Prison Is.....

When my father jokingly said about hustlers on the streets, "Nothing's going to beat that mofo to the penitentiary but the headlights on the bus", I laughed. The day I found myself in that same predicament, I screamed. My rise in the criminal underworld was moderately slow,but the prima diva I became after two very decent jobs as a Loan Officer at Bank of America and Human Resource Recruiter for Exxon, saw only glitz and gleam. I'd forgotten about the consequences,the payback, until the judge revoked my probation, and sentenced me to five years in prison.

The bus ride to California's Institution For Women(C.I.W.)was disturbing.There were nine of us and we all were annoyed at the Bible thumpin 'sister in the seat behind me incessantly giving praise to God for saving our lives by sending us to prison. Then, there was the gaunt, blonde haired KKK who'd taken an instant dislike to me in Las Colinas,San Diego's County Jail, because I conversed with the white Pro Lifers, and she'd threatened my life. Still in my VC(Very Crazy) role I played in the cocaine world, I told her I wouldn't be the one going home in a box. As it happened, the officers put her across from me, and anytime I glanced about, she was glaring at me. Needless to say, by the time we pulled up to the prison gate, I was shaking like I'd taken a good blast off the pipe. At first glance, C.I.W. looked like a college campus. A fence of blooming flowers surrounded the yard. Women in street clothes played softball and were running or walking the track of the huge baseball field when the bus stopped. Some of them yelled and waved. Those of us new to prison sat in silence. Old schoolers hollered back. Instead of an uneasiness, I felt relief. The women here looked like the ones I saw on the street. More than a few, I knew had crossed my path in the hustling world. Once inside the reception area, we were told to sit on the hard picnic-styled benches until the correction officer called our names.It was hours before mine was called. As I walked to the counter,my stomach ached.The chains we had around our waist and feet were finally removed, so I should have felt lighter. But, I was heavy with defeat...and emotionally exhausted. Before turning myself in to authorities, I revisited some of my old haunts in Northern California, and got caught in the earthquake.I hoped to touch bases with my old friend, Angela Y,who was teaching at the University of California at Santa Cruz. In the days of the Movement, we'd found a common thread in our quest for equal treatment for everyone. I didn't embrace the Communist or the Socialist philosophy, but I did like Utopian ideals of how they could work for us and against white people. I also wanted to hear what methods she used to combat the anxiety, the fear and potential danger of being locked away in a racist, isolative community. When I hadn't been able to get to her,my anxiety went way up. I was also in an self imposed exile from my family because of the life I led. Violence in the drug world had escalated during the 'late '80's... my connections in Tijuana were known to go after your family. To protect mine, I told everyone I was an only child with no living relatives. Prison Is.........

women dreamin' schemin' screamin' a brighter day!

It is a subtle sadness; sane madness baked pains faked games

in my cell of immense hell How can I tell if prison is for rehabilitation!?