Lies of a Real Housewife (18 page)

I started networking
to find out how I could immediately begin

hustling, so that I could alleviate some of the stress from my mother. My first day on the compound, I ran into my home-girl, Gina. Her name was special. I always believed that my cousin, Gina, was my guardian An
gel, always watching over me after she died. My cousin loved me so much I refused to

believe that she ever left me.

However this Gina was my home-girl, and she worked in the prison

kitchen. Everybody in there knew my rep on the streets, and in prison. I
wasn’t a crab, meaning nothing about me spelled selfish. I would give help to anyone who needed it. That meant even if it was my last dime. I never looked

forward to being repaid. My blessings always came from above.

Gina hooked me up with some of everything like onions, cheese,

taco meat, and cucumbers. It crossed my mind a couple of times why the

cucumbers were in such high demand. But hey, who was I to judge?

Just in case you were wondering why I would be excited about those

things. I would like to let you know that those items were hot commodities in prison. I could sell them to other inmates for commissary items. The taco meat was used to put inside of beef ramen noodles. The cheese was used for grilled cheese sandwiches. This was made by using a brown paper bag, and the dorm iron. Onions were used to add flavor to any food of choice. It would be a whole week before I could make commissary, but thanks to Gina, I was

good.

Gina was serving a life sentence for murdering her husband. We

came to pri
son together on my last trip in, and Gina didn’t have a dime to her name. I looked out for her and whenever I ate, she ate. She had a lousy husband that beat her for twelve years, and Gina wore the scars as best she could. She wasn’t the prettiest thing to look at, and she did smell like onions sometimes, but I knew she was a person just like me. I wasn’t afraid of her, and I didn’t judge her. I couldn’t judge her. She committed a crime and I committed a crime, and both of us were together in the same, exact prison. That was why the saying, “Don’t burn your bridges…” proved to be true.

Diagnostic testing was a procedure all inmates went through when

they entered the prison system. They are tested mentally and physically. After all the tests are completed,
they are shipped to the prison that best

accommodates their needs.

I remember standing in the long hallway with all the other females. Inmates after inmates were lined up against the wall, waiting to see the doctor. Prison was a male doctor’s paradise. Many of the girls actually enjoyed lying on the table, spreading their legs wide, and letting the doctor’s fingers play

inside their exposed vaginas.

This was Dr. Feel Good for the inmates, and he knew exactly what

he was doing. Despite giving birth to f
our other children in the free world, I had never ever had an OB/GYN doctor touch me on the inside with his fingers, the way that prison doctor did during my medical examination. What the doctor did that day caused me to relive the molestation I suffered when I was five years old. There was absolutely no protection.

When it was over, I jumped off the table and asked, “Did you enjoy

it?” He nonchalantly smiled without saying a word. Pulling up my pants, I angrily stomped out. Before leaving the area, I silently made a note of how many girls were lined up waiting to see him. I observed that there were sixty-

seven more vaginas for this
pervert to violate.

The situation caused me tremendous sadness and made me very

angry. All the female prisoners knew it was an issue of discontent, but were well aware that there wasn’t a damn thing we could do to rectify it. Girls would gather around the yard during yard-call, and openly discuss the doctor’s actions. There were some prisoners who enjoyed it, but others,

myself included, felt violated.

The days were repetitive and time stopped for no one. I woke up

every morning at five. I had my port
ion of the room cleaned, my bed made, and I would be standing by the side of my door at six for headcount. I passed all my tests with flying colors. I got word that I was on the list for Pulaski State Prison.

All the girls wanted to go to Pulaski because
there were two-man

rooms versus four-man rooms. Also Pulaski had bathtubs. Most prisons are equipped with standing showers only. I hadn’t bathed in a tub in four months now. Pulaski was all right with me. I knew I would be going to Pulaski State Prison I
just didn’t know when I was to be transferred. All my testing had been completed, and I had visitation the upcoming weekend. I could see my mother and all of my children. I was just so excited and anxious anticipating

the upcoming weekend.

I drew pictures for my children and colored them in with M&M’s.

We didn’t have crayons, so I improvised. I had a cherry sucker that I had gotten from one of my prior counseling sessions. I saved the piece of candy for Emani. I felt like I had to give my children someth
ing, anything to show

them that I loved and appreciated them.

Although incarcerated, I still felt the need to provide for them

anyway I could. My motherly instincts didn’t just take flight along with my freedom. Through my childbirth experience with Em
ani, I had actually found

a hidden well of love for my children. Thinking about them gave me pure joy.

The weekend finally arrived, and I heard my name called over the

loudspeaker for visitation. I looked in my plastic mirror, and fixed my hair as

best as I could. That meant without curlers or a hot iron.

I really could care less how my hair looked anyway. I just couldn’t

stop smiling because I had waited with tremendous longing for this moment

to arrive. I skipped all the way to the visitation h
all. I wanted badly to run, but

running wasn’t allowed on prison grounds.

Once I made it to the door of the gymnasium, I could feel my tears

beginning to flow. I was actually going to hold my baby. The baby I hadn’t seen since birth. I was burdened with thoughts of my daughter. Would she know me? Would she recognize me or the sound of my voice? Would she know I was her mother? She was almost tw
o months now. Besides the fact

that I was about to see her again, I wasn’t sure of anything else.

My mother sat at the table smiling with Emani in her lap while my

three boys, Lekwaun, Leontae, and Jayvien sat around the table smiling, and looking overj
oyed. The wonderful joy of seeing their mother was overwhelming to all of us. They were just as excited about seeing their mother as I was about seeing my mother. Walking as fast as I could, I quickly reached

the table and took my seat. I was so happy to
see my children.

You would think they were happier than me if you could have seen

the looks on their faces. I hugged my boys, and played with them first so they wouldn’t feel neglected. The entire time I played with them I kept my eyes on Emani studying her up and down. My eyes were watching and I was feeling

each breath she took. She was so pretty.

Holding Emani gave me an incredible feeling. I felt the way Celie,

from the Color Purple, did when she saw the white woman in the store with her daughter,
Olivia. Silently, I kept thanking God for reuniting me with my baby, I was missing her. I only wished that I could watch every breath she took. I wanted her to know and understand that my love for her was strong, and I would fight for her until my dying day.

Emani knew who I was. At least I believed she did. I couldn’t blink

because she stared at me so intensely. No matter what I did she wouldn’t take her eyes off me. If she could speak, I was almost certain she would be asking, “Where in the world have you been?”

Brimming with excitement, I was overcome with joy. My long

awaited opportunity to change my daughter’s pamper had finally arrived. I knew she was in good hands, but I just needed to see my baby close-up. Holding my baby-girl close while examining her from head to toe, caused me to marvel at her perfection. She was so beautiful. I held her for what seemed like the entire visit, and I especially had her in my arms while I prayed, “Thank you God for reuniting me with my children, especially my baby.”

My mother silently watched me interacting with my children. With

an occasional smile on her face, she appeared to be happy on the surface. However, I knew my mother very well and I could tell something important was weighing heavy on her mind. Maybe she
was just waiting for the right time to let it slip. After we had sat around for about thirty-five minutes, my

mother let her thoughts known.

“Angela, my money was low last week, and I called Phaedra to

see if she would help me with pampers for the baby
. You already know, I never heard back from her! And by the way, they got Shaheed!” My mother

suddenly blurted.

“Who got Shaheed?” I asked. I knew he was into so much, and tied

to so many things that I wasn’t sure if he had gotten arrested or was it mur
der.

“The police have him. He’s been charged with murder!” My mother

answered wryly.

I stared at her briefly then redirected my focus on my baby. This was

surreal and I just didn’t know how to react to the news. Should I be laughing or crying? It was total confusion to say the least. I mean, what do I tell my

baby?

My baby was born in a prison, and both her parents were imprisoned. I felt like I had already failed her. It was as if I had already deprived her of her shot at a real life.  She was only two months old, and already had strikes against her. Oh Lord, please don’t let her grow up to be like her mother, a victim of her own circumstances, I silently prayed. Needless to say that this new development stayed on my mind, and cast a dark cloud over the visit. The rays of light came from me seeing my children, and being with my

mother.