“Did you ever see mom when she was in Nashville?” I asked my cousin Kim. She is the oldest of my uncle’s step-daughters. My uncle went to college at Tennessee State University in Nashville and continued to live and work there until retiring a few years ago.
“Yes,” Kim answered, “we would visit her often at the jail. She loved her magazines and we checked up on her regularly.”
“In jail? Mom said she was up there on a work assignment! Why was she in jail?” I asked, incredulously.
She responded without hesitation, “food stamp fraud.”
I fell silent as the realization hit me again: my mother was incarcerated in Nashville for one year. The same city where I did my time.
Kim realized that I didn’t know anything about the real reason why my mother went to Nashville. She asked that I not mention to anyone that she told me. Cousins have a way of holding each other’s secrets.
“Yes,” Kim answered, “we would visit her often at the jail. She loved her magazines and we checked up on her regularly.”
“In jail? Mom said she was up there on a work assignment! Why was she in jail?” I asked, incredulously.
She responded without hesitation, “food stamp fraud.”
I fell silent as the realization hit me again: my mother was incarcerated in Nashville for one year. The same city where I did my time.
Kim realized that I didn’t know anything about the real reason why my mother went to Nashville. She asked that I not mention to anyone that she told me. Cousins have a way of holding each other’s secrets.
* * *
“Get your things together, you will be staying at Aunt Edith’s house.” Those were the exact words my mother said to me as she departed for a “year’s assignment in Nashville.” I was a 10-year-old kid who enjoyed all of the fun stuff 10-year olds do, like playing dodge ball during recess, or creating massive fortresses with my huge collection of Legos. I had an enormous crush on my 5th grade teacher Mrs. Watson, though I’m not sure why because she was tough with her classroom management and gave us tons of homework.
My mother worked in the accounting department for a local corporation and she was once awarded Employee of the Year. A picture of her with the company’s president was in the local paper. We lived a normal middle class life. The weekends were spent playing or riding our bikes with other kids in the neighborhood, or going up to the local field to play softball. I really enjoyed softball but was not good at hitting or throwing which is why my brother’s wouldn’t pick me on their teams. I was really bad and they wanted to win. This didn’t phase me too much. I remember just enjoying the game.
Our neighborhood was filled with modest homes; each consisting of three bedrooms and two full baths with a big front yard and plenty of room in the back for kids to run around and play. My brothers and I earned an allowance for taking care of the yard, and our neighbors were generous as well. We could rake leaves, wash cars and do general things for a few extra dollars. We lived in a neighborhood were adults actually cared about children.
During my mother’s year of “working” away we spoke to her over the phone and received letters of love and instruction. We understood that she could not come home because of her job, but we knew she would be home soon enough. We were proud of how important she seemed to be at work, even though we missed her a lot. My Aunt Edith lived in an expansive house in the suburbs. She was a teacher and her husband was a successful business owner. Uncle Clifford was a quiet, slow talking man. He worked long hours and though I wasn’t his own child, he never made me feel unwelcomed or unloved. It takes a different kind of man to bring in your wife’s sister’s kids and take care of them like they were your own.
I loved the house because it was big and had a great pool with a cool slide. Summer swimming was the best for me. We all learned how to swim at the local YMCA and I use to watch my aunt do the back stroke. It was her favorite position and ironically it became mine, to the point were I won trophies from local swimming competitions. To this day, I may start with free style but I end up doing the back stroke.
We had pizza parties, pool parties, and nights at the skating rink or out bowling. My aunt’s house was the place the family gathered for dinners, parties and sleep overs. It was a welcoming, fun place for the kids and the adults. My aunt had two daughters who were still living at the house when I stayed there. They were both older – one in high school and the other in college – but we still had a blast hanging out and just being cousins. I often wondered how they felt having to share time, space and resources with us, but if it bothered them, they never showed it.
My mother worked in the accounting department for a local corporation and she was once awarded Employee of the Year. A picture of her with the company’s president was in the local paper. We lived a normal middle class life. The weekends were spent playing or riding our bikes with other kids in the neighborhood, or going up to the local field to play softball. I really enjoyed softball but was not good at hitting or throwing which is why my brother’s wouldn’t pick me on their teams. I was really bad and they wanted to win. This didn’t phase me too much. I remember just enjoying the game.
Our neighborhood was filled with modest homes; each consisting of three bedrooms and two full baths with a big front yard and plenty of room in the back for kids to run around and play. My brothers and I earned an allowance for taking care of the yard, and our neighbors were generous as well. We could rake leaves, wash cars and do general things for a few extra dollars. We lived in a neighborhood were adults actually cared about children.
During my mother’s year of “working” away we spoke to her over the phone and received letters of love and instruction. We understood that she could not come home because of her job, but we knew she would be home soon enough. We were proud of how important she seemed to be at work, even though we missed her a lot. My Aunt Edith lived in an expansive house in the suburbs. She was a teacher and her husband was a successful business owner. Uncle Clifford was a quiet, slow talking man. He worked long hours and though I wasn’t his own child, he never made me feel unwelcomed or unloved. It takes a different kind of man to bring in your wife’s sister’s kids and take care of them like they were your own.
I loved the house because it was big and had a great pool with a cool slide. Summer swimming was the best for me. We all learned how to swim at the local YMCA and I use to watch my aunt do the back stroke. It was her favorite position and ironically it became mine, to the point were I won trophies from local swimming competitions. To this day, I may start with free style but I end up doing the back stroke.
We had pizza parties, pool parties, and nights at the skating rink or out bowling. My aunt’s house was the place the family gathered for dinners, parties and sleep overs. It was a welcoming, fun place for the kids and the adults. My aunt had two daughters who were still living at the house when I stayed there. They were both older – one in high school and the other in college – but we still had a blast hanging out and just being cousins. I often wondered how they felt having to share time, space and resources with us, but if it bothered them, they never showed it.
* * *
The day that I had to “get my things together” felt strange but I obeyed my mother and didn’t ask any questions. I remember her dropping me off at school, even though there’s nothing in the memory itself that makes that particular dropping off seem any different. I remember no tears or sad words; no hugs or drawn out exchanges.
My mother’s boyfriend would maintain our house while we were all away, occupying it so that no one would break-in because empty homes can be targets for burglars. Periodically, we would go by and check in on things or to pick something up. He kept the house in perfect condition.
My mother’s boyfriend would maintain our house while we were all away, occupying it so that no one would break-in because empty homes can be targets for burglars. Periodically, we would go by and check in on things or to pick something up. He kept the house in perfect condition.
* * *
After my mother returned home, she was different. The job she had just given a year of her life to was no more and now she was working at a wrapping paper factory. The brand new Chrysler New Yorker she had dropped me off at school in a year before was gone with an older used model Chrysler now parked in its place. The 9 to 5, Monday through Friday shift she used to work gave way to working nights and weekends, leaving my 16 year-old brother in charge of us after school. My brother still prides himself on being responsible and doing the right things. He was strict and went by the rules. I’m not sure if he liked me or just tolerated me, but I was afraid of him and his temper, which he displayed often. Who could blame him? He was spending time babysitting his siblings when I’m sure he would have rather have been out chasing girls. Still, he handled the huge task of keeping up with us. Mom would call on her breaks to check in, but he was in charge. We were all glad when she started to work the early shift.
My mother always worked hard, and it seemed that she was always on the lookout for something better. She tried on jobs like shoes, hoping to find one that fit as well as the one she had in the accounting office. This became the new normal for my mom, and the years of bouncing from job to job yet not quite having the old lifestyle took a toll her. When she couldn’t make up the difference, she tried to find it in the arms of men who abused her physically and verbally; the unspoken need for something making itself known in what she accommodated and tolerated in her personal relationships. I’m not sure why this bright, intelligent woman could end up in the arms of men who were either day laborers, cons or who didn’t work at all – men who always smoked and drank heavily (two things my mother didn’t do in addition to not eating pork).
How was this the same woman with a photographic memory, who was on the dean’s list in college, who saw her smiling face in the paper next to that of the owner of a prominent local company? How did she get here? Why was she settling for anything less than real love? Now that I know what that year away really was about, I can infer that prison broke her self-worth, and retarded her ability to make better choices in the relationship department, but I can’t be sure that these tendencies did not exist before mom was incarcerated. What I do know, what was clear to me even then, is my mother was not the same woman after coming back home. I just didn’t know why, and neither did my siblings.
We as a family never talked about her stay in prison. The entire family was in on the secret and many have kept it even unto death. Until my cousin let it slip that my mom loved her magazines, no one ever said a thing. We do know how to keep a secret. Even if that secret is killing us (and certain secrets do kill us, slowly, but they do kill).
My mother always worked hard, and it seemed that she was always on the lookout for something better. She tried on jobs like shoes, hoping to find one that fit as well as the one she had in the accounting office. This became the new normal for my mom, and the years of bouncing from job to job yet not quite having the old lifestyle took a toll her. When she couldn’t make up the difference, she tried to find it in the arms of men who abused her physically and verbally; the unspoken need for something making itself known in what she accommodated and tolerated in her personal relationships. I’m not sure why this bright, intelligent woman could end up in the arms of men who were either day laborers, cons or who didn’t work at all – men who always smoked and drank heavily (two things my mother didn’t do in addition to not eating pork).
How was this the same woman with a photographic memory, who was on the dean’s list in college, who saw her smiling face in the paper next to that of the owner of a prominent local company? How did she get here? Why was she settling for anything less than real love? Now that I know what that year away really was about, I can infer that prison broke her self-worth, and retarded her ability to make better choices in the relationship department, but I can’t be sure that these tendencies did not exist before mom was incarcerated. What I do know, what was clear to me even then, is my mother was not the same woman after coming back home. I just didn’t know why, and neither did my siblings.
We as a family never talked about her stay in prison. The entire family was in on the secret and many have kept it even unto death. Until my cousin let it slip that my mom loved her magazines, no one ever said a thing. We do know how to keep a secret. Even if that secret is killing us (and certain secrets do kill us, slowly, but they do kill).
* * *
It took eight years for my mother to rediscover that semblance of her old self. One day, seemingly out of the blue, my mom enrolled in nursing school, and we both became college freshmen. A freshman at 40 and was she proud. I saw that spark come back to her eyes. After years of struggle, of working jobs that she didn’t want to do but had to for the sake of us kids, she was doing something for herself.
The day she graduated we were all there to celebrate her accomplishment. When they called her name to walk across that stage, I saw the tears coming down her cheeks. I know now that at that moment she had turned the corner and left the past behind.
Life was finally good for my mother finally. She took pride in her profession, and I never once heard a complaint about the patients or the work. Every now and then she would cut down a doctor, but she never said anything negative about her patients. She loved being a nurse.
The day she graduated we were all there to celebrate her accomplishment. When they called her name to walk across that stage, I saw the tears coming down her cheeks. I know now that at that moment she had turned the corner and left the past behind.
Life was finally good for my mother finally. She took pride in her profession, and I never once heard a complaint about the patients or the work. Every now and then she would cut down a doctor, but she never said anything negative about her patients. She loved being a nurse.
* * *
The day I reported to prison my mother and I said goodbye through a closed bedroom door. I was afraid and she was terrified and hurt. Later on, I would find out that she went to work at the clinic and fell apart. She had to be relieved of her duties early because my going to prison broke her as a mother. When, I heard the news, I broke down too, ashamed at the pain I had caused her. But I realize now that there was more to the pain she was feeling at that moment, that I alone wasn’t the sole cause of her tears. I was taking her back to a place she thought she had left behind.
It has taken me years to confront my own past as inmate 14815-076. The years of agony, doubt and uncertainty haunted me daily. Those same emotions, I’m sure haunted my mother as well. The idea of having to hold information because of family, friends, culture and tradition is no easy feat. I carried my shame like a ton of bricks. What kind of future is there for a convicted felon when you are locked out of housing, industry, student loans and even certain neighborhoods? Where do we go and what can we do? I wanted to talk and share but felt unsafe, fearful of being judged and ridiculed. I wanted to make things right but didn’t know where to start or how to say the important stuff. So I kept my mouth closed and acted as if I was fine after prison when I was really hurting and afraid for the future. And so did mom.
We had so much in common but we didn’t have the courage to confront or comfort each other. In order for one to touch another person’s pain they must be in touch with their own pain. Perhaps she didn’t want to touch hers for the fear of falling apart? Or maybe she feared my reaction to her secret, worried of my anger at being lied to all those years? We had so much to talk about but neither of us had the courage to ask the right question. So we shared silence instead.
It has taken me years to confront my own past as inmate 14815-076. The years of agony, doubt and uncertainty haunted me daily. Those same emotions, I’m sure haunted my mother as well. The idea of having to hold information because of family, friends, culture and tradition is no easy feat. I carried my shame like a ton of bricks. What kind of future is there for a convicted felon when you are locked out of housing, industry, student loans and even certain neighborhoods? Where do we go and what can we do? I wanted to talk and share but felt unsafe, fearful of being judged and ridiculed. I wanted to make things right but didn’t know where to start or how to say the important stuff. So I kept my mouth closed and acted as if I was fine after prison when I was really hurting and afraid for the future. And so did mom.
We had so much in common but we didn’t have the courage to confront or comfort each other. In order for one to touch another person’s pain they must be in touch with their own pain. Perhaps she didn’t want to touch hers for the fear of falling apart? Or maybe she feared my reaction to her secret, worried of my anger at being lied to all those years? We had so much to talk about but neither of us had the courage to ask the right question. So we shared silence instead.
Header photo by T. Guzzio.
CONNECT WITH DAVID:
David Shawn Smith is a native of Memphis, Tennessee who has lived in Atlanta, Georgia since the summer of 1999. After working extensively in human resources in the corporate world, he took a leap of faith and opened I Speak Life Coaching in 2007. David specializes in the areas of communication and interpersonal relationship skills, conflict management, goal setting, and organizational development. His clients include business owners, universities, non-profits, and faith-based organizations and community leaders. David has a degree in Communications and Rhetoric from Oglethorpe University, and a Master's Degree in Leadership and Coaching from Bellevue University. In addition to Prodigal's Chair, David's work has appeared in Creative Loafing, as well as countless other on-line publications. Connect with David on Twitter and via his website: http://www.ispeaklifecoaching.com.
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