holding, away from everyone, like yesterday's trash.

No human came to speak to him.

No reason was given.

No direction.

No counseling.

Since that Under the Door, he has endured a year without any visits. He has been locked in a cell 23/7 for 10 months out of 12. He has been denied (as a matter of policy) all programming, education, employment, TVs, tablet use, electronic messaging, and phone calls. He has received every one of his daily meals inside of his cell through that clanking slot in the door.

This, the hallmark of American rehabilitation.

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This past week, my son informed me via video (we get three 20-minute video calls a month) that he received a 2025 update from the Parole Board.

It is not good.

His parole probability rating for this past calendar year is a -4, on a scale of -9 to 13. The official reason given was that he had “refused” programming this year. Refused.

Before I type in all caps (because I am absolutely screaming on the inside), let me be clear— he has never, ever, never-never-never refused programming. DOC has denied him any and all programming for a year due to segregation and “tickets.” There is a massive difference.

I had called the warden’s office in January to inquire about why my son has not been placed in programming after months of waiting— “There are only so many seats on the plane,” the Assistant Warden guffawed. He literally laughed and the best that I could do was picture him in pleated jean shorts and white Air Monarchs, clutching a beer by a grill full of steaming wieners. What a mindless gasbag.

The casual callousness of DOC has become unsurprising, unmoving, and tiresome to me.

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Last night I woke at 3:28 am. I was clammy and I exhaled loudly as I sat up. I had dreamt that I was outside of a facility where my son was housed having ridden my motorcycle there— I do not own nor ride a motorcycle and I have never seen his current facility.

In the dream, I was met in the parking lot by staff. They would not let me in. This group of official looking women, in heels and power suits with black leather binders clutched to their chests, informed me that my son had been caught with a shank under his mattress and he would be doing another year as a result. There was no hearing to attend.

I laid back down quietly folding myself into a fetal position, praying that my Spidey senses are broken from years of disconnection. For most of his life, I have had powerful premonitions right before pain hit us.

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This week, in the midst of regular life, I am attempting to write to the Parole Board on behalf of my son. Family members are “allowed” to file letters of support in advance of any hearings. We don’t yet have a hearing date on the calendar, but we are in a window of consideration.

As a writer, I am completely locked up, blocked by what feels like enormity and finality and an arena full of contradiction—

• Be formal but personable.

• Be a mother but don't be “mom.”

• Be thorough, but brief.

• Be respectful, but clear.

• Advocate, but not too much.

• Be hopeful, but not anticipatory.

• Be sincere, but not emotional.

• Be supportive, but don't enable.

• Be grateful, but don’t lie.

• Be positive, but realistic.

And— whatever you do, Do NOT discuss injustice nor the failure of DOC policies. You must show deference to people who have already shown they could give two shits about you or your son.

Any parent who has ever advocated for their excluded child knows the posture. A curtsy, a smile, fawning to the (Capital P) Powers while in your headphones you blast old Eminem and ready for battle. Till I Collapse, indeed.

Photo courtesy of Historic Image

If you are interested in reading more about our journey, the following post details why my son has not been allowed to complete prison programming this year.