Black Children of Incarcerated Parents Speak Truth to Power [1 ed.] 1032293152, 9781032293158

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BLACK CHILDREN OF INCARCERATED PARENTS SPEAK TRUTH TO POWER

This book centers directly impacted Black children who have lived through parental incarceration. Their stories are told from holistic perspectives incorporating the full range of collateral consequences. Shifting from the Eurocentric and capitalistic viewpoint, they move us beyond negative outcomes to a positive prism by providing insider perspective, strategy, advice, and compelling experiences. We center Black children of incarcerated parents’ (BCOIP’s) rich narratives to show how they are conscious thinkers with perspectives that can help reimagine all Black children’s lives and futures. These stories help readers better understand the importance of exploring the revolutionary ways BCOIP continue to survive, thrive, and transform amid the dynamic challenges surrounding mass incarceration. The book shifts the social dialogue from fear of intergenerational crime and incarceration to resilience, success, Black joy, and self-​love, and moves from sympathetic into an empathetic agenda. The book brings to the forefront counter-​storytelling through oral narratives that fill a gap in literature that leaves out the voices of children of incarcerated parents who are doctors, lawyers, professional athletes, musicians, community leaders, activists, professors, teachers, best-​ selling authors, and much more. These are vital experiences to share because not all BCOIP will end up in prison, jail, or a detention center. Black Children of Incarcerated Parents Speak Truth to Power will be of great interest to scholars from the humanistic social sciences and humanities. It is also a timely resource for students (high school, undergraduate, and graduate) in sociology, criminology, corrections, humanities, social work, counseling, education, social justice, and related courses, as well as agency administrators, community organizations servicing families of the incarcerated, specifically incarcerated parents and the children of incarcerated parents, themselves.

Britany Jenine Gatewood, Ph.D., is the Senior Research Coordinator for Beloved Community and the founder of the Liberation and Justice Project Foundation, Inc. Her research focuses on the political practice of incarcerated Black women and their children. She obtained her Ph.D. from Howard University, along with a Graduate Certificate in Women’s Studies. Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad, Ph.D., is Associate Professor of Criminology at Howard University. She is the founder of The Dr. Muhammad Experience Inc., and co-​founder of Project Iron Kids for children of incarcerated parents. Professor Muhammad is the author of numerous children’s books, book chapters, and articles about children and families impacted by incarceration. Sydni Myat Turner, M.A., is a social justice advocate, reentry mentor, and program facilitator. In 2021, she earned an M.A. in Sociology from Howard University. She serves as a board chair member and co-facilitator at It Takes A Village Collaborative (ITAVCollab), a non-​profit organization providing Black individuals, families, and communities with resources, services, and networks to holistically heal their mind, body, and spirit.

BLACK CHILDREN OF INCARCERATED PARENTS SPEAK TRUTH TO POWER Social Revolution

Edited by Britany Jenine Gatewood, Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad, and Sydni Myat Turner

Designed cover image: Upward Prayer (2022 –​2023) by Shanell Kitt First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 selection and editorial matter, Britany Jenine Gatewood, Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad and Sydni Myat Turner; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Britany Jenine Gatewood, Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad and Sydni Myat Turner to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-​in-​Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Gatewood, Britany Jenine, editor. | Muhammad, Bahiyyah Miallah, 1980– editor. | Turner, Sydni Myat, editor. Title: Black children of incarcerated parents speak truth to power : social revolution / edited by: Britany Jenine Gatewood, Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad and Sydni Myat Turner. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, [2024] | “First published 2022 by Routledge.” | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2023021586 (print) | LCCN 2023021587 (ebook) | ISBN 9781032293158 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032293103 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003301011 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Children of prisoners–United States–Anecdotes. | African American children–Anecdotes. | Mass incarceration–Social aspects–United States. Classification: LCC HV8885 .B49 2024 (print) | LCC HV8885 (ebook) | DDC 362.82/9508996–dc23/eng/20230515 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023021586 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023021587 ISBN: 9781032293158 (hbk) ISBN: 9781032293103 (pbk) ISBN: 9781003301011 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/​9781003301011 Typeset in Sabon by Newgen Publishing UK

For the Black children that inspire us. For our families and friends that motivate and love us. For those around the world who unapologetically speak truth to power. This was made especially for you.

CONTENTS

Lists of Figures List of Contributors Foreword Breea C. Willingham Preface Acknowledgments List of Abbreviations About the Cover Introduction Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad, Britany Jenine Gatewood, and Sydni Myat Turner

xii xiii xix xxiii xxv xxvi xxvii 1

PART 1

Truth and Reconciliation: Confidence in My Black Skin Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad

17

1 What’s in a Name? Calvin Bell III

21

2 Unlearn to Relearn Aloha

24

viii Contents

3 Am I My Mother’s Keeper? Tonisha Taylor

28

4 Roots, Residue, and Results Quatina Frazer

32

5 Dad’s “in” Dad’s “out” Part I: The Ebb and Flow of Childhood with an Incarcerated Parent Nicole Dezrea Jenkins

36

6 Dad’s “in” Dad’s “out” Part II: Truth and Trajectory from an Academic and Military Veteran Nicole Dezrea Jenkins

41

7 Ciera’s New Story Ciera Payton

48

PART 2

Reclaiming Black Wellness: Every Revolution Has to Begin Somewhere Sydni Myat Turner

55

8 Lock and Key: A Story about My Dad and Me Tru Moore

59

9 A Journey through Abandonment and Abuse to Acceptance Alicia Jefferson

63

10 My Healing Journey Charnal Chaney

67

11 The Journey of a Butterfly Faith Cole

71

12 Loving Me, Unapologetically Quaniece Raquelle Jones

74

Contents  ix

PART 3

The Renaissance of Self-​Expression: Creativity, Innovation, and Culture Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad

79

13 The Masquerade Ball Donald Stevenson

83

14 The Seed of Hope: “Maybe You’ll Go Away for College” Lolu Drummond

88

15 In Memory of You, Dad Shanell Kitt

93

16 Now You See Him, Now You Don’t Justice Howard

100

17 Falling on Deaf Ears Gabrielle Dunn

104

18 Helping Flowers Grow: Sunlight, Water, and Love Jian Alaa Muhammad and Jaelah Millah Muhammad

116

19 Emotions William Myhre

119

20 Crisis to Creativity Akiya McKnight

120

PART 4

Parenting Behind and Beyond the Walls: The Revolutionizing Relationships of BCOIP Sydni Myat Turner

123

21 Behind the Wall Dawan Alford

129

22 73 Days Erika Hardison

132

x Contents

23 Moms Dawan Alford

140

24 Apple Don’t Fall Far Shatarra King

142

25 Obstacles on Both Sides of the Gate Kiara W. S. Bynum

145

26 Parenting You Parent Jasmine Johnson

149

27 Letter to My Father Tashawn Reagon

152

PART 5

The Student and the Teacher: Education Beyond Books Britany Jenine Gatewood

155

28 What Is a “Bad” Guy? Jay Baron

159

29 Intergenerational Achievement: Class of 2025 Whitney Hollins and Arieanna Hollins

164

PART 6

The Revolution Begins Now: A National Call to Action Britany Jenine Gatewood

171

30 The Internal Revolution Anyé Young

175

31 This Is Your Permission To Be Free Tonisha Taylor

179

32 Ask the Question: Say Something Kiara W. S. Bynum

182

Contents  xi

33 Why My Mom? Quniana Futrell

186

34 Youth of Incarcerated Parents United Kleo Torres

189

35 Building the Future Us: Youth Ambassadors on A Mission Jaelah Millah Muhammad and Jian Alaa Muhammad

192

36 A Woman on the Outside Kristal Bush

196

37 The Invisible Part: See Me, Hear Me Shameka Green

199

Conclusion Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad, Britany Jenine Gatewood, and Sydni Myat Turner

202

Afterword Tony Lewis, Jr. Index

205 208

FIGURES

14.1 15.1 18.1 21.1

The seed of hope Upward Prayer (2022–​2023) dedicated to my father, Geno Embrace your emotions Uncle Ant aka New York

91 98 117 131

CONTRIBUTORS

Dawan Alford combines a unique blend of non-​profit leadership and cross-​

sector advocacy, with his 15+​years of experience in equity engineering. Dee currently works with a national organization that empowers the sports community to eliminate racial discrimination, champion social justice, and improve race relations. He’s passionate about social impact and excels at designing strategies that authentically connect anchor institutions to community stakeholders. Aloha is a millennial YouTuber who loves helping others. She earned her

B.A. from Howard University and is currently a government contractor. Aloha enjoys talking with children and senior citizens in her spare time because they give her the best life lessons. As a mother of two, she aspires to be the person she wished she had in her life as a child. Jay Baron is a pre-​kindergarten teacher in the DMV area. They have worked in

the early childhood field for the past 18 years. Jay was born and raised in the Caribbean with two sisters by their single mother. Their goals when working with children are to create a safe space, explore diversity and inclusivity, and practice restorative justice. Jay believes children should be able to ask questions freely and access age-​appropriate information. Calvin Bell III is a scholar-​activist from Pennsauken, NJ, attending Morehouse

College. As a Morehouse Oprah Winfrey Scholar and UNCF Mellon Mays Fellow, Bell interrogates the carceral state throughout his developing research entitled, “Reimagining the Carceral Landscape: From Discipline and Punishment to Social Reckoning and Radical Love in Academic Spaces.”

xiv  List of Contributors

Kristal Bush spearheads multi-​faceted approaches to cannabis policy reform

as the curator of Free My Weedman, a social impact campaign. She incites movements to end mass incarceration and for reparative justice in Black and Brown communities. Her life’s work is featured in the award-​winning documentary, A Woman on The Outside. Kiara W. S. Bynum, Ph.D., is the founder and CEO of CAY2ROSS (Calling All

Youth to Reach Out and Save Someone) Youth & Young Adult Ministry. She is a native of Plaquemine, LA, and currently lives in Port Allen, LA. She is a member of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc. and an ordained preacher. She has a heart for children of incarcerated parents and is currently working on her book, No More Shame. Charnal Chaney at 33 years old, the Washington D.C. native and mother of

5, serves as a trauma-​informed yoga instructor, community advocate/​leader, and owner of Bold Yoga. Bold Yoga creates safe spaces for youth to heal from childhood trauma. In 2022, Charnal was featured in the Newspaper The Washington Informer “Week of Healing” and Dcist “Voices of Ward 7 & 8” editions. Faith Cole is a Greensboro, NC, native, who enjoys singing and spending time

with family. Currently residing with her husband and daughter in Charlotte, NC, Faith is on a journey of healing and self-​discovery with the goal of inspiring others to do the same. Lolu Drummond is a poet and artist from Brooklyn, NY, and owns a Christian

clothing line called Unlimited Faith Garments. She received her B.A. in Political Science with a minor in criminology from Howard University. She lives in Silver Spring, MD, with her husband Justin, whom she met at Howard. Gabrielle Dunn is from Newnan, GA. She obtained her B.A. in Psychology

from Howard University in the Fall of 2022. Gabrielle is extremely passionate about advocating for the importance of mental health. In the summer of 2021, after working as a teaching fellow, her passion shifted to utilizing her training in psychology in the education field now seeking to become an educator. Quatina Frazer, M.A., based in CT, is the mother of four sons, an ordained

elder, a singer, and the owner of Blu Alys Photography. She holds a MALS from Wesleyan University, where she is also employed. Her first book is Built by Love, Kept by Grace: Beauty Out of Ashes.

List of Contributors  xv

Quniana Futrells is from Newark, NJ, and has been featured on PBS’s Virginia

Currents. She is a Certified Trauma Professional, a captivating public speaker, and a member of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority Incorporated. Quniana has been recognized by both international and local media outlets for her work, including her award-​winning book and films. Her motto is “Change the Family, Change the World.” Most recently, she has become an Elected School Board member. Britany Jenine Gatewood, Ph.D., is the Senior Research Coordinator for

Beloved Community and the founder of the Liberation and Justice Project Foundation, Inc. Her research focuses on the political practice of incarcerated Black women and their children. She obtained her Ph.D. from Howard University, along with a Graduate Certificate in Women’s Studies. Shameka Green is from Detroit to Las Vegas. Shameka serves serves her

community as a Licensed Marriage & Family Therapist. Shameka is an International Award-​Winning Best-​Selling Author, founder of Emma’s House, Inc., and co-​founder of SCM Productions. Shameka has been featured on BET for her philanthropic work in the community. Erika Hardison is a culture and parenting journalist born and raised in Chicago

now residing in the New York City area. Her work has been published in Parents, Elite Daily, Huffington Post, Book Riot, and more. Arieanna Hollins is a student at Howard University in Washington D.C. on a

scholarship from Thurman Perry Foundation for Women. Whitney Hollins, Ph.D. is an advocate for children who have a parent involved

in the justice system. Dr. Hollins is currently pursuing her J.D. at Howard University School of Law. She holds a Ph.D. in Urban Education from the CUNY Graduate Center. She has received a proclamation and citation from the New York State Assembly for her work with children of incarcerated parents. Justice Howard is a Master’s student at Howard University in the Department

of Sociology and Criminology. Born and raised in Charlottesville, Virginia, she received a Bachelor’s in Psychology from the University of Virginia. Alicia Jefferson is an author, mental health counselor, and homeschooling

mom. She was born and raised in Boston, MA, and came up in the Era of Reaganomics. She has published titles designed to encourage, comfort, and strengthen children of incarcerated parents. In addition, she hosts a podcast to aid people on the path of wellness.

xvi  List of Contributors

Nicole Dezrea Jenkins, Ph.D., is Assistant Professor of Sociology at Howard

University in the Department of Sociology and Criminology. She grew up in Ridgecrest, CA, a small desert town. She served six years in the United States Air Force before pursuing a Ph.D. Her research centers on the experiences of Black women and parenthood. Jasmine Johnson, M.A., is a New Jersey native who believes in the true

mission of giving and teaching. In 2016, Jasmine founded JM Tutors, a tutoring company whose focus is centered around bridging the educational gap. She is an alumnus of Montclair State University with a B.A. in Family & Child Studies, an M.A. in Teaching and Arts, and an M.A. in Educational Leadership. Jasmine is the author of the children’s book Nuri’s Tinkle Collar and has a clothing line, The Prize Collection. Quaniece Raquelle Jones lives in Connecticut with her fiancée and three

children. She is a graduate of Central Connecticut State University with a B.A. in Social Work and published author of her memoir, “Self Love: A Silent Revolution.” She is committed to fight against systemic injustices experienced by children and families of color. Shatarra King, Ed.D., is a Chicago native, but a Texan at heart, growing

up on the Southwest side of Houston. Shatarra has a B.A. in History and an Ed.D in Higher Education Leadership from Clark Atlanta University. She taught middle school history before becoming a school counselor, and currently serves as a College and Career Counselor. Shatarra has a son, Asier, who she loves dearly. Shanell Kitt, M.S.W., M.F.A., is a visual artist, African American art

administrator, and licensed social worker from The Bronx, NY, residing in Brooklyn, NY. She earned a B.S. from the State University of New York –​ Buffalo State College, an M.S.W. from Howard University, and an M.F.A. in Studio Art –​Painting from Howard University. Tony Lewis, Jr. is an author, activist, reentry expert, community leader, and

champion for children with incarcerated parents. Tony has fought relentlessly for the past 20 years to empower men, women, and children impacted by mass incarceration. His work and advocacy have been featured on CNN, BET, The Breakfast Club, Black Enterprise, Hot 97, and numerous times in the Washington Post. He and his wife Jessica have two daughters, Isabella and Sophie. Akiya McKnight, originally from Bridgeport, CT, has a B.A. in Mass

Communications from the University of Bridgeport. As a writer and producer,

List of Contributors  xvii

she has written and produced shorts such as SERVED, Black Mask, Drift, Bone Deep, Daddy’s Home, and Monet. Akiya has produced brand content for the Grammy Recording Academy and produced the podcasts, District Queen and Women with the Blueprint. She currently works as a producer at Shondaland Audio. Tru Moore is an ambitious 21 year old that is still navigating life. She loves

her job as a flight attendant and soon hopes to go back to school to study American Sign Language to add to her career. Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad, Ph.D., is Associate Professor of Criminology

at Howard University. She is the founder of The Dr. Muhammad Experience, Inc., and co-​founder of Project Iron Kids. She is the author of numerous children’s books, book chapters, and articles about children and families impacted by incarceration. Jaelah Millah Muhammad is 13. She is a Youth Ambassador for Project Iron

Kids. Alongside her family, she has empowered children of incarcerated parents in the USA, Africa, Asia, and Europe. She graduated from the Black Girl Film School in Los Angeles, CA. She is also a proud alumna of the Howard University Freedom School and Summer Writing Camp in Washington D.C. Currently, she is matriculated in dual-​enrollment college classes. Jian Alaa Muhammad is 10. She is a Youth Ambassador for Project Iron Kids.

In this role, she empowers elementary school children of incarcerated parents and reminds them of the importance of reading and knowing your history. She is a graduate of the Howard University Freedom School and participates in the Howard University Social Justice Tutors program. Jian is a member of Dominique Dawes Gymnastics Academy and enjoys playing her ukulele and acting. William Myhre is 16 years old born and raised in Detroit, MI. He currently

attends Renaissance high school and is a member of the Symphonic band. Boxing at Kronk Boxing gym, he has won several Golden Gloves, two Silver Gloves, and one Power Glove tournament. He placed number 5 in the state in 2019. Aspiring to be a physician assistant in the future, he plans to attend Oakland University. Ciera Payton is an actress, entrepreneur, and philanthropist. Ciera starred as

Wendy Williams in the Lifetime biopic and Lilly Winthrop in BET’s The Oval. Off-​camera, she manages The Michael’s Daughter Foundation, her non-​profit organization that serves communities affected by incarceration. Ciera has a YouTube channel, Ciera Payton, and a lifestyle website The In Trive.

xviii  List of Contributors

Tashawn Reagon is an activist, doctoral student, and young professional

committed to upending systemic injustice and examining solutions for vulnerable and marginalized communities impacted by the social, legal, and economic application of justice in the U.S. Tashawn graduated with a B.A. from Skidmore College with Honors in Sociology and a minor in Intergroup Relations. Donald Stevenson was born with tremendous obstacles before him, to a

mother and father serving time in the Federal Bureau of Prisons. For the last two decades, he has worked tirelessly to advocate for juveniles and adults around prison and education reform. He is Case Manager for the District of Columbia’s Office of Neighborhood Safety and Engagement. Tonisha Taylor is Associate Dean at a community college in northern New

Jersey. She is also a licensed social worker, specializing in the area of mental health. Kleo Torres is originally from Raleigh, NC, but resides in Washington

D.C. She graduated with honors from Alabama State University and is a current Master of Public Administration candidate at American University. Resiliently, Kleo is the founder and president of her non-​profit organization, Youth of Incarcerated Parents, advocating for children with incarcerated parents. Sydni Myat Turner, M.A., is a social justice advocate, reentry mentor, and

program facilitator. In 2021, she earned an M.A. in Sociology from Howard University. She serves as a board chair member and co-facilitator at It Takes A Village Collaborative (ITAVCollab), a non-​profit organization providing Black individuals, families, and communities with resources, services, and networks to holistically heal their mind, body, and spirit. Breea C. Willingham, Ph.D., is Associate Professor of Criminology at the

University of North Carolina Wilmington. Influenced by her experiences as a sister and aunt of two men serving life sentences, Dr. Willingham’s research focuses on mass incarceration’s impact on Black families, and Black women’s experiences within the criminal legal system, which has been published in academic journals and edited collections. Anyé Young is a writer, producer, and advocate. She studied dramatic arts and

film at the University of Southern California. She is the author of Teen Guide to Living with Incarcerated Parents and has worked with WeGotUsNow, The Osborne Association, The Pathfinder Network, and the International Coalition of Children with Incarcerated Parents.

FOREWORD Breea C. Willingham

I was a sophomore in college when my mother called to tell me that my brother, Rodney, had been sentenced to life in prison for a murder he did not commit. Those words felt like a heavy-​weight, uppercut punch to my gut. My legs buckled. I cried uncontrollably, so much that my roommate had to take the phone from me and continue the conversation with my mother. I heard her saying, “OK. Yes. I’ll make sure she’s okay.” That was 31 years ago, but every painful moment of that phone call feels like it happened 5 minutes ago. I was not okay that day in my room and I am not okay today. In the three decades of my brother’s incarceration, several of my other relatives have been or are incarcerated. My father served more than a decade prior to his death in 2017. One of my sisters shuffled in and out of jail. Her son, my eldest nephew, has been incarcerated for more than 20 years. As I have said, many times before, prison is my family’s business. Unfortunately, it is not a profitable business for us. I first shared the story of my family’s incarceration in February 2007, during a faculty forum at St. Bonaventure University. I was a visiting journalism professor then and presented my research as a “practice run” for a conference presentation I would give later that month. My paper, based on my USA Today op-​ed published in 2006, was about the relationship between incarcerated fathers and their children. After the faculty forum, I received the following message from one of the attendees, a reverend: I have some concerns about your presentation and all of it comes from the relationship between you and your personal healing process, and how that relates to this work you are considering doing.

xx Foreword

Breea … because you not only freely disclosed your personal struggles, but you also incorporate it into your paper comparatively to the youth and children you mention, I am concerned that … you may be discounted as someone who doesn’t know how to roll with the academic discourse setting. I would tone down the self-​ disclosure in the paper, perhaps having it closer to the end rather than the beginning. Remember, it is your experience as a journalist that legitimizes you for this paper, not the fact that you are one of the walking wounded. How can you portray distance in your paper? How can someone in an academic setting clap for someone who has just disclosed so much personal hurt and pain? It is discomforting to think that you could be pigeonholed into a person who profits from personal pain instead of the professional you are. Let me be abundantly clear: I will never stop talking about my incarcerated family. To have the audacity to ever suggest that a Black woman be silent is the type of racist bullshit practiced on Massa’s plantation that I refuse to tolerate. Telling a Black woman to “tone down” is oppressor behavior. I have written and spoken publicly about my family’s incarceration numerous times in the 16 years since the reverend’s advice. My goal is not to distance myself from the work because I am the work. As a Black woman prison scholar with incarcerated relatives, separating myself from my work would be a slap to the face of my brother and nephew. To be among the “walking wounded,” as the reverend called me, means I won’t ever deny my brother and nephew the opportunity to use me as a vessel to be heard. As long as they are in this racist criminal legal system hell-​bent on silencing them, I will never turn my back on them. Not for these so-​called Ivory Towers or anyone and anything else. In the shadows of the prison lie the most vulnerable people affected by mass incarceration: the millions of families like mine and the authors in this book. We are often shamed into silence as if our stories do not matter. These blatant attempts to invalidate our experiences are a function of the repressive carceral system that oppresses our Black families day in and day out. Speaking unapologetically about our experiences as siblings, parents, uncles, nieces, nephews, aunts, or children of incarcerated people is a privilege for every author in this book. Each author’s narrative legitimizes their experience and humanizes their relatives. But, sharing these stories comes at a heavy emotional price. The narrative never gets any lighter or easier to tell. Each time I share my family’s story, it feels like a knife repeatedly twisted in my heart. The wound never heals. The void left by an incarcerated relative’s absence is never filled. The personal

Foreword  xxi

connection presents a compelling paradox: the thing that hurts us the most is what drives us to do the work. Balancing the hyphen between researcher-​ research, scholar-​ activist, educator-​activist, and so on, is emotionally exhausting. The hyphens become so blurred while navigating the emotional and traumatic terrain of this work, especially for Black women. In this space, we sometimes lose ourselves in the work. We are forced to learn how to tiptoe on this fragile emotional tightrope so that when we show up, we do so whole, and not broken. Sometimes, most times, that is easier said than done. Showing up shattered is often the best we can do. Keep this in mind as you read the authors’ narratives. Some of them carried their emotional baggage as far as they could before it became too heavy and they put it down. Some in the literal sense, and others through their storytelling and counter-​storytelling. Therefore, do not take their stories for granted. You are not entitled to know the intimate details of how incarceration has devastated us and our families. But we bare our souls anyway. I challenge you to step outside of your preconceived notions about incarcerated people and their families. I dare you to feel our pain, anguish, and struggle. I dare you to see us.

PREFACE

Dear Black Children of Incarcerated Parents, As we sit down and write this letter, our hearts are bursting with emotions. Having your blessing to create a safe space for you to share your true authentic feelings, in a world that has been so cruel to you, has been an honor. We appreciate the rawness of your words and your unapologetic spirit. Every day comes with challenges, but our fight and love for you are constant. We recognize the beauty in your journey and are constantly in awe of your intelligence, success, and resiliency. You inspire us to stay committed to the work. No matter the challenges you may face, we will face them together with true solidarity. Please know and understand that we will never judge you and will defend you at all costs. If you are a contributor to this book or not, these words are for your use. If you see pieces of your story on these pages, use it as a starting point to add your own ending. You are the narrator and front-​seat driver of your destiny. This book is not an ending but a beginning. Never doubt yourself. As the creative geniuses you are, challenge yourself every day. Give yourself permission to be inspired by things others cannot see. Give yourself permission to take care of yourself, mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually. You deserve rest. The only one who can define your success is YOU. Keep your mind open, while letting your gut guide you, and your heart lead you. You are perfect because of your imperfections. We believe everyone deserves their flowers while physically on earth, so here are yours. You have allowed us to sow your seeds. Seeds can represent opportunities, growth, change, and development. Allowing you to tell your own story was planting your seeds in the proper conditions. Watering, feeding your soul, and growing have prepared you to reap something bigger and greater. We love you with intention. This is for you.

xxiv Preface

Dream big and continue to blaze paths forward! With Respect and Gratitude, Sydni Myat Turner, Britany Jenine Gatewood, and Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We want to thank our authors for sharing a glimpse into their lives. The vulnerability of your words and the courage to bear your emotions to the world are not taken lightly. We do this for you. We see you. We hear you. We respect you. You are the leaders of this social revolution. Your words and your truth fuel this movement. The original inspiration for this book stems from the interviews conducted in our national research study Children of Incarcerated Parents: Exploring Pathways to Resiliency and Success in 2019–​ 2020 and our Children of Incarcerated Parents: Resilience, Successes and Triumphs Digital Conference in June, 2020. That study and conference were supported by a grant from the Thurgood Marshall College Fund, Center for Advancing Opportunity (Faculty Grant-​ CRJ Reform Grant #190918) to Dr. Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad and Graduate Research Fellows, at the time, Britany Jenine Gatewood, M.A., and Sydni Myat Turner.

ABBREVIATIONS

ACT BCOIP COIP CRT IP ITAVCollab MDF NA NCOIC NOCCA OPP PTSD

American Conservatory Theater Black children of incarcerated parents children of incarcerated parents critical race theory Innocence Project It Takes A Village Collaborative The Michael’s Daughter Foundation narcotics anonymous non-​commissioned officer in charge New Orleans Center for Creative Arts Orleans Parish Prison post-​traumatic stress disorder

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ABOUT THE COVER

“Upward Prayer (2022–​2023)” by Shanell Kitt. Acrylic and oil paint on stretched cotton canvas, 36 × 48 inches.

INTRODUCTION Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad, Britany Jenine Gatewood, and Sydni Myat Turner

Disentangling the Findings: What We Think We Know about Black Children of Incarcerated Parents?

It is important to disentangle what we think we know about Black children of incarcerated parents (hereinafter BCOIP), to identify preconceived notions from actual experiences. BCOIP are disproportionately affected by intersectional (i.e., race, ethnicity, class, age, gender) dehumanization as an everyday practice (Boch & Ford, 2021). They are looked down upon because of their biological connections to their incarcerated parents and because of their racial identity in America. The United States has an extremely shameful history of oppressing and dehumanizing Black Americans, which includes children and youth. Contemporary research on dehumanization suggests that privileging the “humanity” of one’s own group is a common occurrence (Goff et al., 2008). Currently, the social narratives surrounding the lived experiences among BCOIP are limited in depth and scope. There are few studies that solely center on Black experiences and even fewer that explore Black thought and perspectives of children experiencing parental incarceration (Muhammad, 2018). This sends a clear message: What BCOIP think and feel does not matter. In all actuality, we know more about Black incarcerated parents than we do their children (Glaze & Maruschak, 2008, 2010; Maruschak et al., 2021). One reason is that incarcerated parents are more accessible because of the limits on their movements through confinement and they agree to research more easily (Bulman et al., 2015). We began learning about BCOIP from their incarcerated parents, but not all of that information is reliable. We do not know how many BCOIP there are. Past research states that 1 in 12 minor children DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-1

2  Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad et al.

experiences parental incarceration, in comparison to 1 in 9 Black children (Maruschak et al., 2021; Murphey & Cooper, 2015; Paquette, 2015). These statistics do not include their adult children. During incarceration, parents must provide correctional institutions with the names, ages, and addresses of the children they want to be approved for visitation (Boudin et al., 2012; Federal Bureau of Prisons, n.d.). In other words, by identifying as parents and disclosing information about their children, they have the possibility of being approved for face-​to-​face contact, sending letters, and making collect calls to them. Taking into consideration that this information provided is surveilled by the carceral institution, parents could be hesitant to provide such details (Muhammad, 2009). Incarcerated parents can also share information about their children to receive incentives or social services (i.e., parenting classes, family days, extended visitation, and even compassionate release) for themselves and their children. These numbers do not include incarcerated people that are step-​parents, guardians, or relatives/​non-​relatives that they consider “dad” or “mom.” For those who do not have contact with their children, or if their children are wards of the state, their information can get lost in the system. We know there are millions of Black parents incarcerated; we can only guess these numbers to be extremely higher than what has been estimated (Muhammad, 2011). Research shows the challenges that children of incarcerated parents face are substantial, including difficulty with transitioning into their adult lives, lower graduation rates, higher rates of unemployment, and a higher risk of becoming involved with the criminal legal system in their lifetime (Gabel & Shindledecker, 1993; Miller & Barnes, 2015; Muhammad, 2011; Muhammad et al., 2021b; Noel & Najdowski, 2020). The statistics are even more dire when those children are Black (Boch & Ford, 2021). The likelihood that children will have a parent in prison is disproportionately related to the parent’s race. It is important to be cognizant that parental incarceration does not affect all Black children the same because they are not a homogenous group (Poehlmann-​Tynan & Turney, 2021). Therefore, some may lead different paths than their parents. The realities among BCOIP are unique and no two children have the same experiences (Hollins, 2022). With the #BlackLivesMatter Movement, BCOIP have been highlighted because of their work on the frontlines of the movement (see, We Got Us Now, 2020). Although this sheds some light on their lives, it projects them as confrontational, disobedient, and angry, all of the usual stereotypes of protesters against a social institution (P. Almeida, 2019). This is a narrative of convenience. In a country that does not value the lives of Black people, it becomes easy to justify one’s dismissal and violence toward them by depicting Black humans as the enemy, the animal, the outsider, the one not deserving of any good (Alexander, 2012; Huey & Lynch, 2005). This translates to published works where Black people are not even worthy of being able

Introduction  3

to tell their own stories or speak for themselves. By default, the children and families of incarcerated people are stigmatized for being born into life (Muhammad, 2011). Akin to enslavement where Black children were born as slaves, biological determinism would say that Black children are “criminal” (Covington, 1995), even if their parent is not detained or supervised in a carceral institution. In other words, being Black supersedes all other social identities, because of its “dominant identity” (Aspinall & Song, 2013), and when we add actual parental incarceration, it confirms preconceived notions of criminality. Even in a world that claims “colorblindlessness,” Blackness will influence one’s life and how they are treated by social institutions and within interpersonal interactions (Alexander, 2012). Resources, narratives, and research on BCOIP have been from a deficit and racist model (Gatewood et al., 2023). Negative life outcomes are typically highlighted, although there are millions of BCOIP who do not become a statistic and who manage to stay out of prison, jails, and/​or the long arms of the American legal system. Even if they do touch the system, that does not mean that their story ends and they cannot have positive outcomes. Research is just beginning to talk positively about this population (see, Crouch et al., 2022; Kremer et al., 2022), but it is from the perspective of the researcher. This includes what they perceive as “success” or “positive life outcomes” that are mostly informed by Eurocentric views (Gatewood et al., 2023). The bulk of what has been shared about BCOIP has been generated by researchers, specifically, white researchers, and their interpretation through the use of their words. Not only literature, but also conferences, documentaries, and other forms of media are from a white gaze to appease their mainstream audience and confirm internalized stereotypes. Non-Black researchers have historically been considered and acknowledged as the experts (Almeida, 2015) on this subject even though we have learned BCOIP are the true experts (Gatewood et al., 2023). This would be similar to saying you are an expert in basketball, but you never played or watched a game and you begin to make assumptions and try to understand. Would you rather hear from a professor of sports or from Michael Jordan himself? Black Children of Incarcerated Parents Speak Truth to Power: Social Revolution poises the authors as the experts and gives them the opportunity to tell their stories how they want. We, as editors, took a backseat and gave them the floor. We want to fully humanize a population that is considered a statistic and give them a platform to show the world who they really are. This book is not for the readers to tokenize their experiences, nor do we want you to fall into the trap of assuming all BCOIP have the same experiences. It is a chance to share a counter-​narrative to the curated story you have been told for far too long. To the readers who are directly impacted, we invite you to start your own social revolution using what you learned from the authors. You deserve to live a life where you feel comfortable standing in your truth

4  Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad et al.

without fear. We know it may be scary in the beginning, but you are not alone. You will be healed and have power and control of your identity and narrative. So, what are you waiting for? Grounding This Work

The attacks on critical race theory (CRT) have taken over the news headlines. Legislation seeks to ban CRT and any mention of the words race and racism from classrooms, within the government, and society as a whole. CRT critiques society by explaining how racial oppression and exploitation infiltrate social institutions and introduce possible solutions or reforms for social change (Delgado et al., 2012). It does not “teach children to hate white people,” but it points out how society has discriminated against Black and Brown people. CRT has main components of (1) the notion that racism is ordinary and not aberrational; (2) the idea of an interest convergence; (3) the social construction of race; (4) differential racialization of groups of color; (5) intersectionality; and (6) the voices of color thesis with counter-​ storytelling (Delgado et al., 2012). Research has used these areas to explore how racism has become synonymous with the United States. It is not the job of this book to educate you on CRT, but to show you, through a critical lens, how BCOIP navigate a society riddled with oppression. Intersectionality is a word that is also misused within the media. Originally the term was used to analyze “systems of race, social class, gender, sexuality, ethnicity, nation, and age form mutually constructing features of social organization, which shape Black women’s experiences and, in turn, are shaped by Black women” (Hill-​Collins, 2000, p. 299). It was particularly used to show that Black women have a different life experience than white women and the “feminist,” colorblind approach naively groups all women into a homogenous group (Crenshaw, 1991; Hill-​Collins, 2000; hooks, 1984). By not using an intersectional approach to BCOIP, we are erasing the various parts of them that influence their life experience. Yes, all authors in this book identify as Black, however, they tell stories of being mothers, fathers, low-​ income, Caribbean-​ born, students, business owners, actors, minors, middle-​aged adults, directors, artists, activists, social workers, and everything in between. They are clearly not a monolith. This book goes back to the original meaning of CRT and intersectionality. We take a critically intersectional approach to viewing the lives of BCOIP. Being a Black child with an incarcerated parent (at any age) has implications different from those of other races. When adding the intersection of additional social identities, BCOIP navigates society when it is actively working against them. The stressors of discrimination, oppression, and racism, especially within the criminal legal system, heavily impact their overall mental health and well-​being. This book is their truth of being Black in America, being

Introduction  5

directly impacted, and pushing against the narrative that society has already written about them. Our Research Study

Much of the past, contemporary, and current research provides insights into at-​risk variables that do not leave children with much to work with. As we envision providing innovative and creative resources to the population, it is clear that we must learn much more about this population (Muhammad, 2011). This includes those things that they do well and excel in. Although the deficit model has been VERY successful in raising awareness and funding for state-​specific and nationwide initiatives, it has continually pushed an agenda of sympathy through a white savior complex lens (Kherbaoui & Aronson, 2021). To move into success and resilience, we are shifting the dialogue from sympathy into an empathetic agenda. Our 2019 national qualitative research study, “Children of Incarcerated Parents: Pathways to Resilience and Success,” was designed to explore what factors influence crime-​ free lives for children of incarcerated parents. Exploratory in nature, the study research questions included the following: What factors contribute to the resilience in the lives of children of incarcerated parents? And What internal and external barriers do children of incarcerated parents overcome in their pursuits to success? (Muhammad et al., 2021). One 12 person focus group and 63 individual one-​on-​one interviews were conducted. Participants countered the existing narrative in research as high school dropouts, having low educational attainment, and delinquents, as they were highly educated and many never touched the criminal legal system. Study results indicated six major themes participants identified as areas of success: education, employment, community, creativity, relationships, and health. Furthermore, an overwhelming majority of participants had higher education levels than their parents, they had close relationships with their incarcerated parents, and social identities of class and race seemed to influence their life more than parental incarceration (Muhammad et al., 2021). The high occupational success of participants was said to be a direct result of their experience as children of incarcerated parents (Muhammad et al., 2021). We learned more about children of incarcerated parents by exploring success and resiliency rather than their deficits. This study fueled the creation of the inaugural “Children of Incarcerated Parents: Resilience, Successes and Triumphs Digital Conference” in June 2020 (Muhammad et al., 2021a). Honoring them as experts, the conference was curated to have all guest speakers, outside of us and Howard University administrators, be children of incarcerated parents. The three-​day conference had a variety of panels on resilience, respect, and responsibility. Although the research

6  Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad et al.

study included children of incarcerated parents of any race, some panels, such as “#BlackGirlMagic: Sisters of Parental Incarceration Blazing Trails Forward” or “Brothers of Parental Incarceration: Black Male Children of Prisoner Who Defy All Odds,” focused on the experience of BCOIP (Muhammad et al., 2021a). The authors of the foreword (Dr. Breea Willingham) and afterword (Tony Lewis, Jr.) of this book were keynote speakers at the conference. Our innovative research agenda, study results, and message absorbed in the conference and subsequent publications inspired the production of this collection. As scholars, we defend and uplift BCOIP and pose them as experts. Our social revolution is passing the mic to those with lived experiences. By using participatory action research methods, we include the community in all aspects of the research and dissemination of findings. Though some may call it a radical approach, to us, it is how research should be done. Exploiting truths for gain is the standard for researchers, as a way to gain their own notoriety. This can be seen in such research studies of the Tuskegee Experiment for the effects of syphilis (the 1930s–​1970s), the sterilization of Puerto Rican women to make birth control (the 1950s), Henrietta Lacks’ use of her cells for research (the 1950s), and iodine 131 experiments on Alaskan Natives (the 1950s), just to name a few (Leary, 1996; Sotomayor, 2020; Washington, 2006). Dr. Albert M. Kligman, for example, received lifetime achievement awards (two 1998 and 1999) Penn State Distinguished Alumni and the Alumni Fellow awards (revoked in 2021), and many accolades for prisoner studies (the 1930s–​1980s) using Agent Orange and other detrimental/​life-​ threatening medicines on mostly Black incarcerated people (Penn State University, 2021; Washington, 2006). These are just a few examples of how vulnerable populations are often exploited for gain by researchers. Speaking truth to power starts a social revolution that begins now through the voices of BCOIP in a way that centers their voices and not ours. Why Is This Important?

On the surface, the state of research on children of incarcerated parents seems to be flourishing. This is true. Within the last decade, there has been an increase in the number of books, chapters, and articles published on the topic. In addition, peer-​reviewed papers about children of incarcerated parents are annually presented at the major criminology and sociology association conferences, as well as other interdisciplinary formal meetings for discussions. There is so much interest and work that has been generated on this population that there are national convenings with the sole focus on children of incarcerated parents. In 2023, the Arizona State University Center for Child Wellbeing will host its fifth Annual Conference. The 2023 theme

Introduction  7

will focus on “Children/​Youth, Families, and Communities Empowered in the Face of Mass Incarceration” (ASU Center for Child Well-​Being, 2023). Furthermore, for a decade, the National Resource Center on Children and Families of the Incarcerated has been available as a resource provided through Rutgers University (National Resource Center on Children and Families of the Incarcerated, 2016). Our “Children of Incarcerated Parents: Resilience, Successes and Triumphs Digital Conference” in June 2020 was three days for over 800 participants, which was grant funded (Muhammad et al., 2021a). Even in light of all these great resources, there is still much that remains unknown about children of incarcerated parents, especially those who are Black. What scholarship and academics consider “legitimate” or the mainstream cannon of a subject is from a Eurocentric, colonial lens (Almedia, 2015). Because of this, directly impacted or Black scholars are often seen as biased. We, the editors, are Black women with different relationships and experiences with the carceral system. Our “bias” allows us to see things others may have overlooked or take things into consideration that would have been dismissed. Academic writing has been done by BCOIP scholars, who have been blazing paths forward and continue to speak truth to power, but many do not self-​ disclose their parental incarceration and remain hidden. Works are deemed “legitimate” based on an author’s credentials, such as a Master’s or Ph.D. That removes those that do not hold these degrees from the discourse. Black people, due to institutional and structural racism, already are discouraged or hindered from higher education, and this is even more for those with incarcerated parents. It is also elitist to assume that you must have a degree to be an expert. Why is Black Children of Incarcerated Parents Speak Truth to Power: Social Revolution important? It gives perspectives and Black thought from BCOIP. Research paints a picture of how their lives are, but how do they think? What is going through their heads? How have things changed over their lives? Authors had the freedom to share their truth however they wanted. We did little editing and gave little direction, as to have them write what is true to themselves. Black people are not a homogenous group, and neither are children of incarcerated parents. There is no hierarchy, based on profession or degree, on who is featured in this collection. Therefore, we can explore the population in its many aspects and various perspectives. This was not done for you, this was done for them. Some were able to release something inside of them by writing it down and having their own internal revolution. Some could have conversations with their parents and families after they pushed themselves to be honest. Many have been forced into silence, but now parents, caregivers, families, and other BCOIP can read about what was never said. These are stories of liberation and freedom.

8  Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad et al.

How Is This a Social Revolution?

A revolution is “an historical process leading to and culminating in social transformation, wherein one ruling class is displaced by another, with the new class representing, as compared to the old, enhance productive capacities and social progressive potentialities” (Aptheker, 1959, p. 4). In other words, revolutions replace the existing values and norms in society with new ones, that’s why there have only been a few in human history. Angela Davis said, when you talk about a revolution, most people think violence, without realizing that the real content of any kind of revolutionary thrust lies in the principles, in the goal that you’re striving for, not in the way you reach them. (Goran Hugo Olsson, 2011) The social revolution aligned with this book is both psychological and physical. This social revolution is where one rises up against their own ignorance and misperceptions and conducts research differently than what has been done in the past. A revolution not only changes minds but alters our material conditions as well. Remaining ignorant is a decision. Ask yourself, what role do you play or have you played in contributing to this state of knowledge about children of incarcerated parents? Your answer is for you to own. Your actions are to be felt by others and have real-​world consequences. To continue down this socially destructive path of shaming, blaming, and projecting future criminality and incarceration onto the children of the incarcerated is counterintuitive to the betterment of BCOIP. This collection was created to activate change by shifting individual and collective thoughts about BCOIP, specifically around who they are capable of becoming and what they may be able to accomplish. The negative deficit-​ based pedagogy and scholarship have grown and continue to expand with new studies and perspectives. Enough is enough. This is a dangerous, negative narrative (Hollins, 2022) that contributes to the social and physical violence inflicted on the Black community. It works to justify the reasoning behind strengthening the school-​to-​prison pipeline (Johnson & Muhammad, 2018). Although it may seem that research and statistics are harmless, this is not true. Social research is powerful in that it affects policy and perceptions, both of which can lead to detrimental outcomes for those considered powerless (Coates, 2015). There is a false understanding that the BCOIP do not have knowledge nor understanding of what the research says (Muhammad et al., 2021a); this is an extension of the myth that “Black people don’t read” (Morton et al., 2012). Authors in this book share research and statistics in their contributions. They are aware of what is being said. Regardless, these statistics often affect the ways

Introduction  9

in which they see themselves and how others perceive them (Muhammad et al., 2021b). Negative perceptions are limitless in the harm they can spark and sustain. We must constantly remind ourselves that “scientific” racism is not just a historical concern (Gould, 1996), but also it is very contemporary. Scientific or not, racism in any form has deadly consequences. We do not present a social revolution as an easy feat. In fact, through strategy and a longitudinal investment, we clearly understand both the importance and gravity of the message we deliver. This is not easy work and should not be taken lightly. In situations where you are unsure about what direction to take, step back and become conscious about your role and desired future role in this movement. If you find yourself unsure of what direction to move into, just stop. Not taking a step back and resisting contributes to the deficit-​based narrative which is maybe seen as the only viable option. A social revolution must be fought on all fronts, but its true power is changing ideology, which is the most difficult to do. What Is Speaking Truth to Power?

The term, “speaking truth to power,” is attributed to Civil Rights leader Bayard Rustin in 1942 (Lowenthal, 2021). He advocated using your voice to fight for injustice. There is power in speaking your truth. The written word has had the power to start revolutions and end wars. Hill-​Collins challenges us to not only speak truth to power but also speak truth to people (2013). This involves engaging with the community and talking directly to those impacted (Hill-​Collins, 2013). Using our own platforms and privilege, we tell the truth unapologetically and give our authors the freedom to do the same. BCOIPs, such as domestic violence advocate Tenaj Moody says, “your story makes you unique. Your story is what makes you special; it’s what makes you, YOU” (2021, p. 3). Dr. Whitney Hollins speaks to the imbalance in research by stating, while one narrative seemed to appear in almost every article, the one where COIP are vulnerable children at risk for numerous negative outcomes, I barely saw the other one. The story where the child adjusts, perseveres, and thrives or at least functions. (2022, p. 11) Attorney Brittany K. Barnett tells the world her story of parental incarceration by focusing on hope, justice, and freedom (Barnett, 2020). Activist Ebony Underwood, the founder of #WeGotUsKnow, a national children of incarcerated parents advocacy organization, urges us to “consult the true experts” (Hollins et al., 2019, p. 311). CEO and founder Sherelle Hogan of Pure Hearts, an organization dedicated to children of incarcerated

10  Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad et al.

parents, used her voice to save lives and advocate for those who have been silenced (Pure Hearts Foundation, 2022). Although these BCOIP are not an exhaustive list, it shows that many are and have been speaking their truth to help liberate others and invoke change. Protests against social systems need the voices of those affected and not just the perceptions and thoughts of “allies.” We do not assume that the fight for Black liberation is just now beginning; the fight has been going on since the Transatlantic Slave Trade (Bauer & Bauer, 1942). The fight against mass incarceration was occurring long before #BlackLivesMatter (Davis, 2003). Our “social revolution” is challenging the narratives and building upon the movements occurring for generations. Research began asking questions about children of incarcerated parents in the mid to late 1990s (Reed & Reed, 1997), and since, research and its implications rely heavily on quantitative surveys, while grouping all children into a homogenous group. It is only recently now that BCOIP are gaining attention for their narratives that have been traditionally lost behind the statistics. We have outlined our principles and why we do this work, now we take a backseat and let the experts talk. Speaking to the good, the bad, and the in-​between, the authors give a holistic view of their truth. They challenge you to act. They challenge you to question what you think you know about them. They task you to confront the negative images you have about them. Education is freedom, and to educate is the practice of freedom (hooks, 1994). There is power in their truth. Summary of Social Revolution

This work is composed of six parts contextualizing the lived experiences of BCOIP by highlighting holistic experiences connected to identity, self-​care and self-​love, creativity, relationships, education, and calls to action. Part 1, “Truth and Reconciliation: Confidence in My Black Skin,” starts with directly impacted authors’ journeys of self-​discovery. They explore how they manage and adjust to their new title as a BCOIP, how others see them, and how they see themselves. BCOIP explore their identity and organize their thoughts and feelings around parental incarceration. In the second part, “Reclaiming Black Wellness: Every Revolution Has to Begin Somewhere,” BCOIP describe their journeys into practicing holistic health and fostering coping mechanisms. They explore various areas of their wellness journey, including physical, intellectual, emotional, social, and spiritual wellness. This section promotes therapy, exercise, healthy diets, counseling, and self-​care to sustain a healthy mind, body, and spirit as a BCOIP. Next, in Part 3, “The Renaissance of Self-​Expression: Creativity, Innovation, and Culture,” BCOIP authors use creative methods to explore their feelings, experiences, and self-​ discovery. Creativity can often be a

Introduction  11

protective factor or a way to cope with feelings. These visionaries artistically shared their lived experiences by transforming their trauma into purpose. Through spoken word, storytelling, poetry, and artwork, the audience will gain a glimpse of how BCOIP creatively use their imagination to navigate and recreate their realities. Transitioning to the fourth part, “Parenting Behind and Beyond the Walls: The Revolutionizing Relationships of BCOIP,” authors write about their relationships with their parents (both incarcerated and not), siblings, extended family members, partners, and more. In doing so, authors explore the pathways to understanding forgiveness, relearning, parenting your parents, the reality of parental release, and their own parental success. Identified as the highest area of success for BCOIP in the initial research study, Part 5, “The Student and the Teacher: Education beyond Books,” will explore how education has affected their lives. From the perspectives of teachers and students, authors speak to how parental incarceration influenced their careers and educational trajectories. In concluding the final part, “The Revolution Begins Now: A National Call to Action,” authors highlight their power and agency discussing political engagement, activism, community capacity building, and the use of critical race theorizing. They will describe their efforts as leaders for criminal legal reform and choosing to fight for the lives of incarcerated persons and their families. Some close their chapters by providing advice, tips, and tools to revolutionize and dismantle social injustices. There are a few things to keep in mind while reading this book. First, we use “parent” or “family.” Although we use these umbrella terms, we acknowledge that families and parents can look differently. Particularly within the Black community, fictive kin, or those unrelated to the person, often hold great significance in someone’s life (Egar, 2022). Someone may consider their next-​door neighbor “mom,” their best friend their “brother,” or the older woman down the block as “grandma.” Whoever their chosen family, guardians, step-​parents, etc. are, we include those relationships in our terminology. Research misses many people when limiting themselves to what Eurocentric views regard as the nuclear family or defining parents and families for others. Secondly, the authors self-​ identified themselves. Binary terms were used but those are the pronouns they chose. The criminal legal system’s statistics often place people in binary categories, (i.e., male and female), therefore excluding and not honoring someone’s identity. How they define a family, parent, or gender identity is often not explained within these authors’ works because they do not have to explain themselves or self-​ disclose to others. Next, the majority of authors are adult BCOIP. Most scholarships center on minor children, but anyone’s parent can be incarcerated at any time and at any age. What happens when someone’s parent was incarcerated when they

12  Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad et al.

were a child and are reentering when they are well into adulthood? Those stories are just as important. We use the term “child” because no matter the age, they are still their parents’ children. Lastly, some of their stories end abruptly, seem unfinished, or do not have a fairytale ending. This is real life and life is dialectical, constantly changing. Some authors can no longer speak about this topic because they are healing or their stories changed from when they first started writing. This was a painful and emotional process for many. They were not given any prompts to write, just asked to write their truth in the way they wanted. If you want to learn more, ask them. It is their story to tell. References Alexander, M. (2012). The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. The New Press. Almeida, P. (2019). Social Movements: The Structure of Collective Mobilization. University of California Press. Almeida, S. (2015). Race-​Based Epistemologies: The Role of Race and Dominance in Knowledge Production. Wagadu, 13. Aptheker, H. (1959). On the Nature of Revolution: The Marxist Theory of Social Change. Literary Licensing, LLC. Aspinall, P. J., & Song, M. (2013). Is Race a “salient…” or “dominant identity” in the Early 21st Century: The Evidence of UK Survey Data on Respondents’ Sense of Who They Are. Social Science Research, 42(2), 547–​561. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​ j.ssr​esea​rch.2012.10.007 ASU Center for Child Well-​Being. (2023). Children of Incarcerated Parents National Conference. ASU Center for Child Well-​Being. https://​chi​ldwe​llbe​ing.asu.edu/​cont​ ent/​child​ren-​incar​cera​ted-​pare​nts-​natio​nal-​con​fere​nce Barnett, B. J. (2020). A Knock at Midnight: A Story of Hope, Justice, and Freedom. Crown. Bauer, R. A., & Bauer, A. H. (1942). Day to Day Resistance to Slavery. The Journal of Negro History, 27(4), 49. Boch, S. J., & Ford, J. L. (2021). Protective Factors to Promote Health and Flourishing in Black Youth Exposed to Parental Incarceration. Nursing Research, 70(5S Suppl 1), S63–​S72. https://​doi.org/​10.1097/​NNR.00000​0000​0000​522 Boudin, C., Stutz, T., & Littman, A. (2012). Prison Visitation Policies: A Fifty State Survey. SSRN Electronic Journal. https://​doi.org/​10.2139/​ssrn.2171​412 Bulman, P., Garcia, M., & Hernon, J. (2015, March 25). Challenges of Conducting Research in Prisons. National Institute of Justice. https://​nij.ojp.gov/​top​ics/​artic​les/​ cha​llen​ges-​con​duct​ing-​resea​rch-​pris​ons Coates, T.-​N. (2015, October). 50 Years after the Moynihan Report, Examining the Black Family in the Age of Mass Incarceration. The Atlantic. www.thea​tlan​tic. com/​magaz​ine/​arch​ive/​2015/​10/​the-​black-​fam​ily-​in-​the-​age-​of-​mass-​incarc​erat​ ion/​403​246/​ Covington, J. (1995). Racial Classification in Criminology: The Reproduction of Racialized Crime. Sociological Forum, 10(4), 547–​568.

Introduction  13

Crenshaw, K. (1991). Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color. Stanford Law Review, 43(6), 1241–​ 1299. https://​doi.org/​10.2307/​1229​039 Crouch, E., Smith, H. P., & Andersen, T. S. (2022). An Examination of Caregiver Incarceration, Positive Childhood Experiences, and School Success. Children and Youth Services Review, 133. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​j.chi​ldyo​uth.2021.106​345 Davis, A. Y. (2003). Are Prisons Obsolete? Seven Stories Press. Delgado, R., Stefancic, J., & Harris, A. (2012). Critical Race Theory: An Introduction. NYU Press. www.jstor.org/​sta​ble/​j.ctt9qg​9h2 Egar, J. (2022, March 1). Fictive Kin. American Bar Association. www.amer​ican​bar. org/​gro​ups/​publ​ic_​i​nter​est/​child_​law/​resour​ces/​child​_​law​_​pra​ctic​eonl​ine/​janu​ary-​ decem​ber2​022/​fic​tive​kin/​ Federal Bureau of Prisons. (n.d.). How to Visit a Federal Inmate. Retrieved April 2, 2023, from www.bop.gov/​inma​tes/​visit​ing.jsp Gabel, S., & Shindledecker, R. (1993). Characteristics of Children Whose Parents Have Been Incarcerated. Hospital & Community Psychiatry, 44(7), 656–​660. https://​doi.org/​10.1176/​ps.44.7.656 Gatewood, B. J., Muhammad, B. M., & Turner, S. (2023). Breaking Generational Curses: Success and Opportunity among Black Children of Incarcerated Parents. Social Forces. Glaze, L. E., & Maruschak, L. M. (2008). Bureau of Justice Statistics Special Report Parents in Prison and Their Minor Children. Bureau of Justice Statistics. www.ojp. usdoj.gov/​bjs/​pub/​ Glaze, L. E., & Maruschak, L. M. (2010). Parents in Prison and Their Minor Children. Bureau of Justice Statistics. www.ojp.usdoj.gov/​bjs/​pub/​ Goff, P. A., Eberhardt, J. L., Williams, M. J., & Jackson, M. C. (2008). Not Yet Human: Implicit Knowledge, Historical Dehumanization, and Contemporary Consequences. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 94(2), 292–​306. https://​doi.org/​10.1037/​0022-​3514.94.2.292 Goran Hugo Olsson (Director). (2011). The Black Power Mixtape. IFC Films. www. ifcfi​lms.com/​films/​the-​black-​power-​mixt​ape Gould, S. J. (1996). The Mismeasure of Man (Revised and Expanded edition). W. W. Norton & Company. Hill-​Collins, P. (2000). Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment. Routledge. Hill-​Collins, P. (2013). Truth-​Telling and Intellectual Activism. Contexts, 12(1), 36–​ 41. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​15365​0421​3476​244 Hollins, W. Q. (2022). Supporting Children of Incarcerated Parents in Schools: Creating Safe Spaces in Schools and Becoming an Ally. In Supporting Children of Incarcerated Parents in Schools: Foregrounding Youth Voices to Improve Educational Support. (pp. 81–​99). Routledge. https://​doi.org/​10.4324/​978100​3202​141 Hollins, W. Q., Underwood, E., & Krupat, T. (2019). About Us, for Us, with Us: Collaboration as the Key to Progress in Research, Practice, and Policy. In J. M. Eddy & J. Poehlmann-​Tynan (Eds.), Handbook on Children with Incarcerated Parents: Research, Policy, and Practice (pp. 1–​ 386). Springer International Publishing. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​978-​3-​030-​16707-​3 hooks, bell (1984). Black Women: Shaping Feminist Theory. In M. Marable and L. Mullings (Eds.), Let Nobody Turn Us Around: Voices of Resistance, Reform, and

14  Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad et al.

Renewal; An African American Anthology. (pp. 544–550). Bowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. hooks, bell (1994). Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom. Routledge. Huey, J., & Lynch, M. J. (2005). The Image of Black Women in Criminology: Historical Stereotypes and Theoretical Foundations. In S. L. Gabbidon & H. T. Greene (Eds.), Race, Crime, and Justice: A Reader (pp. 127–​140). Routledge. Johnson, S. N., & Muhammad, B. (2018). The Confluence of Language and Learning Disorders and the School-​to-​Prison Pipeline among Minority Students of Color: A Critical Race Theory. Social Policy, 26, 691–​718. Kherbaoui, J., & Aronson, B. (2021). Bleeding through the Band-​Aid: The White Saviour Industrial Complex. In Routledge Handbook of Critical Studies in Whiteness (pp. 269–​ 279). https://​doi.org/​10.4324/​978042​9355​769-​22/​BLEED​ ING-​ B AND-​ A ID- ​ W HITE- ​ S AVI ​ O UR- ​ I ND ​ U STR ​ I AL- ​ C OMP ​ L EX- ​ J AMIE-​ KHERBA​OUI-​BRITT​ANY-​ARON​SON Kremer, K. P., Christensen, K. M., Stump, K. N., Stelter, R. L., Kupersmidt, J. B., & Rhodes, J. E. (2022). The Role of Visits and Parent –​Child Relationship Quality in Promoting Positive Outcomes for Children of Incarcerated Parents. Child and Family Social Work, 27(2), 206–​216. Wiley. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​cfs.12872 Leary, W. E. (1996, January 31). Subjects in Radiation Experiment Were Not Informed, Panel Says. The New York Times. www.nyti​mes.com/​1996/​01/​31/​us/​ subje​cts-​in-​radiat​ion-​exp​erim​ent-​were-​not-​infor​med-​panel-​says.html Lowenthal, M. M. (2021). Intelligence Is NOT about “Telling Truth to Power.” International Journal of Intelligence and CounterIntelligence, 34(4), 795–​798. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​08850​607.2021.1928​438 Maruschak, L. M., Bronson, J., & Alper, M. (2021). Parents in Prison and Their Minor Children: Survey of Prison Inmates, 2016. U.S. Department of Justice. Miller, H. V., & Barnes, J. C. (2015). The Association between Parental Incarceration and Health, Education, and Economic Outcomes in Young Adulthood. American Journal of Criminal Justice, 40(4), 765–​ 784. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s12​ 103-​015-​9288-​4 Moody, T. (2021). Carry It with You: Your Roots Keep You Grounded. LULU.COM. Morton, J., Toldson, I. A., & Kunjufu, J. (2012). Black People Don’t Read: The Definitive Guide to Dismantling Stereotypes and Negative Statistical Claims about Black Americans. CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform. Muhammad, B. M. (2009). Counting Children of Incarcerated Parents: A Methodological Critique of Past and Present Literature. In R. Muraskin & A. R. Roberts (Eds.), Visions for Change: Crime and Justice in the Twenty-​First Century (5th ed., pp. 568–​585). Pearson Prentice Hall. Muhammad, B. M. (2011). Exploring the Silence among Children of Prisoners. Rutgers University. https://​doi.org/​doi:10.7282/​T3VX0​FVR Muhammad, B. M. (2018). Against All Odds: Resilient Children of Incarcerated Parents. In L. Gordon (Ed.), Contemporary Research and Analysis on the Children of Prisoners: Invisible Children (pp. 141–​154). Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Muhammad, B. M., Gatewood, B. J., & Turner, S. (2021a). Success and Resilience Study. The Dr. Muhammad Experience. www.drmuh​amma​dexp​erie​nce.com/​succ​ ess-​and-​reslie​nce-​study

Introduction  15

Muhammad, B. M., Gatewood, B. J., & Turner, S. (2021b). Children of Incarcerated Parents: Pathways to Resilience & Success Research Report (pp. 1–​34). Howard University. Murphey, D., & Cooper, P. M. (2015). Parents Behind Bars What Happens to Their Children? Child Trends. National Resource Center on Children and Families of the Incarcerated. (2016, November 28). About Us. https://​nrc​cfi.cam​den.rutg​ers.edu/​about-​us/​ Noel, M. E., & Najdowski, C. J. (2020). Caregivers’ Expectations, Reflected Appraisals, and Arrests among Adolescents Who Experienced Parental Incarceration. Youth and Society. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​00441​18X2​0951​068 Paquette, D. (2015, October 27). One in Nine Black Children Has Had a Parent in Prison. The Washington Post. www.was​hing​tonp​ost.com/​news/​wonk/​wp/​2015/​ 10/​27/​one-​in-​nine-​black-​child​ren-​have-​had-​a-​par​ent-​in-​pri​son/​ Penn State University. (2021, September 30). University Revokes Name, Rescinds Awards in Light of Questionable Practices. www.psu.edu/​news/​adm​inis​trat​ion/​ story/​uni​vers​ity-​revo​kes-​name-​resci​nds-​awa​rds-​light-​quest​iona​ble-​practi​ces/​ Poehlmann-​Tynan, J., & Turney, K. (2021). A Developmental Perspective on Children with Incarcerated Parents. Child Development Perspectives, 15(1), 3–​11. https://​ doi.org/​10.1111/​cdep.12392 Pure Hearts Foundation. (2022). Sherelle Hogan. www.pure​hear​tfou​ndat​ion.org/​ sherel​leho​gan Reed, D. F., & Reed, E. L. (1997). Children of Incarcerated Parents. Social Justice, 24(3 (69)), 152–​169. Sotomayor, M. E. (2020). Reproductive Rights in Puerto Rico: Sterilization, Contraception, and Reproductive Violence [Dissertation]. The University of Wisconsin-​Milwaukee. Washington, H. A. (2006). Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present. Anchor Books. We Got Us Now. (2020). Who We Are. www.weg​otus​now.org/​who-​we-​are

PART 1

Truth and Reconciliation Confidence in My Black Skin Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad

Black children of incarcerated parents (BCOIP) can only be defined by themselves. Living beyond parental incarceration is a battle that only one who has experienced this may attempt to explain (Hogan, 2018). Therefore, their true identities and narrative are for them to determine, translate, and share. Oftentimes, these dehumanizing narratives begin with negative anecdotes that start with deficiencies and delinquency and end with the probability of confinement. This has created a very shallow view of these dynamic human beings. The authenticity shared by authors in this section confirms that they are the best narrators of their stories. Truth was an important factor and allowed some to reconcile with their incarcerated parents. Each social identity that we hold intersects with each other to shape how we see ourselves and how others view us. This highlights the importance of utilizing intersectional perspectives to understand the dynamic nature of one’s self-​identification. By racializing or grouping marginalized populations together, you ignore intragroup differences (Crenshaw, 1991). There are multiple ways that people view their identity and various perspectives on how the social world has treated each individual (Crenshaw, 1991). The identity of race is what some consider a “dominant identity” (Aspinall & Song, 2013), but this term lacks the implications that visible and invisible identities create. BCOIP is a population that has been characterized in relation to their incarcerated parents, and this has labeled them rather than considering who they actually are. Some BCOIP have been challenged with paving their own ways through life because they were left without a blueprint. Black children have to fight to find their true identities in a world that stifles their growth and discredits their futures. Adding parental incarceration further influences

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-2

18  Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad

their lives, and the authors try to find their true selves among the narratives of society. As I started to form my own identity during my freshman year of high school, I began wondering if my name would be linked to his imprisonment and if others would identify me as a criminal. (Calvin Bell, “What’s in a Name?”) Many contributors share the deep thoughts and commitment they embarked upon to find their own true identities. Beginning with the names they were given at birth, the authors discuss the internal challenges of being associated with a family name that connects to their incarcerated parent. Research has clearly documented the damaging impacts of stigma on children of incarcerated parents (Turney & Haskin, 2019), and how BCOIP want to be viewed outside of their parents’ situations (Hollins, 2019). Names have the ability to trap or free people, depending on their relationship to it. A name holds meaning, it is what we are known as, and its influence is not lost on these authors. When sorrow overwhelms my heart, and I cannot find the strength to start. Lord, I’ll still praise you.–​ (Quatina Frazer, “Roots, Residue and Results”) BCOIP have aspirations for brighter futures. They lean into the spirit and power of divine intervention to guide their steps as they sometimes stumble to find themselves. Because of a strong faith, they share their ups and downs, knowing that God does not disqualify. Therefore, readers should not feel sorry about what they have experienced. Instead know that God created you for a distinct purpose (Latrease, 2020). This new story of my beautiful and amazing life has challenged me to let go of any identities rooted in pain and suffering in order to step into my true self. It’s an ongoing practice that I haven’t mastered but aspire to. (Ciera Payton, “Ciera’s New Story”) The experience of being a BCOIP is long, exhausting, hurtful, and disappointing, all at the same time. It is not for the weak (Lewis, 2017). Although there is pain, happy and hopeful times are had as well (Frazer, 2021). The identity of BCOIP includes all of these emotions and often leads to the shifting of one’s identity overtime. They grow through life and adjust in ways they see fit. This includes having pride in their identities, being unapologetic, and challenging themselves not to internalize what others say. It takes practice, and these authors show that it is an ongoing battle, but it is

Truth and Reconciliation  19

worthwhile. Research has highlighted the many ways in which the collateral consequences of mass imprisonment render large populations of directly impacted persons as a “forgotten population” (Alexander, 2012). On the flip side, we barely explore the ways in which they are unforgettable. Through counter-​storytelling, authors shed light on research gaps that have remained for far too long. Still, much is known about the shortcomings among BCOIP rather than their strengths, and when explored, oftentimes it is defined and described through a white gaze. In using qualitative prose, authors identify themselves outside of the social boxes they have been researched into. They speak truth to power by sharing the truth of what they lived and are still living through. Seven BCOIP authors focus on identity and are active participants in their own narratives. They begin to use their powerful words to offer counter-​ storytelling and verbally break free of what DuBois calls the “double consciousness” (DuBois, 1904). In the spirit of DuBois, this first section of the book lifts the societal veil of dehumanization of BCOIP by centering and exploring identities of liberation, truth, and justice (Muhammad, 2018). Specifically, directly impacted authors describe their own struggles and epiphanies through personalized identification experiences as Black women, men, and/​or sexual orientation as a COIP. The chapters in the first part of this collection explore exactly how BCOIP manage and adjust to their new titles as others see them in a different light after parental incarceration. Using several creative methods, BCOIP explore their identity, organize their thoughts and feelings, and share coping mechanisms for dealing with parental incarceration in Black skin. “Truth and Reconciliation: Confidence in My Black Skin” lays the foundation for the subsequent book chapters. In Part 2, “Reclaiming Black Wellness: Every Revolution Has to Begin Somewhere” focuses on self-​care and self-​help. The six authors in this section dissect their intimate experiences around centering wellness. They take readers on their journey to positive physical, mental, and emotional health. References Alexander, M. (2012). The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. The New Press. Aspinall, P. J., & Song, M. (2013). Is race a “salient…” or “dominant identity” in the early 21st century: The evidence of UK survey data on respondents’ sense of who they are. Social Science Research, 42(2), 547–​561. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​ j.ssr​esea​rch.2012.10.007 Crenshaw, K. (1991). Mapping the margins: Intersectionality, identity politics, and violence against women of color. Stanford Law Review, 43(6), 1241–​1299. https://​ doi.org/​10.2307/​1229​039 DuBois, W. E. B. (1904). The Souls of Black Folk. Blue Heron Press. Frazer, Q. (2021). Built by Love, Kept by Grace: Beauty Out of Ashes. Self-​Published.

20  Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad

Hogan, S. (2018). The Prisoners’ Kid: My Journey to Freedom. House of Capacity Publishing. Hollins, W. Q. (2019). Guilty by Association: A Critical Analysis of How Imprisonment Affects the Children of Those Behind Bars [City University of New York]. In ProQuest Dissertations and Theses. Latrease, S. (2020). Everyone Will Know It Was God. Relentless Publishing Press. Lewis, T. (2017). Slugg: A Boy’s Life in the Age of Mass Incarceration. Hanover Press. Muhammad, B. M. (2018). Against all odds: Resilient children of incarcerated parents. In L. Gordon (Ed.), Contemporary Research and Analysis on the Children of Prisoners: Invisible Children (pp. 141–​154). Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Muhammad, B. M. (2021). Resilient Black Love among Children of Incarcerated Parents. Howard University Alumni Magazine. https://​magaz​ine.how​ard.edu/​stor​ ies/​resili​ent-​black-​love-​among-​child​ren-​of-​incar​cera​ted-​pare​nts Turney, K., & Haskings, A. R. (2019). Parental incarceration and children’s well-​ being: Findings from the fragile families and child well-​being study. In J. M. Eddy & J. Poehlmann-​Tynan (Eds.), Handbook on Children with Incarcerated Parents: Research, Policy and Practice (pp.53–​64). Springer Nature.

1 WHAT’S IN A NAME? Calvin Bell III

The following essay is dedicated to incarcerated people like my father, who have been marginalized, dehumanized, and traumatized by the carceral system. It took my father’s life and the lives of countless others. The system has no regard for their humanity, health, or loved ones. However, as an abolitionist with a deconstructionist mindset, I must continue to tell their stories without silencing their voices because they still rise.

The amount of weight a name can carry still amazes me. The names you and I were given at birth were thought carefully about and meant something to the people who love us. Each name is associated with a meaning that will represent us for the rest of our lives. As we get older, we understand that our names represent who we are and are linked to our actions, achievements, and cultures. Thus, some people decide to legally change their names, while others go by a pen name that fits their personality. But many choose to keep their names with the hopes of growing into them with pride, appreciation, and love. I do not think most people of my age, 20 years old, put much time into thinking about the meaning of their names. I did not either until one of my high school English teachers gave us a summer assignment based on the book, The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri. I was forced to contemplate my name’s origin story and what it meant. When I googled Calvin Bell III, I was not surprised to find articles about my grandfather, Calvin Bell Sr. He was a prominent athlete during the 1980s. However, I did not know what to think

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-3

22  Calvin Bell III

when I came across the other Calvin Bell in my family, especially when my father’s mugshot appeared in Google photos. I clicked on the link under the picture and went through a rabbit hole of thoughts, emotions, and questions. How should I feel at that very moment and time? At this moment, I began to question what my name truly meant. Thinking back, I remember visiting my father in prison in elementary school, but I did not fully comprehend what was going on at nine years old. I could always visualize vivid images of driving with my paternal grandfather and great-​grandmother to a New Jersey prison. I could sense my footsteps walking on the ground behind groups of families entering a muted-​toned stone wall building. I could hear the sounds of shouting to “move along” and detectors beeping every few seconds. I could feel my body moving toward my father in excitement when he came out, and I moved my lips to say, what I could only guess was, “I love you.” Yet, everything was a blur. However, as I matured, it became clear to me, at age 15, that my father would be subjected to the criminal legal system for the rest of his life. I knew this would be the case because it felt like every time my father left prison, he would quickly reenter after a couple of months or a year. Unfortunately, the criminal legal system never gave him time to restart his life, but instead, to get a taste of life outside a prison cell before stripping his dreams away. When my father was out of prison, our relationship flourished with frequent communication and conversations about life. Nevertheless, when he reentered, we would lose contact, which was hard on me as I resorted to other male figures to fill that void. As I started to form my own identity during my freshman year of high school, I began wondering if my name would be linked to his imprisonment and if others would identify me as a criminal. Because of my father’s imperfect past, I wondered if I would ever be satisfied with my name. There were times when I did not include “III” in hopes that I could be seen as an independent soul with an unneeded attachment to others before me. I believed I was protecting myself from being subjected to a scarlet “P” for prisoners in the same way the rest of the world saw people like my father. Would I be dehumanized in the same way that America dehumanizes those that breathe the same air as them from afar? Although I’ve achieved many of my personal goals these past few years, such as winning the Princeton Prize in Race Relations, there were times I felt unworthy of receiving acclaim. Why should someone who questioned their belonging and their name be allowed to experience success? Throughout my high school experience, specifically junior year, I had a breakthrough moment while reading Between the World and Me by Ta-​Nehisi Coates in my AP English class. Although Coates was writing a letter to his son about the hardships of being a Black male in society, it felt like he was talking directly to me. This was the advice I never received from my father. Even though these

What’s in a Name?  23

were just words on a page, it became apparent that I needed to reaffirm my identity to be content with and proud of my name, Calvin Bell III. In an attempt to reclaim my name, I started working on how I carried myself in school and how I saw myself as a person. Until then, I lacked self-​ respect, self-​determination, and self-​love because of my reservations about the origins of my name. Due to my father’s absence and the emotional void of loneliness I dealt with, I could not concentrate on being the best version of myself. Instead of trying to make others happy, I began emulating Coates’s message: “You are growing into consciousness, and my wish for you is that you feel no need to constrict yourself to make other people comfortable” (Coates, 2015, pp. 107–​108). Therefore, I no longer feel the need to become what others expect me to be, nor question my name and, thus, my identity. Instead, I feel proud knowing that my name is mine and embodies my existence and being. Although it has a history that I may not be able to change, I can still add to its legacy. I now accept that part of my history is my father’s incarceration, but I will no longer limit who I am to fit society’s standards of Black men. I now embrace my experiences without questioning my identity and will navigate the rest of my life with newfound freedom and pride. Calvin Bell THE III has come to represent many things, each of which I am very proud of because it is the essence of who I am and what I have to offer to this world. Reference Coates, T. (2015). Between the World and Me. The Text Publishing Company.

2 UNLEARN TO RELEARN Aloha

I had to unlearn my detachment to relearn my identity

My parents divorced before I was enrolled in elementary school. I only saw my father a handful of times prior to me becoming a teenager. Because I had no connection to him or his parents, I felt no connection to my last name. I wanted my mother’s last name until I realized that I lacked a strong, consistent connection to her side of the family as well. In high school, I would sometimes refuse to write my last name because I began to feel a void. My health teacher took away points from students for not writing their full names. I risked receiving an “A” and continued the habit because I no longer wanted to be attached to that surname. When my father and I started talking more during my junior year, I felt complete, and I was able to write my last name on my assignments again, our last name. I had to unlearn calling him by his first name to relearn calling him “Daddy” again

My father understood that I was uncomfortable with calling him “Daddy.” One time I opened my mouth to say it and nothing came out. A simple word was too difficult to pronounce. I hadn’t called him that in years and I was adamant about not giving him what he didn’t deserve. He was a stranger, not a Dad. One day, I was able to call him “Daddy” with no hesitation, even though it took several months of communication. Although it initially felt outlandish, I still enjoyed the feeling of saying it, because it symbolized a bond that I lacked.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-4

Unlearn to Relearn  25

I had to unlearn my lifestyle under the guidance of a single mother to relearn taking orders from my father

My sophomore year, he started off being a friend. He was very nice and created a path where I could feel comfortable venting to him. I knew that role was temporary. Regardless of his inconsistency, he still had an authoritative position. Nonetheless, I didn’t like having to answer to him. My mother raised me without him, and now he is supposed to have automatic authority? If anything, I felt like I should have been telling him what to do and how to be a father. I do not know the full truth as to why he was not a part of my life; some of his absence is because he was in prison, but I realized that it’s more to it than that. Unfortunately, I have been receiving different excuses over the years. I had to unlearn this credence of being unloved to relearn feeling loved

He was very loving and spoiled me. Many of the stories he told me were quite surprising. My father allegedly went to my high school to check on my grades. He said he would tell the receptionist not to mention his visit to me. I incredulously raised an eyebrow after he said that. When he told me that I had gotten a “C” in science during my freshman year, I sat in the car in shock. This whole time I thought my father didn’t give a damn about me, but apparently, he did. I allowed the silence to take over as I enjoyed the heartwarming moment. I had to unlearn my mother’s perception to relearn being daddy’s little girl

I was accustomed to talking to him daily and being picked up from school a couple of times a week. I hid his reappearance from my mom for months. There was a moment when I became beleaguered and had no choice but to be honest. I experienced my first panic attack that night. This moment of truth was ineffable. I still remember seeing my mom cut up her wedding pictures when I was in elementary school. I was too young to understand her pain. However, she subconsciously made sure I understood her anger. Although I don’t think it was her intention, I grew to have anger toward my father as well. He missed important moments in my life, so I had multiple reasons to be angry. Hearing his side of the story shifted things for me. Some of his stories were the opposite of what my mother told me. Was my mother lying to keep me from asking about him? Or was my father lying to stay in my good graces? I didn’t want to cause her more pain by spending time with him. But the father I was getting to know wasn’t the man she spoke of. He was a nice man who made me feel complete.

26 Aloha

I had to unlearn the routine of seeing my father regularly to relearn not seeing him at all

Little did I know, that feeling he gave me was temporary. My father told me during my junior year that he had an upcoming court date and was unsure of how long he was going to be in prison. One would think that I would experience lamentation when I discovered that he wasn’t going to be at my graduation. However, over the years, I became acclimated to people not being consistent in my life. My disappointment only lasted a couple of weeks. I adjusted fairly quickly to his physical absence. He mailed me two or three letters a week. I kept every letter in one of my shoe boxes. I was unable to visit him, but I’m actually glad that I never got that experience. I had to unlearn caring to relearn apathy

The joy returned when my father was released from prison about three years later. Eventually, I was able to see another side of him; he wasn’t as nice as he was when I was in high school or while he was in prison. Was he nice to me because he knew he was going to prison? I began to wonder if I knew him. Despite the issues, I was excited for him to come to my college graduation. I was hoping I could at least get a picture with both of my parents despite their issues; that would have been the perfect gift. Unfortunately, my wish never came true because my father was incarcerated again several months before my graduation date. He had one last chance to be there for me and he ruined it. My frustrations didn’t last long because I reminded myself that his absence was the norm. The shoe box began to fill up and my emotions became blank. I had to unlearn my “genetic” anger to relearn self-​control

We often forget how powerful words can be. “You have the anger of your father.” I never really understood what that meant because I didn’t really know my father. It’s hard to successfully understand a comparison if you don’t have a clear view of both objects. I saw his anger in my early 20s. Was I really irascible? I despised that similarity. My pregnancy pushed me to have more patience and serenity. I used techniques like walking away from heated conversations, writing poetry, and reminding myself that I am not like my father. I had to unlearn familiarity to relearn appreciation.

During my senior year at Howard University, I spent spring break on the grounds of Federal Prison Camp, Alderson. I learned valuable lessons that

Unlearn to Relearn  27

made me reevaluate life as an adult, a mother, and a daughter. Being away from my children for a week was difficult. I began to feel uncomfortable. Did my father have this same pain for all of these years? I became numb to his absence; maybe he was numb as well. The spring break experience made me love being a mother even more. I didn’t want to take my children for granted, and I was determined never to be away from them due to incarceration. I started appreciating every moment with my children and would give random hugs. I had to unlearn my perception of this amiable man to relearn the perception of the man I was told about as a child

Although my father missed my graduation, I was grateful for the presence of my family and friends. When he was released from prison, I eventually began to see the anger that my mother told me about. I had seen it before but it started to be more common. His insolence had a detrimental effect on me; my peace, happiness, and daily focus were impacted every time he had a sudden outburst. Maybe my mother was shielding me from his anger so I would avoid emotional pain. I ironically ended up feeling the pain from his absence and inconsistency. Some of my relatives would justify his anger because of his tribulations; I was encouraged to be understanding. Why couldn’t he be understanding of how I felt when he became irate? I began to wonder if the kindness he showed me in high school was feigned. Maybe the man my mother told me about was the man he truly was. I had to unlearn silence to relearn conversing

I kept a lot of my emotions and thoughts contained. Avoiding conversations became overbearing. My decision-​ making skills were impacted by this rollercoaster. I needed to release the pressure but nonetheless, I had no one to talk to. I threw away his letters and never read the very last one. Sometimes I just didn’t want to talk about it. Sometimes I wanted to continue to pretend that I was okay. Sometimes I wished my father stayed in prison because that’s when he was nicer to me. I didn’t ask for much; I just wanted him to be nice. He stopped talking to me three years ago; I have recently realized that my life is better without him. I prefer his absence more than his presence. Now I have to find someone to walk me down the aisle. Even if we speak again, who is he to give me away in marriage? He has given me away more than enough times.

3 AM I MY MOTHER’S KEEPER? Tonisha Taylor

What did it mean to be my mother’s keeper? It meant yearning for a parent who wasn’t capable of fulfilling that role, while also sacrificing myself to take care of her and my siblings. I did it because there were no alternatives. Still, I deeply resented being placed in a position in which I had to constantly make damn near impossible decisions as a matter of survival. Despite the traumatic experience of becoming the matriarch of my family, I forged a path toward self-​healing. Yearning for my mother

The first time I had to take charge of the relationship between my mother and me was in the summer of 2003. She was out on bail pending a federal court case for bustin’ bad checks. My mother got caught up in a scheme in which fraudulent checks were created, and she, along with a team of other people, would attempt to cash those checks at check-​cashing agencies around the city. They would then receive a portion of the ill-​gotten money. Her bail was $25,000, and I put my name on the dotted line for her release. I was 20 years old. I barely knew what was going on and only agreed to bail her out because she begged so much during those calls from jail. I regretted my decision as soon as she got out, because she was back on the streets, wildin’. She was back to using drugs, boosting from local stores to feed her habit, and spending nights at the apartment of a well-​known drug dealer. A lot of the piss poor decisions my mother made stemmed from her substance abuse issues. So, she fell into this crowd that was forging and cashing fake checks. Even though she was a low-​level participant, she was facing several years of federal time. Hoping that I would agree to bail her DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-5

Am I My Mother’s Keeper?  29

out, my mother promised to help me take care of my four younger siblings. In addition to now having to raise them, I was overwhelmed with working and being a student full-​time. My grandmother, the original family matriarch, had recently passed away. This gaping hole left me with a heavy burden to carry. From the way my mother continued to behave after she was released on bail, the burden only became heavier. With $25,000 on the line, I couldn’t take any chances. The thought of her missing her upcoming court date and leaving me with a heavy financial burden didn’t sit right with me. I barely made $25,000 a year for my salary, but I did what needed to be done. I got in contact with someone at the court and figured out how to get out of the bail. This meant getting my mother to turn herself in. I knew she wasn’t going to do this willingly, so I tricked her by telling her we had to attend court for some reason. The morning that we got there, I was so nervous, but I knew I was making the right choice. She was informed that she would be taken back into custody. As the court officer placed the handcuffs around her wrists, I could barely look at her. She, however, looked straight at me with such disgust, as if I was the one who did something wrong. In that moment, I yearned for my mother, or rather, the mother that I wished that she could have been. There was no one left to comfort me, no one available to help guide me through the next three years in which I became the matriarch of my family. After my grandmother passed, most family members stepped back from us. They all knew what was going on. They knew that my mother struggled with substance abuse issues. They knew the burden would fall on me. Even still, I was on my own. Sacrifice and resentment

Assuming the role of the family matriarch was not something I was given the opportunity to think about doing. I knew that I didn’t have a choice in the matter. There was no way that I was going to allow my sisters and brothers to end up in the foster care system. I would have never risked the chance of losing contact with them. But this decision came at a price. I was newly married at the time of my grandmother’s passing. My husband of 18 months made it clear that he did not sign up for taking in my siblings. Granted, we had our own marital issues, and the marriage likely wouldn’t have survived anyway. My decision to move back into my grandmother’s apartment in order to care for my siblings was the kiss of death for that relationship. I didn’t have time to mourn the end of my marriage. Similarly, I didn’t have time to properly mourn my grandmother’s passing. There were too many things that had to get done in the “here and now.” I was totally engrossed in keeping up with the kids’ school schedules, homework assignments, doing laundry, cooking, and making sure their

30  Tonisha Taylor

emotional well-​being was solid. This was on top of my own full-​time work and school schedule. During the nights I had class, one of my grandmother’s old friends came over to watch the kids. Just to be sure there was always an adult present in the event there was a surprise visit from Children’s Services. Even on those late work nights, I came in and checked their homework to make sure everything was solid before I went to bed. I also visited my mother every other week. Especially while she was being held at a facility that was nearby. I operated like this, on auto-​pilot for so long, I became numb to my own feelings. Although I did harbor a deep resentment toward my mother and my family. I was angry at my mother for not being able to get her shit together. This was not her first stint in prison. She spent a significant amount of my childhood in and out of state prison, for various low-​level crimes. The inconsistency of her presence was something that I was used to. This didn’t make it right. As a child, it hurt me to my core seeing classmates who seemed to have loving, stable parents. As a young adult, it angered me that she kept bringing more children into this world and still could not pull it together, for any of us. My father and his family were on my shit list, too. After my parents divorced, it seemed like he just wasn’t interested enough in his children to be in our lives. He moved to North Carolina and left us behind. Interestingly enough, my father’s side of the family lived in the very same building that I lived in, six flights above us. I had a whole ‘nother grandmother and two aunts, right there. They didn’t check for us or on us, either. Healing

The resentment I felt was eating me alive and manifesting in different ways. I was irritable and quick to lash out at others. Especially those who I believed slighted me in any way. I knew something had to be done, but there were a lot of false starts before I found peace. Healing does not happen on a linear path. It took a lot of days and nights of crying, journaling, venting, and crying some more before I was able to get to a good place mentally and emotionally. I expressed myself freely in letters I wrote to my mother while she was in prison. My mother initiated the letter writing, I imagine it was her way of passing time and still having communication with people on the outside. I viewed it as a way to let go of everything I was holding in, especially since I felt so much anger toward her. Though writing to each other helped to improve our relationship, it was not enough for me to become whole. I also sought out the love, care, and affection that I sorely missed through terrible romantic relationships. That only led to further heartache and trauma. Once my mother was released from prison, she committed to a life of sobriety. Eventually, she regained the parenting responsibilities of my siblings, and I moved on to live alone and have my own life. Still very much

Am I My Mother’s Keeper?  31

broken, I entered into an emotionally abusive relationship with the father of my children. In my attempt to find love and security, I shared much of my past with him. He turned around and used a lot of that information to manipulate and gaslight me. I knew that I knew better, but I could not bring myself to end the relationship. I equated my self-​worth to the success of staying in that relationship. The longer I stayed with him, the more my self-​ esteem plummeted. I knew I couldn’t keep living that way, and I had to get back to myself. But I realized that I wasn’t sure that I knew who I truly was. My whole identity was wrapped up in being the family savior. I had to not only reclaim myself, but I had to find myself, for me. I started seeing a therapist in 2009. My very first therapy session was nothing but tears. I cried for the whole visit. I couldn’t put anything into words that day. Over time, I was able to articulate all of the feelings that I had pent up over the years. Next, my therapist and I worked to help heal the little girl inside of me who was hurting. We worked to undo the internalization of so many life episodes that simply were not my fault. I came to understand that I could not control others; they were simply going to do what they wanted to, and that had no bearing on my self-​worth. I learned how to enforce boundaries and eventually walk away from a relationship that was unhealthy. With the help of my therapist, I sought to prioritize myself and my self-​care. Being grounded emotionally and mentally has served me well. My mother, to her credit, upon her release from prison, did a phenomenal job of turning her life around. My siblings and I agree that her accomplishments later in life still did not compensate for the years of inconsistency and absence. To my siblings, I am still the matriarch of the family. I am seen as the voice of reason. As I have evolved in this role, I’ve learned to be much clearer with setting and enforcing boundaries. This helps to not overwhelm myself with their interpersonal issues. This has served me well. All of their problems are not, and should not be, my problem. Being able to step back in order to prioritize myself, my needs, and my desires has brought me full circle in a way. For a period of time, I was my mother’s keeper, but I am not anymore.

4 ROOTS, RESIDUE, AND RESULTS Quatina Frazer

Lamentations By Quatina Frazer When tears fill my eyes; pain, I can no longer hide Lord, I’ll still praise you When sorrow overwhelms my heart, and I cannot find the strength to start Lord, I’ll still praise you When I’m tricked by fear, and it feels like no one cares Lord, I’ll still praise you When I feel a heart of stone from feeling all alone Lord, I’ll still praise you

Roots

Lamenting. The lamenting of my baby sister rang loudly as we and my neighborhood watched my father being taken away in handcuffs. I do not remember what he had done, but I do know this was not his first encounter with the police. That scene will forever be etched in my mind. I felt helpless, as I often did when things would go wrong in my childhood. As a child, I often dealt extensively with stomach aches and headaches. Things happened outside of my control, and the effects were revealed internally. My brother and I, one year apart in age, were in middle school and my sister was around 5 or 6 years old. We had lived three times in that housing project where the incident took place. Deep sadness and shame were evident at that moment. When my sister, daddy’s girl, was crushed, I was crushed. There was not anything I could do DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-6

Roots, Residue, and Results  33

to change the situation. Looking back, I can say that was a heavy burden that I put on myself as a little girl. I not only wanted peace and harmony, but I also wanted to fix things. Bouts of depression often manifested themselves throughout my life, starting from when I was a child. The first time my dad was arrested, I was very young, maybe 4 or 5. That first apartment was at the very bottom of the project community and was my first memory of learning that my father was “away.” The second time, we lived in the middle, near the big open field and closer to the neighborhood store. This apartment is where I became aware that I was a big sister. My parents got married on my birthday and are still married today. I do not recall my father being “away” behind bars at that time, but I do remember an incident that involved him that made me never want to get involved with the wrong crowd. In my heart, I believe that my mother knew that the life we had was not as she had hoped. For as long as I can remember, my mother was investing in us. She did not want our circumstances to define us. The daycare that I attended was located on the edge of the project. Learning our ABCs and practicing handwriting at the table were done outside of daycare time as well as during. She fed our minds and always wanted to expose us to things outside of our norms. One of her favorite places to take us was Dinosaur State Park. I have nostalgic feelings whenever I think about it or see the sign for it; however, one of the most impactful excursions she took us on was to the local airport. My brother and I got to go up in a small plane and fly around. Now at this time, I do not think I knew that my mother herself had never flown. I just knew and could see the effort of her wanting to expand her children’s minds. As I got older, I watched my mother not only keep jobs with three children, but I also watched her expand her own mind. She not only expressed her creativity but also profited from it. She helped individuals with their taxes, handcrafted items for the home such as wreaths, and painted plaster wall decor. Watching my mother not only work outside the home, yet also help people, influenced me greatly. Seeing her create items and decorate people’s homes gave me a sense of pride. To see a cool item and know that my mother made it was pretty cool! I saw my mother consistently hold it down. Both of my parents have entrepreneurial mindsets, and I believe that’s why my work ethic is the way it is and why I have the ability to try new ventures. Residue

Sometimes life is affected by one major event, and other times, life is affected by a series of events that culminate and influence areas and relationships throughout time. Incident after incident, disappointments, as well as periodic absences by my father, all took a part in shaping and molding the person that I am today and the relationships that followed. The truth is, as I’ve come to

34  Quatina Frazer

realize writing this chapter, I often felt that my father did not love his family or take his responsibility to us seriously. The behavior was damaging and selfish. How could someone love another and not care how they were affected? Later on, as I aged, I would come to learn that life is much more complicated than that. He loved his family the way that he knew how. I remember times when he would do “family” things with us, take us out to eat, to the movies, and periodically, let my siblings and me drive in the school parking lots. I do have some fond memories; however, I was young and stubborn, especially because I had been hurt. My attitude was the only thing I had control over as a child. Life is made up of choices. As a child, I felt voiceless many times. In the third grade, I recall coming home from school one day and learning that I was moving down South. I didn’t get to have a say, I didn’t get to say goodbye to any of my friends. That was a jarring experience for someone so young. I was quiet as a child, shy, and not able to easily make friends, so being pulled away from the comfort I had, began to create bitterness in me. And to be honest, I didn’t blame my mother so much as I did my father. It’s not that she could do no wrong, but more so that she was consistent and there. In hindsight, although I realize that they both made decisions, I felt that he was the driving force, the “head,” the one causing all of this upheaval in our lives. Because of these experiences, I had to process my feelings in some kind of way. Music became a huge part of me in maintaining some level of peace. To this day, even though I have seen a true therapist, I say that music is therapy. Children need some type of outlet, whether it be poetry, music, painting, or sports. They need it even if they are not part of a formal team or organization. Processing experiences and feelings are necessary to maintain peace and balance, in my opinion. This was so important to me that when I had children, I enrolled them in an arts program. They still use the skills they learned to this day. Results

History can be told in a variety of ways. The way I remember things and the way my father remembers things are quite different. This realization was challenging and emotional for the both of us. In his eyes, he did the best that he could. As a parent now, with sons who are almost grown, I can say the same about myself. He recalls always being there. I, on the other hand, remember large gaps of time when he was not there. This also created friction when he would return to our home. Even as a child, I somehow knew enough about accountability and responsibility to know that a person should not be able to come and go and if they did, they probably didn’t carry the same level of authority or respect as if they were always there.

Roots, Residue, and Results  35

It is important to note that, for me, accountability is a huge factor in forgiveness. How can a person truly be sorry and apologetic if they do not acknowledge what they have done and who they have affected? How can reconciliation be achieved and successful if there is no sense of personal responsibility? However, at the end of the day, success is relative. My view and definition of success can be vastly different from the next person’s. I believe that I am successful not only despite my past but because of my past. I developed grit, compassion, and wisdom. Love is stronger than pride. For the parents, if you’ve spent time away, I encourage you to put pride aside and genuinely apologize to your children. Apologizing can help begin the healing process, and it can also open the door for reconciliation, especially if there has been a rift. Apologize and take accountability with grace and humility. Forgiveness takes time and cannot be forced. Sometimes we want full forgiveness sooner than the other party is able to process and provide it. Don’t give up hope. Baby steps forward are still steps forward. For children of incarcerated parents, I encourage you to be open to forgiveness and understanding. Time is precious. I would also say be creatively you! Release with every snap of a picture, every stroke of a paintbrush, and every line of a poem or song. Pain and love both evoke creativity. Success is not allowing roots or residue alone to determine the results of your life. Success is creatively weaving together the ins and outs of life. Success is not wasting our experiences, but releasing them, at times in vulnerability, to help someone else. I pray this personal release of mine has done likewise.

5 DAD’S “IN” DAD’S “OUT” PART I The Ebb and Flow of Childhood with an Incarcerated Parent Nicole Dezrea Jenkins

Different from Family yet Different from Peers

Everything I have ever done was to make my mother proud. She was a hard-​ working single mother who would not let us forget it. She was an olive-​ skinned Latina with long thick curly hair that flowed down her back and fluffed out to her shoulders if she let it. She was brilliant too. She worked as a contractor for the Navy base in our small desert town. My mother kept every award I earned and plastered it on our refrigerator. Hung it on the walls of our double-​wide trailer or framed it in her office. She never minimized my accomplishments and would brag about her “Nickolette” to all her friends. It was my role, and I took it rather seriously. I wanted to make a separate reputation for myself, one different from my siblings and my father. I was a straight-​A student and my mother’s “perfect” child. I was the youngest girl in a family of five and the first of her children to walk at high school graduation. My siblings all had encounters with the police and had records before graduating high school, and many of them had spent time incarcerated as well. While I was not perfect by any means, I was damn near it in comparison to my siblings in their troubled youth and my father. I tried so hard to set myself apart from the reputation my family had gained in town. In high school, I was captain of my cheerleading squad. I was on the Homecoming Court and Prom Court as well. Despite my efforts to set myself apart, it did not change the circumstances of my life. I could always tell whether Dad was “clean” or “using” again by his sneakers and cologne. When Dad was clean (not using), his shoes were clean; you could smell his cologne before he entered a room and long after he left. He had his “waves spinning,” as he would say. I remember him calling me DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-7

Dad’s “in” Dad’s “out” Part I  37

over once, “Nick, come here, baby girl” he waved his giant finger at me and directed me toward him. He removed his wave cap and began brushing his hair in one direction with a small brush he kept. “Do you know what these are?” he said, pointing to the top of his head. I was a teenager, so I knew he must have been feeling himself. “Yes, Dad, I know what waves are,” I said, annoyed. “Waves?!” he said, hurrying back in his seat and looking shocked. He placed his hand over his chest. “Baby girl,” he shook his head and pretended to look disappointed. “This right here is a Tsunamiiii!!” he stood up, pointed at his hair, and leaned in so I could get a closer look. We laughed so hard. He was so pleased with his Dad joke, and so was I. Dad was out, and Dad was clean. When he was using, none of that existed. He just looked like walking shame. No clean sneakers, no cologne, and no Dad jokes. His eyes would be so big and wide that it felt uncomfortable to meet them. He chewed relentlessly as if he had a piece of bubblegum in his mouth. There was little expectation from him in this state. The only guarantee is that he may ask me if I had a couple of dollars and if I had any friends with me, he wouldn’t mind asking them either. Seeing my Dad like this always brought about feelings of shame, disappointment, and pity. When Dad was using, he felt even more distant than when he was incarcerated. He could be right in front of me but so far gone. Dad was “out.” As a Homecoming court member, students were to be escorted by their fathers down the football field during halftime. Since Dad was out, I invited him to accompany me down the field. He couldn’t even look me in the eyes. The tell-​tale sign showed he was using again, but I invited him anyway. He told me he didn’t have anything nice to wear, and I felt guilty for even asking. For some reason, I still thought he would show up. I borrowed a dress from a friend. My hair was done at a salon, and my girlfriends helped me do my makeup. I felt like a pageant princess, but I stood on the football field alone at halftime. The other nine girls stood in line arm in arm with their fathers, while I stood alone. I felt like I was on display. Suppose it wasn’t apparent before, now, it was clear as day. Here I was, the only Black girl on the field and fatherless. Just before the announcer called my name, I saw a man jumping through the bleachers and rushing down to the area; he made it just in time for them to announce me. It wasn’t my Dad but my stepfather, the plan was for me to be walked by them. However, he was the only one who showed up. I was relieved to see him and not have to walk alone. I was so grateful that he showed up, but I felt guilty for missing my father at that moment. Elementary School’s Current Events … Dad’s “in”

I was in second grade when I realized that my father’s incarceration would affect my life. It was “Current Event Day,” a day when students reported

38  Nicole Dezrea Jenkins

news clippings of current events to the rest of the class. My classmate stood up front and began describing a robbery over the weekend. A large Black man about 6′4″ had entered the local 711 with a towel wrapped around his hand, demanding cash and threatening that he had a gun. No one was hurt, and the man was unsuccessful and unarmed. The man was in custody. When my classmate read the name, I froze; “Larry Jeter,” my father. You see, I grew up in a rural, predominately white town in southern California, and not only were there not many Black folks, but also word travels fast in that small town. I sat in the front of the class and could feel my back burning from the stares of my classmates. I looked down at my desk name tag that read “Nicole Jeter” in the perfectly written font. In case anyone was unsure, I felt my name tag made our connection loud and clear. My teacher, Mrs. McMann, a thin white woman, and marathon runner, sprang from her seat and rushed the student to finish. She gave me a look of pity, and the expression was the most embarrassing part of it all. “Are you ok, Nicole?” she asked. I was fine before she’d requested, but the ask seemed to invite a growing lump in my throat that made it hard to swallow. I wanted to cry, but I knew my mother would have been disappointed for some reason. I just nodded my head to confirm I was “ok.” I wasn’t embarrassed that my Dad was in jail or that my entire class knew. I was sad because I didn’t know when I would see him again, and I had to be reminded of that in front of my second-​grade class. Surprise Dad’s “out”

“Nickie, wake up! Look who’s here!” I could hear the soft voice of my best friend’s father, Mr. Butch. He was gently tapping my shoulder in an attempt to wake me. We had piles of blankets on the living room floor and were surrounded by chairs from the kitchen table to support the fort we had built to sleep in. Blonde Barbie dolls with chopped-​off hair scattered the floor, and my childhood best friend Jenn curled up peacefully just inches away from me on the floor. The smell of syrup was still in the house; Jenn’s Dad was a fantastic cook and always prepared the best breakfast. The syrup smell was from “surprise pancakes.” He thinly sliced pieces of breakfast sausage lengthwise and hid them in our pancakes, surprise! We loved it. Mr. Butch was a strict single father but cared for us as I had never seen a man do. I envied Jenn because she had a father like Mr. Butch Valentine, who cooked for her and taught her how to clean and speak to adults. “Nickie, wake up, look! Who is this?!” Mr. Valentine continued to try to wake me. I’ve never been a fan of being woken up, but my nine-​year-​old brain sensed the excitement in his voice and … another voice? I could hear another familiar voice as I woke and began to open my eyes. “Niiiiiick, heeeeeyyyy baaaabyyy,” this new voice was a bit deeper but just as gentle and oddly familiar. I sat up and noticed two large men standing over me, one was Mr.

Dad’s “in” Dad’s “out” Part I  39

Valentine, a round and heavy-​set high yellow man with crystal blue eyes. The other man was less heavy with golden-​brown skin. He stood about 6′4″ and had freckles and spats of red hair, just like me. He smelt like strong cologne and wore crisp new Shaq sneakers. He was my Daddy. It felt like a dream. How was he here? How would he know I was here? My father had been in prison again, and I wasn’t sure how long it had been since I had last seen him. It must have been at least a year or longer because this felt like an introduction rather than a reunion. I didn’t know how to react. I was confused and surprised. I know that my reaction was not what my Dad expected, and I remember wishing I had jumped in his arms and hugged him, squeezed him tight, and told him I had missed him. But I didn’t. I sat there frozen and confused, which could have hurt my father’s feelings. He only stayed a few minutes after that. He spoke to Mr. Valentine privately and then left. I wondered where he would go and why he didn’t take me with him. I knew he didn’t have a place to live but hoped he would get a temporary living motel down the road. Maybe he would come to contact my siblings and me later and swim in the motel pool. I wondered if my siblings had seen him and how they would feel when they learned that “Dad’s out.” This is the most vivid memory of my father’s multiple homecomings. Beyond this age, it was normal. “Dad’s in,” or “Dad’s out,” and it just was. My father spent much of my childhood incarcerated. While his absence became normal, eventually, so did the random phone calls. “You have a collect call from ‘Larry’ (my father’s deep voice would interrupt the recording), an inmate at XYZ correctional facility. Press one to accept ….” I loved hearing my father’s voice. I loved his phone calls. Most times he called, I would feel guilty for not knowing what to say and not being able to hold a conversation with him, but I would answer all of his questions and tell him I missed him. He would tell me he loved me and always reminded me of how “smart” I was. My father had a way of making me feel exceptional, even in the worst of circumstances. Dad’s out: Swole for Dinner

It was important to my mother that we maintained a relationship with our father when he was “out.” When Dad was “out” and “clean,” he loved to cook. I remember the phone call from my Mom. “Nickolette, your Dad is out, and he wants to make dinner for you and your siblings tonight. Please be home so that we can have dinner as a family.” The thought of a family dinner with Dad was confusing, but I made sure to be home. Dad made us “swole” for dinner. Swole is a mix of Ramen noodles, tuna, and mayo. It was essentially a tan-​colored, salty, mushy concoction that lacked any appeal in smell or texture. There were possibly other ingredients in swole as well. I was not a fan. Neither were my siblings and my mother did not want us to

40  Nicole Dezrea Jenkins

tell our father. I’d always be the judy one, so she specifically gave me a stern look with a tilted head, letting me know to act as if I liked it. I certainly did not like it, and although I did not tell my father, I am positive he could tell that my siblings were doing their best to get the food down. I did not like the food, but I loved the moment. He was out, he was clean, and we were together.

6 DAD’S “IN” DAD’S “OUT” PART II Truth and Trajectory from an Academic and Military Veteran Nicole Dezrea Jenkins

Christmas Crack Dad’s “out”

I enlisted in the United States Air Force at 19 years old. I was off to Bootcamp by the age of 20. I went in not knowing what job I would perform and later found out that I would be assigned to Security Forces, which functions as military police for the Air Force. For most of my training, I had disconnected my father’s incarceration from my career as military police. What did his past and choices have to do with me anyway? I spent six years as military police in the United States Air Force and completed one tour to Iraq to support Operation Iraqi Freedom. When I left home, I did not receive letters or phone calls from my father; I would sometimes see him when I visited home if he was “out.” Although he was an Army Veteran, I disconnected him from my military service as much as possible. We rarely spoke of his service. When he did bring it up, it felt like a lie because he was so drastically different from any image he tried to paint about his past self. Unfortunately, the connection between his life, my choices, and my career eventually collided. It was Christmas. I had taken leave from the Air Force and stayed at my Mother’s home. My younger brother, still a teen, had not left home yet. My father was also “out” and staying with my Mom and Stepdad. I couldn’t believe it, it felt like a Jerry Springer Story waiting to happen. My Stepdad would have done anything to make my Mom happy, and my Mom would have done anything to help my father. We had a traditional Christmas, with gifts, food, etc. By the evening, we were all looking forward to settling in. “Hey, Nick, why don’t you give me a ride up the skreet quickly?” Dad had requested. It was close to 11 pm when my Dad asked me for a ride. “Dad, it’s late, and I’m tired,” I said. “Well, let me take your car, it’s just real quick DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-8

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and up the street.” His southern accent shows through. I knew better than to let my Dad use my car. And although he was currently “out,” “clean” was another thing. I agreed and asked my younger brother to drive with me to take my Dad up the street. We drove a few blocks away. It was cold and dark, and few other cars were on the street in our small town. Christmas tunes jiggled through the speakers. “Let’s hear those ring ding dinga linga ling ling linga ling too!” We drove up to a dark house where my Dad told me it was ok to park in the driveway. My brother and I waited in the car while my Dad disappeared into the darkness near the front door. Now Chris Brown’s version of This Christmas began, “Hang all the mistletoe, I’m gonna get to know you better ….” Dad was back in the car in minutes. He jumped in the back seat and began shoulder-​shaking to the Christmas jingle. “Ok, let’s roll,” he said. My brother was quiet. “So am I supposed just to act like I don’t know what just happened?” my brother asked my Dad as we began to back out of the driveway. “You literally just took us with you to buy dope, right?” I was shocked and so confused. I was so naive. I had never bought drugs before. “Wait, what!?” I said, “Dad is that true?” “Come on now, it’s Christmas, we good. Don’t be dramatic. Ain’t nobody buying no dope.” I began thinking about the potential drugs that were in my car. What is dope? Is that weed, meth, or something else? I was worried. “Dad, you know I am a cop in the Air Force. Being in a situation like this could ruin my career. I could be court-​martialed and kicked out. Why would you put me in a situation like this?” I was so confused, disappointed, and hurt. The distance was short, but all I could think of was being pulled over with my Dad in the car, a felon possessing an illegal substance. I just wanted him out of my car. My mom was peeking out the window and shuffled sleepily outside as soon as she recognized my car. She was wearing her robe and slippers. Her robe was pulled tight around her neck to block the night chill. She was groggy and began questioning where we had been. I told her we just gave Dad a ride a few minutes down the road to a house off of the boulevard. Her demeanor instantly changed. She shot a look at my father and began shaking her head. “On Christmas?! Really Jeter!” her voice began to quiver. “You Motherfucker! You took my babies on a Crack run on Christmas!” She began to cry harder and yell louder. “How could you do this?” My heart broke for her, she was more sad than angry, more disappointed than furious. I could tell by the tears that I rarely ever saw her shed. My mother loved Christmas. I could see that he had ruined hers. As I witnessed my mother’s heartbreak, I became disgusted with my father. I wondered, how often he had broken her heart, made her cry, and disappointed her. How many times had he hit her, blacked an eye, or pushed her to the ground? Did it all hurt the same? He did not apologize. He did not comfort any of us.

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The night ended with my Dad storming off into the cold night. He said, as a grown man, he didn’t need anybody questioning him. I felt like an idiot. My brother and Mom knew what was happening, but I did not. I was a brand new military police officer and had just finished my Bootcamp and career training earlier that year. How could I not know I was picking up drugs? I knew my Dad did drugs. Was I that naive? Or did I not want to grasp the truth? Both. I was naive because it was Christmas, and I wanted to believe that things were perfect, at least our version. Merry Christmas, Dad’s “out.” Dad’s “in”

That was my last Christmas with my mother, and it wasn’t long after my mother passed. It was tremendously hard for my entire family because she was our rock. My older sister began dating a man that was taking advantage of her, stealing from her, and physically abusing her. He had beaten her so severely that she suffered from a concussion. He had blacked her beautiful brown eyes. They were so swollen that she couldn’t see. Her beautiful and full lips were split open from repeated blows to her face. The police arrested this boyfriend and transferred him to the nearest installation, about 2 hours away. Our small town only had an overnight cell. Unfortunately for him, my Dad was arrested 24 hours later and transferred to the same facility. I am unsure of what my Dad was arrested for this time, but he had heard about what happened to my sister, and when he arrived, he found this abusive boyfriend. He retaliated and took justice into his own hands. My Dad later shared this story with my sister, and the abusive boyfriend later confirmed it. My father had been placed in the same cell as this “boyfriend” and took matters into his own hands. As I listened to the story of violence in horror, I was disgusted by all of the most violent displays of masculinity. I was even more disgusted with myself for being glad that my Dad was locked up at that moment and that he headbutted the man, bloodied his face, and made him regret what he had done to my sister. I understood it as protection and the responsibility of a father. It was the least my father could do. The man who had hurt my sister deserved it, right? I was disgusted with my Dad for his violence, but I was also proud that he had done something when others could do nothing. What did it mean? Was he protecting his daughter or his reputation? Military and Becoming a Parent Myself

My mother passed before she could ever meet her grandson. Although she had an opportunity to meet my husband, her terminal illness prevented her from ever meeting my son. I spent my pregnancy wondering what type of grandparent my Dad would be for my son. I was disappointed that he had

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outlived my mother. My Dad was a fantastic grandpa to my sister’s three children when he was clean. He had cooked for them, cared for them, and developed loving relationships with them. But he also caused them trauma when he was using. He had been caught stealing things from her home and invited strange people when he was there to watch the children. Neighbors called the police several times to de-​ escalate the yelling and screaming between my Dad and sister. Although I was in an entirely different state, I was often called on the phone while the police were en route. I wanted the clean version of my Dad to be a grandfather to my son, especially since he was his only living grandfather. Throughout my pregnancy, I held the position of NCOIC (Non-​ Commissioned Officer in Charge) of Confinement at the Air Force Installation where I was stationed. This role meant that any military members processed for long-​term confinement were housed in the facility I ran. I had a staff of about four Airmen. We housed approximately six incarcerated Airmen at any given time. I understood that our purpose was to ensure the incarcerated Airmen were secure and cared for. I had staff walk them to and from meals and accompany them for exercise, medical appointments, and court cases. I also made sure that they made phone calls to their families and were able to send and receive mail. I believe these Airmen were just people who made wrong decisions and got caught. They were not “dirtbags” or any other degrading names that they were referred to by other Airmen and leadership. They were fathers, brothers, sons, sisters, and daughters. Years of loving my father despite his shortcomings allowed me to view the incarcerated airmen as human. I had a different perspective than those who held the position before and after me. I thought about what my father’s day-​to-​day routine might have been like as he went from facility to facility. Working in this facility while my Dad was incarcerated provided me with a new view of him. As I navigated the lives of the men and women who were in the military confinement that I was in charge of, I thought about the level of control others had had over my father each time he was incarcerated. Part of me felt like a sell-​out, and the other part of me felt proud that I had a reliable career. I knew that my father was proud of me, so that helped. While I was in the Air Force, I never told anyone that my father was in and out of jail. I wanted my own reputation, based on my own actions, so in my mind, no one needed to know. As I navigated my role, facility inspections, and other protocols, I often wondered about what it might have been like for my father in the various facilities he did time in. I felt isolated in my feelings and knew that what I was experiencing was unique. I had no one to talk to about this but my siblings, who really had problems of their own. Had anyone thought about him as someone’s father? Did they care to know anything else about him beyond his incarcerated identity?

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Getting My Ph.D. and Making Them Proud

Throughout my graduate education, my father remained in and out of jail. He began to ask for more money and support regularly. I helped him when I could. He caused me a lot of stress while I was in school. His stories about his childhood in the Jim Crow South influenced my decision to learn more about literature on race and racism. My father’s Blackness was his pride, so it became mine too. I chose race as my area of specialty and completed a comprehensive exam on the topic, centering Blackness. My father was getting older now, but it did not change his choices or life’s pace. As he continued to use. The cologne and waves that were once a sign of goodness and progress were only a distant memory. He was now missing all of his teeth, and his hygiene was slipping. My once tall and handsome father had shriveled. Near the end of his life, my son was frightened at the sight of him. He once greeted his “Papi” with a run and jumped into his arms. It broke my heart to see him peek behind the staircase at my father the last time he saw him. I could tell that he recognized him but was uncertain of why he looked so different. He wouldn’t get near him. “That’s Papi?” he asked me in a whisper. He had come to help me and my family pack up our home and move to DC, I had just graduated with my Ph.D. I watched my Dad struggle to lift heavy things and struggle to eat. He congratulated me on my degree and told me he was proud of me. “I am not surprised, Nick, I knew that you would do amazing things. You were always a smart little girl. Anyone who met you knew that you would be a doctor or something. Good job, baby, I love you.” Those words, those words, they healed my heart. I needed to know that I had someone that was proud of me, and he gave me that. It was an incredible feeling. I was grateful that my Dad was “out” (he had just been released) and could come to help and say goodbye before we moved across the country. The last time my father was incarcerated, he was arrested for driving on a suspended license, something he was arrested for several times. My father was in his mid-​50s and in terrible health at the time of his arrest. He had been going back and forth to doctors’ appointments (out of town) and was stopped and arrested. He had high blood pressure, a bad hip, diabetes, and doctors recommended he amputate his right leg below the knee. Weeks before, he had just been hospitalized for what I now think may have been COVID. He told me that when he asked for medical attention after being processed into the jail, they refused. At first, he was angry. “I should call a lawyer and sue them crackers. You know any lawyers?” I knew the question was rhetorical by the way he rolled into his next sentence. They ain’t allowed to do people like that. Pfff, I have so many stories. They supposed to get you a doctor if you need one, you know. They think

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they can just treat people any kind of way, but you know what …. I guess they can. He began to stare off into the distance. He looked so different. His 6′4″ frame appeared fragile. When I was a girl, my father was nearly 300 lb, but now he looked scrawny with sharp shoulders. His face sunken in. His brown skin with a red tint had a grey tone, and his red hair was speckled with grey. He placed his face into both of his large hands and began sobbing. His hands seem boney, and his fingernails needed to be cut. His shoulders began to tremble from the release of his emotions. “They were trying to kill me Nick, they didn’t care if I lived or died, and I thought I was going to die there.” I never knew how badly I needed to see this man cry. It felt so good to see him express emotions. I felt terrible about the situation he had been in and wondered about the “many stories” he had mentioned. I told him I was glad that he didn’t die that way. “Dad, you’re too old for this now, you can’t be going to jail anymore. You need to be focusing on your health.” I said. “Maybe you should come to DC with us and just stay with me. I can take you to your appointments, and you can just relax like old men should.” He died a few weeks later in a hospital all alone during the peak of COVID. I was his next of kin and had been communicating with doctors while he was in the ICU. I got to facetime him from an iPad while he lay motionless on a ventilator. He looked nothing like himself. He had become even more frail. I was flooded with emotions when my father passed. He was my last living parent. Regardless of the father he had been, he had been mine. He always told me that he loved me and was proud of me every time we spoke. He was a fantastic storyteller. He told stories from his childhood living in the Jim Crow South, and these stories, this history, made me proud to be a Black woman. These are the memories I hold on to. Current Day

As I began to appreciate my reflection on these distant memories, I was abruptly halted by the reality that they are not so distant. These memories are being replaced with contemporary versions of the same patterns. The day I thought I had completed writing this chapter, I received a phone call from my niece, who is 12. She told me that my sister, her mother, was in jail. My older sister (Larry-​Anne) is named after my father, Larry. She had relapsed and was drinking again. This time she was facing some serious charges, including grand theft auto. She had a troubled youth and has struggled with addiction into her adulthood. She had been on a good streak for a few months and had not been in legal trouble for nearly a decade. I rescued my sister from her addiction by moving her into my home and finding rehab for her on

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several occasions. She seemed to be balancing her life and her addiction. What happened? What can I do now? Despite being the youngest girl of my mother’s five children, my accomplishments have marked me as our family matriarch. When any tragedies happen in my family, I am the one they call. It often feels like the weight of our family traumas rests on my shoulders and in my hands. As I reflect on these memories, I am reminded that incarceration remains a prominent part of my lived reality and truth. Sis is “in.” Today I am an Assistant Professor of Sociology at Howard University, and I am finishing up my second year on the tenure track. Although I cannot share with them the exciting things happening in my life nor seek counsel for the challenges our family continues to experience, I know my parents are proud of me. I once felt there was no space for someone like me in the academy, but now I see value in the experiences I bring with me and am proud of my trajectory. I hope that other children of incarcerated parents and those generally experiencing incarceration of loved ones would share their truth and understand that their experiences hold power. While we may not be incarcerated, we inadvertently experience incarceration through the tethered bonds we share with family members who have lost their freedom. Be reminded to take good care of yourself and continue to shine.

7 CIERA’S NEW STORY Ciera Payton

Dear Reader, There is a major shift taking place in our evolution; a desire to shift our stories. We are shedding the old narratives and transforming them from stories of pain and suffering into new stories of triumph, joy, and celebration. As a people, we are eager to emerge into a new sense of being but that all comes from how you shed or recall your old self. Before writing this chapter, I’ve often contemplated the importance of letting go of my old identities and the retelling of my old stories. You see, our stories, our identities, and how we root and attach them to our deepest pain are often waved around like a proud flag displaying our plights as our virtue and resilience. But as I seek to emerge into my true authentic self, I see how hindering this stance is when you are stepping into a new you. For a long time, I held onto the identity and pain of being the child of an incarcerated parent. It enabled me to sit in shame, blame, guilt, and continuous victimhood. I used it as a survival mechanism to connect with others so that I may safely fit in and be approved by others. It was also my greatest excuse for validation whenever something went wrong in my life, “of course this happened, because of where and who I come from.” I have now come to accept that no statistic, no legislation, no metric, or measure can define who you truly are. You are in charge of using your energy to chart your life’s course. So, Dear Reader, I invite you to take this journey with me to see how I’ve come to this conclusion.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-9

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The Old Story

The story begins in the South. I split homes among Mississippi, Texas, and New Orleans. When I was about 7 or 8 years old, New Orleans became my permanent home, where I lived with my father. We lived in the third ward on Camp Street between Martin Luther King Blvd and Calliope. During the 1990s, many Black children living in certain neighborhoods were exposed to the debilitating effects of the crack cocaine era. I was one of them. My father worked many jobs; bus boy, line cook, mechanic, and carpenter, and when he needed to supplement funds, he sold drugs and often fell victim to them. However, my father is also one of the most loving people. He always made sure I was provided for. If we couldn’t afford groceries, he’d make sure to bring back food from the many restaurant jobs he worked. Or, he’d take extra hours to ensure that I had my school uniform and supplies. He always hugged and kissed me on the cheek and told me how much he loved me. He was also tough on me when I brought home a B-​on my report card, saying, “We only bring A’s into this house.” He was also open about his struggles with addiction. I remember attending the Narcotics Anonymous (NA) meetings he’d take me to, explaining that, “Daddy has to go to these to stay healthy.” So at 8 years old, I’d play with my Barbies in the corner and listen to everyone share their stories. It was a space full of pain and yet so much compassion. Afterward, the members would give me cookies and say, “Oh you’re Michael’s Daughter, you look just like him.” When I was 14 years old, my father was sentenced to 10 years in Orleans Parish Prison (OPP) for drug possession and the intent to sell. I went to live with my mother, Deborah, in New Orleans East. In contrast to my father, my mother is a classy, refined woman –​holding a computer engineering degree and, “smart as a whip,” as my grandmother would say. She lights up any room she steps into and has that electric presence mirroring any famous movie star. So it was only natural when we’d attend any of my high school functions, people would assume that I came from wealth and privilege. This inspired a barrage of rumors –​Ciera’s father is a doctor; she must be rich. So why is she at this public school? These “better than us” assumptions equaled, “not down,” “not cool,” and definitely not “accepted.” Which led to rejection and disapproval from my peers. This misperception seemingly gave some disillusioned idea that I was immune from trauma and pain. My quiet nature ensued because I feared the possible negative consequences of opening up; sharing my truth. I wanted to be “down” but the walls my peers and I created left this perpetual feeling of dissonance between perception and reality. Meaning, I didn’t fit everyone’s perceived narrative and never got the opportunity to be accepted because of this. So I retreated into a mental space

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of isolation, shame, confusion, and depression. It wasn’t until I was hired as a teaching assistant for a summer camp at the age of 16 that I found out that sharing my story could be the key to connecting with others. There, I helped teach teenage girls from local group homes and foster care the art of theater. One day, I overheard some of the girls talking about recently visiting their relatives in prison. The night before, I had just visited my father at OPP and was doing my best to emotionally keep it together by telling myself, “no one cares about your problems. Ciera, suck it up and show up for your summer job.” That’s how I would often tuck away and bottle my emotions, by putting them down before someone else could. But that day, something amazing happened, I noticed the girls were laughing and relating to each other about the ordeals of checking in for visitation. Without realizing it, I immediately joined the conversation, pointing out the one nice guard that always lets you slide if you had on sandals or want to bring a snack. The girls were surprised, and suddenly, a deep connection had formed. It felt soothing to share my challenges; it gave me a sense of validation whenever I felt like an outcast. This experience was transformative in another way –​I saw how theater and the arts not only changed my life, but how it inspired and uplifted those girls. So, throughout high school, I became very involved in the arts. I attended New Orleans Center for Creative Arts (NOCCA) in addition to my public high school. NOCCA was my extended family. The teachers knew of my challenges because it felt safe to share and they always offered an open door for us to seek. I remember once in class, I couldn’t hold back tears as Mrs. Shea, my voice teacher, encouraged me to channel my feelings into my art. Through this, a profound sense of liberation came about which led me to discover; the arts have the ability to become a safe space for transmuting emotions and dare I say, promote healing. All of which, I witnessed previously when teaching those young girls that summer. This discovery enabled me to go from being shy to taking initiative and openly sharing my thoughts, it was incredible. Eventually, I took the leap to pursue an acting career. I studied drama at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts and would go on to acquire roles in film and television. As I was graduating from college, my father was incarcerated again for similar charges. Louisiana has very strict drug laws for repeat offenders, and so my dad was once again looking at 7–​ 10 years in a state correctional facility. The news was so painful that I went into a state of noncommunication with him. Nevertheless, I continued on with my life by moving to New York. It was definitely challenging, getting my feet on the ground. I would often compare myself to my roommate, desiring her tight-​knit, close relationship with her parents. They were always there to help her, while I took on three jobs and was constantly hitting the pavement to audition for work. Things were seemingly handed to others, while I felt

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that life had handed me a bad hand. But nevertheless, I persisted, kept my faith in God, and would finally book my first off-​Broadway play portraying one of the first Black female NYPD Detectives. This garnered me my first New York Times review and led me to Los Angeles, where many casting directors and producers wanted to audition me for their shows. With so much hope and promise, I packed up and moved across the country to Los Angeles. My mom wired me some money to help me with a car and the rest I had to figure out. As much excitement followed, I didn’t know many people and felt extremely lost and lonely every night in my 400-​ square-​foot studio apartment. Laying on my makeshift mattress, I questioned God, if I had made the right decision. There was no booming voice with a direct answer. Just a shoe box filled with unopened prison letters from my father, which I finally decided to read. The letters were filled with words of encouragement, love, and my father’s life story. He shared how he was born during the early 1960s in rural Louisiana and was the by-​product of an interracial affair. He depicted the drug culture at the time and how his experience being the only bi-​racial boy in his neighborhood marked him as a bastard. He shared how when his Black father died, he wasn’t welcomed to sit on the family’s side during the funeral. And how he once witnessed his white stepfather hose down a burning cross in their yard, placed by the Ku Klux Klan (KKK), with the understanding that his very existence could cause so much dispute. Reading these stories gave me a sense of understanding and also a deep inspiration to tell his story. I would then spend months writing and crafting my one-​woman play Michael’s Daughter. Michael’s Daughter was invited to perform all over Los Angeles, in the United Solo Theater Festival in New York, and then eventually at the American Conservatory Theater (ACT). In the play, I depicted my father, mother, my father’s white sister Kathy, and the New Orleans Voodoo Priestess Marie Laveau who served as a spiritual entity that encouraged me to forgive, come home and visit my father. Under the direction of my friend, writer, and director Faythallegra Claude, I wrote and performed my show with flair, ease, and peppered in tons of comedy and heartfelt moments. ...what is important is how you live and what you do before you die. (Michael from Michael’s Daughter) When I performed at ACT in San Francisco, I also had to teach a monologue writing workshop to youth who were enrolled at a local continuation school. By this time, my father had been released early for good behavior and was granted permission to leave the state of Louisiana to watch the play. That night, one of the students approached my father and I after the show and shared how he had just gotten out of jail a few nights prior. He had been so

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angry at his dad for being locked up and that my story had inspired him to reach out and connect with him. That instance led me to take my work to the next level. I desired to create a program to work with youth in similar circumstances and give them the gift of storytelling. I acquired funding from the Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs and soon created, The Michael’s Daughter Project. I partnered with the community center Casa Esperanza in Los Angeles City Council District 6 and worked there every summer for 8 years. I provided an annual summer camp where youth could create plays, short films, and documentaries inspired by their life and community. During the pandemic, I wanted to transform the program into a 501 c3 non-​profit to provide more resources, such as financial literacy courses, emergency funds, and scholarships. In 2020, The Michael’s Daughter Foundation (MDF) was created. Seeing Past the Pain

Reflecting on my past, I see where holding on to that pain became a form of virtue for me. In the play, I highlighted my parents’ painful mistakes, bared my soul, and repatched it every night. Yes, there was healing taking place, and a lot of good came out of it but, if I would have let go of all that pain and held more compassion, I could have found a different way to share my story and find healing. Even now, people encourage me to translate the play into a television series or movie. My answer is always, “I would love to, but the story is different now, I’ve grown, and it’ll have to be told in a different way and a different perspective with love, peace, and compassion.” Because that’s where true healing is found. The past is the past, put it up on the shelf and save and read for another time. (Michael)

The New Story Emerges

As I continue to mature and grow as an artist along with building MDF, I am constantly seeking ways to shift how we tell our stories. For MDF, my wish is to create programs that will elevate the communities we serve without exacerbating pain from the past, and instead, look to design programs that celebrate the healing promise of the future. It’s a revolutionary challenge in itself, but I believe it can be done. With that perspective in mind, I have begun telling a new story for myself. A story about a woman who has overcome her history and who now dares to radiate joy and light every day. She is filled with so much compassion

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for herself and others. This new story of my beautiful and amazing life has challenged me to let go of any identities rooted in pain and suffering in order to step into my true self. It’s an ongoing practice that I haven’t mastered but aspire to. So, Dear Reader, I challenge you to seek your healing by releasing your pain and unleashing your light. By no means am I suggesting it’s easy to do. It’s a daily practice to gravitate toward your inner joy and light. The sooner you get in that space, the sooner the darkness of the past fades, giving you permission to tell your new story of your beautiful amazing life. What’s your chapter one? Standing here sending you so much love, compassion, and blessings while you dare to navigate this new journey. In solidarity, Ciera Payton

PART 2

Reclaiming Black Wellness Every Revolution Has to Begin Somewhere Sydni Myat Turner Over centuries, Blacks in America have continued to fight against the oppressive mindsets and beliefs engrained in social, economic, and political systems that have failed us for generations. Being stripped of our true language, history, and inheritance, historically self-​care has always been rooted in political and social justice for Blacks (Hobart & Kneese, 2020; hooks, 1993; Lorde, 1988; Nayak, 2020; Nicol & Yee, 2017;Sheehy & Nayak, 2020). Within Black liberation movements, radical self-​care is used as a resistance mechanism to regain control and power over their personal lives and community, while seeking to propel social justice efforts (Gatewood, 2020; Hersey, 2022; Lorde, 2017). Striving to reconnect with our roots, holistic health and wellness are the most essential components to the self-​ care journey. Due to the institutional racist and classist systems in American society, self-​ care for Black Americans has been deemed a luxury instead of a priority. When discussing and illustrating self-​care in research, it is deemed as performing individual activities to “treat” oneself (Kinser et al., 2016). Forced daily into survival mode, most Black Americans are overwhelmed and exhausted from handling life’s inevitable challenges. Medical conditions (i.e. high blood pressure, diabetes, and cardiovascular disease) disproportionately affect Blacks, even more so for Black children of incarcerated parents (hereinafter “BCOIP”) (Boch and Ford, 2021). Environmental racism is the focal point regarding wellness in research (Evans-​Hudnall et al., 2014; Ruggiero et al., 2014; Sisk et al., 2006; Warren-​Findlow & Seymour, 2011). Academia fails to explore the pathways Black and BCOIP have created to

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-10

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counter the existing narratives which assume they are incapable of properly caring for themselves. One day, I decided “I’m putting my healing first and before ANYTHING,” thus my healing journey began. (Charnal Chaney, “My Healing Journey”) For generations, we were taught the European standard of beauty and wellness and attempted to mimic it at any cost. Now wiser, reclaiming wellness and self-​care for Black women of incarcerated parents starts with self-​love. Searching for a voice, language, and healing, authors transition into self-​care beyond the surface as they are challenged to accept themselves and their difficult pasts. BCOIP wrote about the importance of journaling and how expressing inner feelings on paper increased self-​awareness. Writing, reading, and reflecting allowed them the opportunity to speak truth and become aware of their power and control. Practicing mindfulness and intentionally extending grace to themselves and others allowed the journey to be easier. The path of acceptance–​self-​acceptance–​zig zags, but each breath gives us the choice to remain on the path. Forgiveness was the breakthrough, the gateway to acceptance! (Alicia Jefferson, “A Journey through Abandonment and abuse to Acceptance”) Recognizing the lack of access to affordable healthcare services and the mistrust of white providers (Holden, Bradford, Hall, & Belton, 2013), for decades, the Black community has a mission to be represented in the field. With initiatives and resources, such as Bad Bitches Have Bad Days Too (2022), Therapy for Black Girls (2014), Therapy for Black Men (2022), and Free Black Therapy (2020), Blacks are afforded the luxury of having professionals who share their racial identity. Each author’s self-​care journey highlighted the importance of professional therapy served in their lives. In addition, authors heavily discuss how the creation of self-​care routines like breathwork, positive self-​talk, reading, learning, yoga, meditation, and God revealed their true purpose. As trauma-​informed Yoga Instructor, circle keeper, mental health counselor, and self-​published authors, the BCOIP discuss the pathways that led to their career choices. Destined for change through community engagement, BCOIP are equipped to speak truth to power by assisting others with finding healthy coping mechanisms and embracing their internal revolution. Throughout my journey of healing, I am finally at a place in my life where I feel free. I no longer feel the need to carry the burden of the decisions

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(and consequences) of others. I own my journey and have found a new purpose in life. (Faith Cole, “The Journey of a Butterfly”) The authors of this chapter explain the importance of holistic healing within the mind, body, and spirit. Their transformations show that their unfortunate circumstances endured did not happen “to” them but “for” them. They accept their assignment as a BCOIP realizing this title was created for a bigger purpose. Every revolution has to begin somewhere, and for BCOIP, it starts with reclaiming wellness. You must be well within yourself before being well within your community. The authors of this section, “Reclaiming Black Wellness: Every Revolution Has to Begin Somewhere,” believe this statement to be true. Audre Lorde once said, “caring for myself is not self-​indulgence, it is self-​preservation, and that is an act of political warfare” (Lorde, 1988). This beautifully composed chapter discusses the ways in which BCOIP use self-​care as a political social justice tool to start their internal revolution which transitions into their community. Readers will gain advice, tips, and tools on the different ways to start their own self-​care journey. Self-​care beyond the surface was the overall message highlighted, by breaking it down into the three stages: awareness, acceptance, and change. The five social and emotional learning competencies: self-​ awareness, self-​management, responsible decision-​making, social awareness, and relationship skills (CASEL, 2023) were apparent as the authors described their journeys of self-​care to transformation and empowerment. After reading this chapter and now knowing the importance of self-​expression, part three, “The Renaissance of Self-​Expression: Creativity, Innovation, and Culture,” will continue this journey of self-​awareness, as you read about the power of creativity to learn, heal, and evolve. References Bad Bitches Have Bad Days Too. (2022). www.badbi​tche​shav​ebad​days​too.com/​ Boch, S. J., & Ford, J. L. (2021). Protective factors to promote health and flourishing in black youth exposed to parental incarceration. Nursing Research, 70(5S Suppl 1), S63–​S72. doi: 10.1097/​NNR.0000000000000522. PMID: 34074962. Collaborative for Academic, Social, and Emotional Learning (CASEL). (2023). https://​casel.org/​funda​ment​als-​of-​sel/​what-​is-​the-​casel-​framew​ork/​ Evans-​Hudnall, G. L., Stanley, M. A., Clark, A. N., Bush, A. L., Resnicow, K., Liu, Y., Kass, J. S., & Sander, A. M. (2014). Improving secondary stroke self-​care among underserved ethnic minority individuals: A randomized clinical trial of a pilot intervention. Journal of Behavioral Medicine, 37(2), 196–​204. https://​doi. org/​10.1007/​s10​865-​012-​9469-​2 Free Black Therapy (2020). www.freeb​lack​ther​apy.org/​

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Gatewood, B. J. (2020). Opposition Behind Bars: Incarcerated Black Working-​Class Women and the Tradition of Resistance in the United States, 1970–​2011. Howard University. Hersey, T. (2022). Rest Is Resistance: A Manifesto. Little, Brown Spark. Hill Collins, P. (2000). Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment (2nd ed.). Routledge. https://​doi.org/​10.4324/​978020​ 3900​055 Hobart, H. I. J. K., & Kneese, T. (2020). Radical care survival strategies for uncertain times. Social Text, 38(1), 1–​16. https://​doi.org/​10.1215/​01642​472-​7971​067 Holden, K. B., Bradford, L. D., Hall, S. P., & Belton, A. S. (2013). Prevalence and correlates of depressive symptoms and resiliency among African American women in a community-​based primary health care center. Journal of Health Care for the Poor and Underserved, 24, 79–​93. hooks, bell (1993). Sisters of the Yam: Black Women and Self-​ Recovery. South End Press. Kinser, P. A., Robins, J. L. W., & Masho, S. W. (2016). Self-​administered mind-​body practices for reducing health disparities: An interprofessional opinion and call to action. Evidence-​Based Complementary and Alternative Medicine. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1155/​2016/​2156​969 Lorde, A. (1988). A Burst of Light and Other Essays. Firebrand Books. Lorde, A. (2017). Your Silence Will Not Protect You Essays. Silver Press. Nayak, S. (2020). For women of colour in social work: Black feminist self-​care practice based on Audre Lorde’s radical pioneering principles. Critical and Radical Social Work. https://​doi.org/​10.1332/​20498​6020​X159​4575​5847​234 Nicol, D. J., & Yee, J. A. (2017). “Reclaiming our time”: Women of color faculty and radical self-​care in the academy. Feminist Teacher, 27(2–​3), 133–​156. Ruggiero, L., Riley, B. B., Hernandez, R., Quinn, L. T., Gerber, B. S., Castillo, A., Day, J., Ingram, D., Wang, Y., & Butler, P. (2014). Medical assistant coaching to support diabetes self-​care among low-​income racial/​ethnic minority populations: Randomized controlled trial. Western Journal of Nursing Research, 36(9), 1052–​1073. Sheehy, C., & Nayak, S. (2020). Black feminist methods of activism are the tool for global social justice and peace. Critical Social Policy, 40(2), 234–​257. https://​doi. org/​10.1177/​02610​1831​9896​231 Sisk, J. E., Hebert, P. L., Horowitz, C. R., McLaughlin, M. A., Wang, J. J., & Chassin, M. R. (2006). Effects of nurse management on the quality of heart failure care in minority communities: A randomized trial. Annals of Internal Medicine, 145(4), 273–​283. Therapy for Black Girls. (2014). https://​thera​pyfo​rbla​ckgi​rls.com/​ Therapy for Black Men.(2022). https://​the​rapy​forb​lack​men.org/​ Turney, K. (2019). Understanding the needs of children with incarcerated parents. American Educator. https://​files.eric.ed.gov/​fullt​ext/​EJ1218​823.pdf Warren-​ Findlow, J., & Seymour, R. B. (2011). Prevalence rates of hypertension self-​care activities among African Americans. Journal of the National Medical Association, 103(6), 503–​512. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​S0027-​9684(15)30365-​5

8 LOCK AND KEY A Story about My Dad and Me Tru Moore

My dad went to prison when I was in the seventh grade. I remember waking up and rolling over to grab my iPod, and it wasn’t there. After searching my bed and around my bed, I asked my mom if she had it and she said yes and told me to go to my room. I felt this wave of anxiety come over me just from the look on her face. I instantly felt like something was wrong like someone died. But, no one died, my dad got arrested, and it was all over the news. She took my iPod because she didn’t want me to see it before she could break the news. I considered myself to be a strong person and I really didn’t get too emotional about things, but this thing was absolutely unbelievably hard to handle. I tried so hard to hold in my emotions that day at school, but all I wanted to do was cry. Over time, I just pushed my emotions down, and I wouldn’t really talk about him. I was embarrassed and hurt, and I didn’t want anything to do with him. When I got older, I wasn’t embarrassed about the situation, but there was so much drama and so much hurt on my dad’s side of the family. I would only let myself have a surface-​level conversation about him and the situation. I never really knew how much this situation took a toll on me until the opportunity to write this chapter. I spent years telling myself I was okay, telling everyone I was okay. I was being the strong sister and felt like I had to bring everyone together. I now realize I’m not okay. It makes me uncomfortable talking about it. My therapist helped me through the process of unpacking trauma and feelings I pushed away. I wrote questions for my dad and me to answer. Thinking I wouldn’t have a problem at all doing this; I was wrong, so wrong. The hard reality is, I pushed my emotions and issues so far down. Now my container is full, and it’s all overflowing; it’s so hard. Even though I’m still DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-11

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struggling, I want to share my experience, I want to share my story because it helps me heal. In this chapter, I want to introduce a conversation with my dad about when he went away. I came up with a few questions I asked my dad to answer. I will be answering the same questions, which will let us open up, share our perspectives, and encourage us to have a deeper conversation. What impact has dad being in jail had on me?

Dad: Incarceration has had some positive and some negative effects on my family. Some relationships have gotten stronger, while others have faded. All I can do is try and rebuild those relationships when I get out. Me: For me, there have been negative and positive impacts. Negatively it made me upset, sad, and depressed. I felt like through this time I experienced a lot of mood swings and embarrassment. I felt shut off almost, like present, but at the same time I wasn’t. But it also had a positive impact because it made me look at family a lot more. I feel like my older sister Aubrae and I grew closer over the years. Yes, we have different perspectives about the situation and different relationships, but I feel like in some way it pulled us closer. What do you notice?

Dad: The way I perceive myself as a father is twofold. I feel a tremendous amount of guilt for not being there physically. The only thing I can do from here is call and tell them I’m still here for them. Prison has given me a lot of time to correct some flaws in my character. I am more reliable, a better teacher, and listener. Me: It makes me uncomfortable, it’s hard to talk about. I am typically open and can talk about a lot of things. It’s difficult and weird to talk about because I don’t talk about it. I throw it to the back. I touch the surface, but I don’t dig. I feel upset, nervous, sad, confused, weird, uncomfortable, disappointed, awkward, stressed, and lost. I feel lied to. I feel played. I’m trying to be understanding. I didn’t know what he was doing for a long time. When I found out, I didn’t feel like I really knew him. I thought he was a normal dad, with a normal job, who was hard-​working I am not saying that he’s a bad person, but I just feel like what he did was selfish and wrong. I get it he was trying to provide for his family, but he missed out on a lot of important things in my life because of how he was trying to provide. When I discovered what he went to jail for, I thought he was a bad person. I felt like he was selfish. He kept saying he was doing everything for his kids. I felt like he was trying to make us the excuse and not his actions. It wasn’t for your kids. He did support us but no one said, “you had to do that.” My dad is very smart, I think he could have moved away. I felt like for a long

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time he blamed us. I was upset, but I don’t think that anymore. I think he takes responsibility for his actions. As a result, I got close to my sisters; it has driven me to be in their lives more. My sister Aubrae and I got super close. I feel like it had more of a negative impact than a positive one because Aubrae and dad fight all of the time. My dad was the center of his family. My dad always tried to keep the peace. If he wasn’t in prison, it would be different. What would you tell your younger self from seven years ago? Me: I would tell myself to be more open about it so that it would be easier to talk about now. I know you want the rest of the answer to this question, but this is something I never expected to happen to me. I could not continue to ask and answer these questions. To tell you the truth, I probably wouldn’t have taken this authorship opportunity if I knew what was in store and how challenging it would be. I looked at my laptop for weeks, and I couldn’t write a damn thing because I didn’t know what to say, or where to start. I feel blessed to have this opportunity because it brought up things I shoved down into my container, a long time ago. And it just so happened that my container started to overflow when this opportunity came up, and I didn’t realize it until it smacked me in my face. I’m 20 years old and I’ve spent a lot of years pushing feelings about my dad into a closet until it went away. Until I forgot about the problem and was able to smile and be okay. And in that process, it’s like I forgot I’m not okay and I’m extremely uncomfortable. I’m hurt, I’m mad, I’m so mad that he had to miss so much like my first heartbreak, my first homecoming dance, starting high school, graduating, and getting awards. Don’t get me wrong, my dad kept up with me, even when I didn’t keep in contact with him. But a phone call isn’t the same as sitting on the couch next to him. I honestly can’t remember anything between the day I found out he went in and maybe a year ago. The things I can remember are out of order or foggy. It’s a weird feeling l because I have a pretty good memory. I’m trying to use this opportunity to tell my story as a way to have a conversation with my dad. Life update: I am in shambles right now. It’s been about two or three months since I worked on this story. I started a new job. I’m now a flight attendant. I literally have not been to therapy in months. I barely talk to my dad as much as I used to and truthfully, I just feel distant from him right now. I feel like my whole paper doesn’t even reflect me anymore which I hate to say, but that is just the truth. I just don’t resonate with what I wrote anymore. We were just hitting the surface, and I was just getting to the point of talking to my dad about everything and unpacking things with my therapist. I have not been to therapy in a long time, and I just wanted to be very upfront and honest with you about that. Don’t get me wrong I’m not on any bad terms with my dad I just haven’t had time to talk to him. I feel so bad about it too, and I just feel distant not just from him but from everyone.

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I know he is proud of me because he tells me when we do talk. He tells me that he tells everyone that his daughter is a flight attendant and that feels my heart with so much joy. And when he told me that he watched me walk across the stage to get my wings, it brought tears to my eyes because I could hear how proud he was. I still plan on having an in-​depth conversation with him about everything that happened when he went away. To be totally transparent, I’m not in the right mental space to have that conversation. I’m drained, and I have to focus my energy on me, so that when the time comes I’ll be ready. He comes home in 2024, and it’s honestly bittersweet because I miss him. I’m excited to go places and do things with him to build a better relationship. But it’s almost like meeting a stranger because we’ve changed so much over the years. I’m no longer that little girl, I’m an adult I’m 21 now, and when he comes home, I’ll be 22 turning 23. Things are very different now. So yes I’m very nervous about seeing him. This process has been unexpected, and it’s allowed me to see the highs and lows of my mental health journey. It also allowed me to open up about how I feel and to let myself process my feelings. My mental health journey isn’t going to be perfect, and this process of trying to have this conversation with my dad shows it. It’s going to have highs and lows, twists and turns. I will have the conversation with him, but it’s just further down my path, and that’s okay. It’s okay if your journey isn’t perfect life happens but always allow yourself to process how you feel. If you realize that you’re not okay, know that’s okay, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You should be proud that you recognized that and let yourself process so you can continue your journey.

9 A JOURNEY THROUGH ABANDONMENT AND ABUSE TO ACCEPTANCE Alicia Jefferson

When my mother escaped from Massachusetts’ Framingham Women’s Prison, I didn’t see her for two months. My grandmother’s whispers told me she escaped to New York instead of coming home to Boston; she’d left me again. Her escape earned her six months more on her original three-​year sentence. I didn’t know what it meant to be abandoned, but I knew what it felt like to be left hanging. The first time she left me, I was 9 years old. I sat in a courtroom listening to the judge say a bunch of stuff I didn’t understand, but when I left the courthouse with my brother and grandmother, I knew my mother was not coming back home. My brother and I were separated and from then on, we were going to live with our maternal grandparents. He went to our great-​grandmother, and I went to our grandmother. It would be nearly four years before being reunited with my mother. I knew the feeling of facing the neighborhood bully alone on the playground after my so-​called friends ran off. Once my mother started serving her sentence, life felt like a bully, I was facing alone because she ran off. The various experiences I went through and had to face due to my mother’s incarceration brought about the fear, anxiety, worry, and sense of aloneness that I felt during my encounters with the bully on the playground. Life showed up as me being the only kid left at my grandmother’s when all my cousins went home with their mothers. Life showed up as my friends’ mothers calling them in from play, but my grandmother calling me. It showed up at school conferences and uncomfortable silence during family gatherings. Life showed up as me doing my best to hold it all in. I had jokes to share, fear to express, anger to let out, and sadness to be comforted, but there was no one to run to. In my immature mind, I may have romanticized how present DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-12

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and available my mother was before her incarceration. Although she was an active heroin user at the time of her sentencing, we were together almost every day and nearly all day. And then, one day, we were not. I felt as though all that showed up, I had to face alone. I started having recurring dreams in which my grandmother would go into places and never return. My abandonment didn’t begin with my mother’s incarceration. My dad was serving a 15-​year sentence by the time of my birth. My earliest memories of him center around a couple of prison pictures and a few wooden items he’d built in the prison shop. In the beginning, there was no attachment to miss or mourn. With time, the weight of my father’s absence grew heavier. A couple of my cousins had both parents in the home. Those who lived with their mom got to spend time with their dads. I had neither. I was left to wonder why and I felt alienated. I consoled myself with my imagination and books. One book in particular, I read repeatedly. It was about four children who were suddenly orphaned. They’d found a wardrobe in their uncle’s home through which they’d enter into a land full of adventure. I’d imagine stepping into one of my grandmother’s closets and finding myself home with my mother, father, and brother. But life did not show up as it had in my daydreams, and conversations about my feelings were nonexistent. The silence was like the bully’s sidekick or weapon. I recall a school-​yard bully detaining me one day and pouring rocks down my tights. I walked home as the stones descended down my leg. They got heavier with each block I passed. Silence added to the weight of being left hanging to face life. I couldn’t bear it. One day a joint of marijuana was being passed around the room and my turn came, I took it. “Nothing’s going to happen, you’re just going to laugh,” that’s what my cousin told me. She was mostly right. I laughed and laughed! But something did happen. The weight of thousands of stones seemed to fall from my shoulders. I don’t know if I ever experienced such relaxation, maybe while reading about that magical wardrobe, but those days had passed. In that room, inhaling that smoke, I became weightless. I was 11. Now, during the week, I did my best to hold the weight. Knees buckling before life. Angry outbursts in school. Fussing, cussing, and fighting in the neighborhood and silence in the house. But on the weekend, weightlessness. Eventually, a folded dollar bill loaded with cocaine was passed around that room. It was Easter Sunday. I was one month shy of my 13th birthday. My sense of abandonment, alienation, and tension was the gateway to my abuse and self-​destructive behaviors. The marijuana, cigarettes, and cocaine I abused/​used were the gateway to my sense of belonging. In those back rooms and stairwells, I wasn’t the kid whose parents were in prison, I was just another kid hanging out and getting high. We were all on the playground facing life, or so it seemed. Abuse is sometimes insidious. It showed up as my grandmother’s grimace telling me I didn’t measure up again. It showed up as my cousin’s constant

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put-​downs reminding me that I was different. Disapproval, ridicule, and rejection can tear through an adolescent with the force of any fist, switch, or knuckles to the head, all of which I also knew. It was as though ole’ life had summoned silence and my need for acceptance to its side. Gradually, the marijuana and the bills lined with cocaine stopped dissolving the weight. They were just something to do while hanging out. It was what people like me did. Abuse is sometimes insidious and internalized. Although I no longer lived with my grandmother, I carried the disapproval with me. And even though my cousin and I were no longer hanging buddies, the ridicule and rejection resounded within. My parents were now both out of prison. By the age of 13, I was back at home with my mother and brother. By the age of 15, I was seeing my dad, sporadically. But we could not turn back time, and I couldn’t ask for or be given what I’d missed. My dad spent the rest of his life trying to recover from all those years of incarceration. My mom spent the rest of her life on and off heroin and living with AIDS. By the time I was 20 years old, they’d both passed away. Letting go of the sense of abandonment, no longer allowing abuse, or engaging in self-​harm would have to be an inside job. My path to self-​acceptance zigzagged. It was a slow, winding road on which I took one step forward, and two steps backward. Got off, found my way back, and continued zigzagging. I first begin treading the path by looking at my life, myself, and my family through poetry. I let my story come forth in increments. Behind lines of poems, I allowed myself to be vulnerable and share my feelings of sadness, alienation, and abandonment. I was moving along the path, or so I thought. Because I could tell an audience that I grew up as a child of incarcerated parents, saw my mother get arrested, and met my father for the first time while he was on a furlough, I thought I’d accepted who my parents were and weren’t. Now, with marijuana, drugs, and alcohol years behind me, I thought I’d accepted what I’d gone through. By now, nearly 30 years old, I thought I’d accepted myself. I was having recurring dreams in which I never made it home to my sick mother. I’d wake up overwhelmed with feelings of guilt and shame. One day, I was re-​introduced to a form of self-​reflective writing that enabled me to look at my experiences more comprehensively than I had with my poetry. When I wrote about various experiences I had with my mother, tears I’d never cried ran down my face uncontrollably. I cried for the little girl who’d gone through it. I cried for what my mother and I missed. I cried for the little neglected girl my mother had been. And, alas, I cried tears of forgiveness. Forgiveness was the breakthrough, the gateway to acceptance! During those writing sessions, I gave up the anger, the shame, and the guilt. Immediately there were changes in my dreams. I’d make it home and my mother was neither bedridden nor waiting for me. I’d wake up feeling light.

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Self-​acceptance was in reach, but I had more to learn, more letting go to do. Reflective writing helped, and forgiving became a practice. I realized that some relationships that I maintained and clung to were out of my need to be accepted. Some individuals that I had platonic and romantic relationships with represented those that had abandoned, disapproved of, and rejected me. I forgave myself and worked through the process of letting go. The experiences I’d gone through shaped me. But as I moved along on my journey toward self-​acceptance, how I began to view myself in those experiences reshaped me. I was not doomed to intergenerational incarceration or lifelong drug use. I was not destined to stand on a street corner or be involved with crime. “Badness” was not in my blood, and I didn’t have to be hopeless. Yes, how I now viewed myself reshaped me. I saw that I was worthy of love. I deserved kindness. I could be happy and my life could be meaningful. Our lives could be meaningful. We are or have been children of incarcerated parents and we could live lives of meaning. I wanted children like me, and families like mine to know this. To know that we come through! So, I stepped into the field of behavioral health. After returning to school and completing my undergraduate degree, I began mentoring. After more schooling, I completed a graduate degree. Now, as a mental health counselor, I am helping young people and families impacted by incarceration process emotions I once held in. I’m helping them find healthy coping methods and ways to face life. Life is not a bully and I no longer see silence as a weapon set against me. But rather, life is a gift I hopefully embrace. Silence is now a friend I gratefully embrace to get away from the noisy world sometimes and center myself. We survive, we come through and we thrive! Yes, abandonment is real and abuse does happen, and yet we can emerge, embrace a purpose, and contribute something beautiful! The path of acceptance –​self-​acceptance –​zigzags, but each breath gives us the choice to remain on the path.

10 MY HEALING JOURNEY Charnal Chaney

December 2012, I was home sitting on my couch, it was a green couch to be exact. My phone rang and it was my mom calling to let me know she was granted parole. Man, that was the happiest day of my life because she was gone for 18 years. It was truly a blessing she was granted parole on her first try because most people would get an extra hit for two or more years to stay in. When she was released, feelings of excitement, fear, disbelief, and joy filled my body!! It was one of the best days of my life and the beginning of a new life. Little did we know we were in for a rude awakening. The reentry process was not what we expected. We thought everything would be great because our family was reunited, but we weren’t aware of trauma, triggers, or healing. Shortly after her return to society, things started to take a turn. I quickly realized things were not what I thought they were going to be like. I would get triggered when she wouldn’t answer the phone or even call me back. I thought she was being a “bad mom,” when in reality it was the feeling of abandonment that was triggered. In those moments, I was a 3-​ year-​old child who could not get a hold of my mother because she had been ripped away from me, all over again. On the other hand, she was playing catch up! The trauma of losing my mom to the prison system on top of other things that happened, such as physical and mental abuse and an unstable environment, was affecting every area of my life. Only to discover it was all repressed trauma. One day, I decided “I’m putting my healing first and before ANYTHING,” thus my healing journey began. In the summer of 2019, I got my yoga certification and that’s where I learned about trauma, childhood adverse challenges, and triggers. I was staying with my mom while getting my yoga certification, and it was 12 hours a day, for 18 days straight. It was a trauma informed certification DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-13

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with a social emotional learning component. One day after a long extensive day, I got to her house and she wasn’t there. I went into a whole episode and I started crying when feelings of resentment came back up, I was mad. I thought, “how could she not be here when she knew I was coming.” After taking in long deep breaths to center myself along with self-​talk such as, “Charnal, be grateful you have a place to stay, she will be back eventually.” I started to calm down and I was able to shift the energy in that moment. When she got there, I was good like nothing had ever happened. On her end, she sent a text letting me know she was running late, but I never received it because my phone was dead. The next day I went into class and we learned about triggers. I learned that at that moment I had flashbacked to being a 3-​year-​old little girl again who was hurt and thought her mom was never coming back. I was introduced to meditation after having really bad panic attacks while going through my divorce. My children’s father had taken my twins and moved all the way to Florida while going through a divorce. I am a mom of five beautiful children and that was the first time I was ever away from them that long. The day I found out I was triggered again, but this time it had gotten worse. I started to feel sick, hyperventilate and became dizzy. I then found out, I was experiencing panic attacks and was also diagnosed with PTSD. I just remember constantly praying for peace and it was dropping in my spirit for me to meditate. But I’m from Southeast D.C.! I’ve never seen someone actually meditate. After researching, I found this lady who lived about an hour away who taught meditation. I remember the first time I sat down to meditate, at my mom’s house sitting on her black couch. She taught me and my mom how to meditate at the same time. After I finished, I remember thinking, “wow, so this is what peace feels like, I’ve been living in inner turmoil for so long I didn’t realize it.” It was the norm for me. No wonder I have been so angry, bitter, and full of resentment. Those were emotions I conjured up as a child, holding onto them and carrying them with me through life. I was literally living in misery. From there, my mom introduced me to the book The Secret. I must have been talking so negatively one day and she asked me if I read it. I went to read and it really shifted my perspective on the way I was thinking and looking at life. I learned about the power of my thoughts, especially the negative ones. In fact, I hardly had any positive thoughts. As a result, I was attracting so many negative experiences in my life as well. It took me years to unlearn the negative thinking patterns. You have to just put in the inner work and allow the rest to unfold. I realized what happened to me in my life may not have been my fault, but healing and gaining a new perspective on life was my responsibility. If I wanted a successful relationship with anyone, especially my mom, then I would need to take responsibility for the energy I bring into situations and how I show up.

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I started getting into any healing space I could find. I would visit the Art of Living Uptown D.C. to meditate and learn more. I also attended Transcendental Meditation at the Arc. I found the book You Can Heal Your Life by Louis Hay along with following Wayne Dyer’s teachings. My mom introduced me to healing circles, where I met Ivy Hilton, who also taught us how to be circle keepers. My mom and I still had so much work to do on our relationship as well. She was so wrapped in rebuilding her own life, and rightfully so, that we neglected our relationship. When she would prioritize work over special days, miss the kids’ birthdays, or not show up for me as a mom, I noticed it would create a disconnect within me and my children. Feelings of not wanting to show up for my kids started to creep in and I wasn’t being the best mom I was capable of being. When the kids were with their dad, I would be so emotionally unavailable, just wallowing in my shit. I wouldn’t call for weeks or even feel as if I wanted them to come back. I wasn’t feeling worthy enough of being a good mom because I was perceiving my mom wasn’t, and I am just like my mom, right? All of the accepting, positive self-​talk and affirmations (Louis Haye), learning, reading, therapy, and God were really helping me transform into the person I was always meant to be. The trauma was affecting every area of my life. I realized I needed to take my healing journey more seriously. I created a self-​care routine so I could get into a good and safe space to allow myself the space to heal. I would go to the gym and work out for at least 30 minutes, just enough to keep my blood flowing with movement. Next was the park to do yoga, meditate, journal, and sit in nature. I started seeing a reiki therapist biweekly and I said affirmations every morning in the mirror. I changed my inner self-​talk by journaling about all the negative things that were said to me in my childhood such as, “you ain’t shit, or you going to end up just like your mother.” That was people’s favorite and I grew up believing that. I picked up a lot of negative thoughts and feelings about myself along my journey. I had to get to the core of what was hurting me and causing so much pain in others. Hurt people, hurt people but healed people also heal. I spent time with spirit and got to know the spirit that lives in all of us. I found my purpose for why I’m here, which is helping my people heal and liberating ourselves by raising our consciousness. I was also featured in a documentary called “Oh, Mother of Mine” by Anna Rawls. We showed the world what mass incarceration has done to families and what happens to the mother-​daughter relationship when it’s interrupted by incarceration. I spoke my truth and there was so much freedom in having the space to do so. There’s also so much healing in telling your story, it seemed like my spiritual growth catapulted once we were done filming. While you’re healing, you can use your story to create change. My perspective, my feelings, and my healing are all valid.

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Currently, I run and operate my own yoga business called Bold Yoga, which promotes healing throughout the Black community, specifically for children. As a trauma-​informed yoga instructor and circle keeper, I create safe spaces for children all over D.C. to do yoga, meditate, and talk about the different trauma we experience in our city or home, so we can heal. I had people like Maurice with Serve Your City and my mom with her organization, The W.I.R.E. (Women Involved in Reentry Efforts), support me through building my foundation, and it has been very successful. I am currently working with government agencies, such as the ONSE office and the Office of Gun Violence and Prevention, to help create more spaces for our children to heal. Organizations all over D.C. which provide programming, staff members, and hosting self-​care Sundays at Anacostia Park. When I first started introducing yoga and meditation to our community, people laughed and turned their noses up, because it wasn’t a community norm where I’m from. That was three years ago. Everyone wasn’t quite fond of the idea of yoga and meditation but we have spread the word about healing and its benefits so people finally see the value. Why is it valuable? First, because they see someone who comes from where they come from doing it and it works! Second, because we all want internal peace. We are shifting the values in our culture! I figure, if we could teach children, especially Black children, how to heal as children, they can grow into healthy adults. They will live Happy, Whole, Healthy, Free, and Abundant lives. “Black Joy” is the Goal!

11 THE JOURNEY OF A BUTTERFLY Faith Cole

Caterpillar, do you know how special you are? Do you know why your journey took you this far? All the twists and the turns, the grief and pain Had you thinking you needed to hide in shame! Caterpillar, did you think you could ever fly? That your majestic wings would paint the sky? What you thought you could hide in that lonely cocoon Watch it change the world as you embrace your truth! (Faith Cole)

The journey of a butterfly has always intrigued me. How it starts as something completely different. Something so ordinary that nobody ever really pays attention to. That’s how much of my childhood began. Most people viewed me as a quiet and introverted child who rarely spoke. Everyone always complimented me for how well-​behaved I was. From the outside looking in, you would never know the battles I faced while living with my mother. She was an addict and no stranger to incarceration. For as long as I can remember, my mother was the life of any party. From cookouts, house parties, holiday gatherings, and any function in between. You could count on my mother to show up and have a great time. While many of these memories are ones we can smile back on, there were times when her substance abuse contributed to poor decisions that ultimately put my safety at risk. These instances eventually led to my mother losing custody of my sisters and me. Going to live with my grandmother at the tender age of 3 was the biggest blessing, yet eventually the most painful reality. I was different. Growing up and seeing my friends with their parents often left me DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-14

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feeling empty. “Where’s your mom? How come you live with your grandma?” I remember my mom trying to support me by showing up to talent shows and bringing snacks to my sports games. Sadly, these happy times never lasted. She’d eventually go missing or neglect a commitment, leaving me feeling the need to cover for her. As my mother continued her battle with addiction, I found myself with more stability and security at my grandmother’s home. While this was a haven for me, I couldn’t help but feel ashamed. Why does my mom leave for days at a time? Where is she going? Why can’t I go with her? Doesn’t she love me enough to stay home? At some point, the days became weeks, and the collect calls began. I could see the pain on my grandmother’s face as she fought to protect me from the reality of our situation. As I began navigating life as a pre-​teen, my mother eventually found herself in the fight of her own life. A domestic violence incident led to the death of a man, and a charge of voluntary manslaughter for my mother. Visits to the county jail (and eventually a state prison) marked the start of my “cocoon” phase. I found myself isolated in my feelings and unable to share my reality with most of my friends at school. I walked the halls in fear that someone might find out my dark truth. To prove that I was worthy of having a “normal” life, I focused on my studies. Extracurricular activities became my method of escape. I joined clubs and organizations. The higher I climbed academically, the further into my cocoon I found myself climbing emotionally. I was living a double life. As the child of an incarcerated parent, by having to stay with relatives, and watching them attempt to show up, and be strong for me, I often saw myself as a burden to others. A lot of times the support was focused on my basic needs: food, shelter, clothing, etc. While these things were an integral part of my daily living, I believe my mental and emotional health suffered due to my mother’s incarceration. While my family was very religious and spent much of those difficult moments in prayer, I don’t recall anyone ever asking me if I was okay. As adults, we are so quick to label children as “resilient,” but we miss the obvious signs of isolation and trauma responses. During my senior year of high school, my mother was released from prison. Determined to prove herself, she dove head first into making up for lost time and picking up where things left off. This was a turbulent time for me, as I was becoming an adult and only beginning to navigate a new relationship with my mother outside of addiction and prison walls. My emotional cocoon lasted throughout high school. However, I continued to excel and graduated with honors and received several awards and scholarships. While many assumed I was at the top of my game, the pressure I felt to prove my worth became unbearable. I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression during my sophomore year of college. It was finally time for me to face the music and peel back the layers of protection I had built around

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me. With therapy, prayer, and the support of those closest to me, I was finally able to acknowledge the pain that I felt inside. By learning about trauma and how it can affect you mentally and physically, I identified habits and behaviors that contributed to my anxiety and depression. Once identified, I was able to release the guilt and shame that I had been carrying for decades. My accomplishments and accolades were nice, but my worth was no longer tied to them. I finally understood that I am beautiful, loved, and whole just the way that I am! One of the biggest eye-​openers I learned from therapy was that I was not alone. So many people have been through similar situations with incarcerated family members. This was a relief and a shock. Over the next few years, as I worked to restore trust and build a relationship with my mother, I began to understand that her journey began far earlier than the substance abuse I witnessed as a child. An undiagnosed mental illness, lack of resources, and childhood trauma were all factors that contributed to the path that my mother took. The rehabilitation of my mother in prison was aided by her support system and the advocates who helped to guide her. My mother was able to emerge from her own bondage as a beautiful butterfly. Seeing my mother’s journey inspired me to be an even better woman myself. I took pride in being the daughter of a fighter. As I began my professional career, I was determined to show the world that despite what I had gone through, I was a fighter too! A model employee, I was quickly promoted and began leading teams and traveling across states to train and implement new processes. I even found the courage to start my own business. Any time I face adversity, I remember how far I’ve come and keep fighting. As a mother, a wife, and a Black woman, I now see the world differently than I would have imagined. My mother going back to her abuser (who had threatened the lives of her children if she left him), fighting to get out when the situation became deadly, and taking a plea bargain to allow her time to get clean and be there for her children were sacrifices she made for us. I now understand the sacrifices much more as I look into the eyes of my own daughter. As I watched my mother become an advocate for victims of domestic violence, I developed compassion and understanding for people whose lives take unexpected turns. There is such a stigma around incarceration. I believe many people neglect to acknowledge the underlying issues that contribute to a broken judicial system. Throughout my journey of healing, I am finally at a place in my life where I feel free. I no longer feel the need to carry the burden of the decisions (and consequences) of others. I own my journey and have found a new purpose in life. I now understand that while everyone’s path is different, we all go through situations in our lives. The beauty in this life is that we get the chance to determine whether we allow those circumstances to define us, or whether we will emerge as the beautiful butterflies we were called to be. I am finally free.

12 LOVING ME, UNAPOLOGETICALLY Quaniece Raquelle Jones

I grew up in a town called Windsor, Connecticut. Windsor is a suburb located right outside the inner city of Hartford, the state’s capital. Many Brown and Black families relocated to Windsor when finally given the opportunity to leave Hartford. Growing up, having my father in prison, or on his way to prison, was never abnormal for me. From what I can remember my father had been in and out of prison my entire life. I didn’t begin to feel “different” about having a father in prison until I started elementary school. My mother never hid my father’s incarceration from me. I knew exactly where my dad was and why he could not physically be there for me. When I began school, other children would ask me, “Where is your father?” I would respond truthfully. I honestly didn’t realize that I would be judged and shamed for something I had no control over. As a kid, I didn’t know that prison was a place for “bad guys” until I was taught that. Even when my daddy was in jail, I still loved him. As far as I knew, my daddy wasn’t a “bad guy.” He had never intentionally hurt anyone. He was simply a Black man trying to provide for his family with little to no resources. Regardless of this, to my friends and their parents, I became known as the little girl whose daddy was in prison. My mother gave birth to me at the age of 17 during the peak of the crack epidemic. Like many young adults growing up during that time, my mother and father both had a relationship with drugs, but each had a different perspective. My father was involved with drugs illegally, and because my mother had access to those drugs, she became addicted. Both of my parents were affected by the community in which they lived. Eventually, my father went to prison, and my mother got clean. As a young child, I have always been very in tune with my surroundings. I knew as a kid that my life would DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-15

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be very different with my father no longer in the picture. My mother went into survival mode. It was imperative for her to gain resources and security to provide for herself and her child. On her mission to provide, things beyond her control began to happen. While my mom was on her mission to build a stable life for us, I experienced something horrible that honestly still pains me until this day. At the age of 5, I experienced sexual abuse by my older cousin while visiting my great-​ grandmother’s house. The sexual abuse happened on different occasions, and after the second time, I knew I had to tell someone. I told my mom. As a kid, I knew that what was happening was wrong. At that time, children weren’t being educated about their bodies and sexual abuse. Sexual abuse especially in Black families wasn’t being talked about. I still knew that my 5-​year-​old body was being violated. I thank God my mother believed me when I told her what happened to me. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done, and how I viewed life would never be the same. By the time I reached high school, I began to rebel. I was carrying shame and anger about being molested, my father’s incarceration, and my mother’s overprotectiveness. I was angry with my life and robbed of my innocence before I even had a chance. I acted out. I still felt lost, like that little 5-​ year-​old girl with no control. I began to search for those missing pieces in different people, places, and things that weren’t good for me. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t fit into any particular social group. I didn’t know how to feel comfortable making new friends. I pretty much stayed to myself. I felt like every time a person looked at me, they could see my abuse. I felt dirty, I felt low, and I carried myself as such. I would befriend anyone who reached out to me first or seemed genuinely nice to me. My confidence was so low that when it came to sports and extracurricular activities, I wasn’t involved in any. Instead, I told myself I didn’t have time to socialize with immature high school kids. The truth was that I just wanted to fit in. I didn’t have the courage to allow my light to shine. I felt like there was no light in me. While I was in high school, my mother was in college and would often work extremely long hours on the weekends. She didn’t have the time or ability to nurture me and tend to the emotional pain that I was experiencing. I didn’t know how to explain that I was hurting. The little girl inside me just wanted someone to love and accept me. My fear of rejection and abandonment made me develop a loner attitude. I pushed those away so if they disappointed me it wouldn’t hurt so badly. Even though it still did. Eventually, I had grown so used to being hurt and disappointed I convinced myself to stop caring about relationships and having real friends. As soon as I graduated high school, I chose to attend college out of state. I wanted to experience the freedom and acceptance that I was craving. To finally get away and start over. I decided to apply to Norfolk State University for nursing. I was accepted. I didn’t realize that even though I was in a

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completely new place, I would still be carrying the same baggage with me. I didn’t stay out of state very long. I was having a hard time making friends, and my roommate was filthy. I hated being in my room which led me to seek a different comfort zone even though I didn’t want to. After returning from out-​of-​state for college, I entered into my first adult relationship. I fell in love with a very good friend of mine. They ended up breaking my heart into pieces. The relationship was toxic, emotionally manipulative, and physically abusive. I still continued to stay even though I knew I was being treated poorly. My self-​worth and self-​esteem were so low. I began to believe all of the negative things he used to say to me. Until one day I didn’t. After I got my heart broken by the one person who I trusted, I was completely devastated. If someone who I had been friends with and knew everything that I had been through could still hurt me and cause me pain, how could I trust anyone else in the world? If I couldn’t depend on my mother or father to be there for me, who could I depend on? I felt alone. I felt as if I was the only one in the world fighting those demons in my head. They were constantly telling me that I had no worth. That I deserved what I was going through. My heart being broken saved my life. That pain that was so unbearable that I thought would never end was replaced with peace, grace, and unconditional love. I was no stranger to God and what the power of the Holy Spirit can do when invited into any situation. I was saved around the age of 7, and I owe that to my Auntie Dellar, may her soul rest in peace. Growing up I would often stay at my Auntie Dellar’s house on the weekends. Everyone knew it was an expectation to attend church on Sundays when staying the weekends at aunties. I didn’t know those weekends at aunties were creating the foundation for the most important relationship that I have, with God. If I have learned anything on my journey to healing, it would be that I am loved by God. That is my truth. Before discovering God’s love, I was broken and lost. I saw myself through the eyes of what I experienced and not out of the eyes of God, my creator. The one who created me in his image. The one who loves me despite any and everything that I have been through. God’s love saved and healed me. I now know who I belong to. I know that there was a plan for my life. Long before my daddy went to jail. Long before I was sexually abused. In fact, that was all a part of God’s plan. I am still loved and accepted. I am still worthy. It was my choice to accept that love or continue to suffer and be defeated. I chose God’s love, and I allowed that love to fill any and every empty space inside of me. The empty spaces that I knew of and the ones that I didn’t know of. My desire was just to be whole. The more I began to accept God’s love in my life the more I began to love and accept myself. I began to change. Things in my life began to shift. Little by little God continued to love on me

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and remind me daily of that love. God sent people into my life to love and accept me and affirm what he said about me. I know now that “I am fearfully and wonderfully made” (King James Bible, 1769/​2017, Psalm 139:14). Today, my past no longer defines me. I am a successful Black woman with a fiancée who unconditionally loves me and our three beautiful children. My family is what I am most proud of. I did not experience growing up with two parents or having my father in my household. I didn’t have examples of healthy relationships and self-​love. I’m very grateful that I can pour into my babies and share with them all of the wisdom that I have learned on my journey. My children will not have to go into the world looking for acceptance and validation because I will be here to fill them with it. In addition to being surrounded by love and acceptance, I have been blessed in many other areas. I am a college graduate and professional nurse. My focus is on mental health and substance abuse. I worked as a corrections nurse for three years. Through this experience, I learned that many incarcerated individuals had underlying trauma and mental health illnesses. I am also a self-​published author of my memoir, Self Love: A Silent Revolution (Raquelle, 2020). In this book, I talk about my journey to self-​ acceptance and self-​love. Outside of my accomplishments and despite the odds against me, I discovered something much greater. That was the love and acceptance of self. Everything that I hated about myself I had to go and learn to love. God made me who and how I am for a reason. The less critical I became of myself, the more I was able to accept myself and others. The more compassion, forgiveness, and grace I could extend to myself, the more I could extend to those I come into contact with. If you are reading this and have come this far, I know we are connected. These words are for you. You are not what you have been through. You are not your past or your pain. God has a plan for your life. God has a purpose for your life. If you are still breathing, there is still purpose in you. There is still something on this earth that God needs you to do. Only you can do it. Don’t allow your pain to block what God is trying to do in your life. Use that pain as motivation to heal and then help someone else. Your pain matters. Your story matters. You matter. “Our crown has already been bought and paid for. All we have to do is wear it” (James Baldwin). References King James Bible. (2017). King James Bible Online. www.kingj​ames​bibl​eonl​ine.org/​ (Original work published 1769). Raquelle, Q. (2020). Self Love: A Silent Revolution. The Literary Revolutionary.

PART 3

The Renaissance of Self-​Expression Creativity, Innovation, and Culture Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad Research shows that creative self-​expression involves one seeking to explore internal or external forms of beauty or emotions (Hegarty & Plucker, 2012, Runco, 2023).Within this process, one is required to call upon heart and intuition as much as intellect. This artistic expression is said to be freeing and all about showing one’s individuality. Creativity takes courage in all levels of a person’s selected art form. Meaning that, one can dare to push society’s boundaries through the arts and humanities. In many instances, there are no rules and creatives, artists, and innovationists are permitted to take their audience anywhere they want them to go. Art is often used as a way to express, not only to reflect ones’ personal life, but also show what is going on around them. The art helps move revolutions (Milbrandt, 2010). Art has the ability to address feelings in ways that words can not. Movements are often accompanied by the outpouring of displays of community art that become a timestamp of the moment (Milbrandt, 2010). Art, which is viewed, seen, and performed in public space, can move the audience and create change (Dunn et al., 2021). These forms of self-​expression revolutionize the movement for change and bring immediate attention to injustices. “As a society, we need individuals with the will and passion to purposefully critique the actions and assumptions of society in works of art” (Milbrandt, 2010, p. 7). The use of art, in all its forms, invokes feelings, and feelings are what motivates us to fight for change. There is no right way to create; therefore, it can be the only form of freedom that some Black Children of Incarcerated Parents (BCOIP) experience. If you reflect on social movements and its leaders, do you remember the academic article or the art, artistic words, music, or poetry they created? They were artists of their craft.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-16

80  Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad

“Given the power of art to influence social action, artists have a tremendous role in shaping the culture of freedom movements” (Henry, 2021). My parents were narcissistic, and I had formed survival tactics that I did not know how to address. This poem’s structure mimics the structure of written dialogue. I utilized language that would be reflected in text messages, for example, utilizing the letter, ‘u’, instead of the full word, ‘you.’ This attempts to satisfy the feeling of communicating these feelings and questions to another person rather than contemplating them internally. (Gabrielle Dunn, “Falling on Deaf Ears”) The creativity among BCOIP has been underestimated, overlooked, and even missing from general research on this topic. Being innovative, unique, and creative is a characteristic that many of our authors used to navigate the rough terrain of parental incarceration and in some instances re-​entry. We barely know anything about the creative nature among children of incarcerated parents and how creativity can be leveraged to help them gain success and remain resilient. Research does not speak to when BCOIP often chose innovation over incarceration. In fact, in our original study, a total of 60% of participants reported creativity success (Muhammad et al., 2021). In Part 3, “The Renaissance of Self-​ Expression: Creativity, Innovation and Culture,” authors discuss how their creativity served as a protective factor. Their use of creative methods helped them navigate along pathways toward success. Specifically, BCOIP used their creative ideas as a form of self-​expression, for compensation, and to connect with others who shared similar experiences. At the end of high school after taking poetry and other creative writing classes, I realized ultimately I wanted to write films and tv shows. I took a film analysis class that confirmed creating and advocating stories about my community was going to be my life’s goal. During and after college my career took some turns into various industries, but I was ultimately led back to screenwriting. (Akiya McKnight, “Crisis to Creativity”) This part includes original works by BCOIP who use creative means to tap into their self-​expression. They use spoken word, storytelling, vivid prose and unique metaphors to take readers on their journeys of lived experiences. Author chapters encompass a written renaissance that revives the love and power of the arts among BCOIP. Chapter contributors include a variety of art forms, sketching, pastel art with bright contrast, grayscale, and pencil art. They also include an innovative curation of poems, spoken word, and

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detailed storytelling that is sure to take readers on a mindful experience of their inner feelings, thoughts, and ideas in written and artistic form. “As you look across the ballroom floor, through the sea of smiles and laughter, you can’t help but notice that beneath the well-​decorated mask lies a story about an individual that society has written.” (Donald Stevenson, “The Masquerade Ball”) This section is the counter-​storytelling of what is considered art. Black artists have always struggled to find space to belong and still struggle to be fully recognized and compensated as others who are considered to be among the classical artists (Rolling, 2020). In addition, in art there is colorblind racism that keeps “certain” artists at the margins. This has led artists to use their self-​expressions to examine whiteness, racism, and race. Their work provides the counter story and also challenges viewers of their work to consider their social position in relation to social-​justice-​related events (Desai, 2010). Many authors pen their most inner feelings, fears, hopes, and prayers on the pages of these chapters, they write their pain into the paper, with each stroke a form of relief. Like the quote above, they use metaphors to describe their experiences. “To shine we need good energy and positive thoughts (like flowers need the sun)”. (Jian and Jaelah Muhammad, “Helping Flowers Grow: Sunlight, Water and Love”) The experience of parental incarceration heavily influenced the ways in which the selected authors decided to express themselves. Before this chapter ends, three young contributors provide their creative works. Words of inspiration and bright artwork empower readers to anticipate challenges and to keep going. Art therapy is often used to enable children to express themselves and share emotions they may not have words for yet (Alavinezhad et al., 2014). The young BCOIP want other kids to know that they are not alone and that they share similar feelings. In “The Renaissance of Self-​ Expression: Creativity, Innovation, and Culture,” original works are from BCOIP artists, poets, filmmakers, community leaders, and authors. Rejecting the societal stigma surrounding parental incarceration and criminal involvement, BCOIP transformed their childhood trauma into purpose as they have dedicated their life’s work to artistically sharing their narratives. We learn in this section that creativity runs deep. It starts young and matures inside of BCOIP overtime. All authors connect culturally to their innovation, creativity, and ability to think and feel

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deeply. So far, we have spoken to self-​expression and self-​discovery, in the next section, “Parenting Behind and Beyond the Walls: The Revolutionizing Relationships of BCOIP,” we focus on interpersonal relationships, and how BCOIP relate to others around them. References Alavinezhad, R., Mousavi, M., & Sohrabi, N. (2014). Effects of art therapy on anger and self-​esteem in aggressive children. Procedia –​Social and Behavioral Sciences, 113, 111–​117. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​j.sbs​pro.2014.01.016 Desai, D. (2010). The challenge of new colorblind racism in art education. Art Education, 63(5), 22–​28. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​00043​125.2010.11519​084 Dunn, A., McPhee, C., & Rudnick, A. (2021, October 1). Art, Protest, and Public Space. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. www.metmus​eum.org/​persp​ecti​ves/​artic​ les/​2021/​10/​art-​prot​est-​pub​lic-​space Hegarty, C. B., & Plucker, J. A. (2012). Creative leisure and self-​expression. The International Journal of Creativity and Problem Solving, 22(2), 63+​ . Gale OneFile: Health and Medicine. Henry, A. (2021, November 8). Why Black artists are essential freedom fighters. Religious News. https://​relig​ionn​ews.com/​2021/​11/​08/​the-​art-​of-​anti-​colo​nial​ism/​ Milbrandt, M. K. (2010). Understanding the role of art in social movements and transformation. Journal of Art for Life, 1(1), 7–​18. Muhammad, B. M., Gatewood, B. J., & Turner, S. (2021). Children of Incarcerated Parents: Pathways to Resilience & Success Research Report (pp. 1–​34). Howard University. Rolling, J. H. (2020). Making black lives matter: Toward an anti-​racist artmaking and teaching agenda—​Part 2. Art Education, 73(6), 8–​11. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​ 00043​125.2020.1813​528 Runco, M. A. (2023). Creativity: Research, Development, and Practice. Academic Press. Wandor, M. (2004). Creative writing and pedagogy 1: Self expression? Whose self and what expression? New Writing, 1(2), 112–​ 123. DOI: 10.1080/​ 14790720408668928

13 THE MASQUERADE BALL Donald Stevenson

Ever since I can remember, I’ve always been a latchkey kid. You know those kids that you see walking to school by themselves, going to the laundromat, and making store runs. Yeah, I was one of those, mainly because I was raised by my two grandparents, my mother’s mother, and my father’s mother. I had to learn a strong sense of accountability and responsibility at a young age. I had to learn and master the public transit system, oftentimes traveling between Northwest Washington, D.C. and Southeast D.C., or from Southeast to Arlington, VA, or from Northwest to Arlington. Arlington was where my grandmother worked for over 30 years at the Pentagon. What I didn’t know then was that a strong sense of responsibility and duty was being instilled within me. These two very important qualities would become a strong part of who I would become later as a man. One thing my grandmother did stress to me growing up was that we all have a duty to family. We all have a duty to be ready and readily available to aid and assist family at any given moment. Three days out of the week, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I was able to fulfill my duty. I met my grandmother after school in downtown D.C. to catch the public shuttle bus to Lorton, VA to visit our loved ones incarcerated at Lorton Correctional Facility. Before the closing of Lorton, visiting incarcerated loved ones seemed to be a regularly occurring event. When visiting Lorton, it was a family affair. Everyone knew each other. Families interacted with each other, kids played with each other, and some kids even made plans to meet up with each other in the upcoming weeks to come back. My grandmother would become a staple in the visitation halls of Lorton. Many of the incarcerated, whom over the years I’ve grown fond of and considered family, would nickname my grandmother “Church Lady.” It was DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-17

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because of her uplifting spirit, and ability to always be available and lend a helping hand to friends and families of comrades incarcerated at Lorton. Everyone knew “Church Lady” and her shadow, which was me. From the guards to the guys who were responsible for running the transportation throughout the compound, everyone knew my grandmother. The stray cats that inhabited the grounds of Lorton, which she would sneak food inside to feed, knew her too. In 1996, visitation for families in D.C., including mine, changed drastically. Lorton Correctional Facility, which housed the majority of men and women from D.C., closed. Consequently, many of those incarcerated there were shipped to privately owned facilities all over the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons. Some individuals were sent as far as Victorville, CA. Most were sent to a newly opened facility in Youngstown, Ohio. This is when my “roadrunner escapades” with my grandmother had begun. Literally, the only time my grandmother would travel would be to visit Pops wherever he was or to a church convention. Not every family was so lucky. Many families just couldn’t afford to travel cross country to see their loved ones as frequently as they once did when Lorton was open. The closing of Lorton and the relocation of many incarcerated individuals posed a severe strain on the family connection, mental stability, and for some, their ability to parent despite the unfortunate circumstance. My grandmother would always stress the importance of Presence to me. When I was young, I would always complain about spending my entire weekend traveling the rural landscapes, being looked at as a Familiar Outsider. It was always clear to me that we obviously looked like visitors, but what was disturbing is that I always felt like the natives of these rural towns always knew why we were visiting. My grandmother would always respond to my frustrations by saying, “Our presence gives him the strength to survive a life neither of us could imagine.” The Masquerade Ball

The preparation process for this big day looks different, depending on who you ask. For some, it begins days before due to travel time. For example, meals are prepared for travel; my favorite was my aunt’s fried chicken that she would make the night before the long drive, or my grandmother’s famous egg salad sandwiches. My grandmother made all necessary arrangements to avoid stopping for anything outside of using the bathroom. This was done to ensure that we made it to the party (visitation) on time and avoided getting caught in the 9:00 am population count. Arriving during this process posed a serious inconvenience because you would be losing precious time that could be spent in the party ballroom (visitation hall). While we prepared days before, our guests (incarcerated family members) would begin their process

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the moment the visit was confirmed, usually a week before. The perfect outfits were picked out, favorite fragrances were selected, and conversations were rehearsed over and over. While all these many different preparatory rituals were taking place, unconsciously, The Masquerade Ball mask is being designed piece by piece. The Grand Ballroom Entrance

Once you have arrived and you have to clear all security measures because this was an event of the who’s who. You were placed into groups and escorted through two more security checkpoints with such VIP treatment. At one security checkpoint, they even give all the guests a special invisible stamp on the hand of their choosing. Once the group has cleared all security checkpoints, they are escorted into the Grand Ballroom, where they will receive a ticket and are shown their table for seating. The lighting was usually dull, and the room was usually freezing. As the room filled with loved ones, many of them being African American and Hispanic women and children, I would observe the room for any familiar faces and order some of our favorite finger foods (i.e., Snicker Bars, Peanut M&M’s, and my favorite, the honey mustard chicken sandwich). As we all sit patiently waiting for our distinguished guests to enter the dull-​lit ballroom, everyone is staring in one direction toward the entry point where our distinguished guests will walk through. You can sense the anticipation in the air and visually see it on the faces of the family members as they patiently wait. When the distinguished guests begin to arrive in the grand ballroom, the room simultaneously lights up as though there were hidden ultra-​light bulbs in the ceiling. The extra light that filled the room didn’t, in fact, come from hidden light bulbs but was the remnants from the smiles and the aura of the distinguished guests as they entered. The stench of cocoa butter, cool water cologne, frankincense, and a variety of different perfumes overpowered the air as they arrived in the room to greet and embrace their awaiting loved ones. For the next couple of hours, family members will entertain their guests on the dance floor. Instead of showing off the latest dance moves, some were deeply engaged in hearing the latest news, community events, and family issues. Others were sharing intimate stares, sneaking prohibited embraces, assuring each other that one another is in the best of spirits, and sharing their most genuine versions of smiles and laughter. At that point, everyone was in full dress, the adorned mask had been put on, and The Masquerade Ball had begun. As you look across the ballroom floor, through the sea of smiles and laughter, you can’t help but notice that beneath the well-​decorated mask lies a story about an individual that society has written. Their actual story tells a different tale. Sitting directly across from you are the people you have grown

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to love, respect, cherish, admire, and in my case, idolize. Throughout my years of attending such gatherings, I’ve met some of what society may call the “Worst of the Worst,” but these individuals, over the years, have become more like family. There were my Tios from New York, aka the Torres Brothers, my grandmother became very close with their mother. Then there is Mr. Vick, who reminded me of Super Mario, whom I later learned was one of the Commissioners over the five families. Then there is Uncle Babyface, one of my Pop’s best friends who was sentenced to life in prison. He was still a kid when he was sentenced. Once Lorton was closed, he was sent to the notorious ADX Super Maximum Facility in Florence, Colorado. I would later read that he was considered the epitome of the term coined in the ’90s, “Child Predator.” These were all men whom I loved and respected. Despite society’s view of these men, to those enjoying their company, they are loving husbands, family patriarchs, fathers, brothers, sons, nephews, grandsons, grandfathers, and some great-​grandfathers. I learned early to never judge a man by the mistakes he has made without taking into full consideration the environmental climate that fostered his decision-​making. Intermission

This part of the event is the most memorable. It’s the time when lifetime keepsakes are created. These keepsakes will serve as life’s bookmarks. A momentous reminder of certain periods in our lives, certain emotions, reminders of a time of normalcy. For those in it for the long haul, they serve as reminders of time. While some have areas in their homes where they would mark their children’s height over the years to gauge how they have grown, my family and many families across the U.S. have these momentous keepsakes. As we line up in the long line, introductions are made, compliments and laughs are shared, and adjustments to your best outfit are made. As we approach the front of the line, raffle tickets are exchanged for lifelong snapshots that many of us pray will soon be just a recollection of a pastime and not a reminder of what life will continue to consist of ahead. Farewell

So as the evening comes to an end and we share our final goodbyes, final thoughts, and final charges until the next ball. The mask that we’ve been preparing for weeks, the mask we’ve been wearing for the past 8 hours slowly goes into its process of renewal. This process looks different for those visiting loved ones, that mask lingers. It goes with us on our journey home, to work, and to school. It’s a representation of letdowns, anger, fear, hope, joy, peace, and vulnerability. Some hide it to resist that very thing, vulnerability. Some hold on to it tightly, securing it from anything that poses

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a threat to everything it represents. But for those being visited, that mask must simultaneously disappear and be buried the moment they’re out of your sight. This process must be done to aid and assist them in survival in a predator-​prey environment. That mask immediately dissipates upon their exit from the ballroom. They then enter into a whole other world within a world (prison). That place that my grandmother talked about to me as a kid, that world that is unimaginable to us, the Familiar Outsider. The Last Dance

Growing up as a child with an incarcerated parent, you develop quite the imagination to mask a reality that you feel you have no control over. Your imagination is under your full control. As a child, this is how I would cope with my harshest reality. I would imagine being a VIP guest at the most important social gathering. Why a Masquerade Ball? During those visits, I realized that everyone in that room, if only for a brief moment, was hiding their reality behind the imaginary masks they’ve unconsciously created for themselves. During my last dance, Pop’s mask began to crumble. A mask he has worn so gracefully for the past 30 years, a mask used to hide his vulnerability, his fears, and his pain began to fall apart. Unbeknownst to us both at the time, this would be our last time seeing each other on this side of the wall. This would also be the last time he saw his loving mother alive. It was about a year before the COVID-​19 Pandemic began, six months before an abrupt transfer, and one look at my grandmother’s face and deteriorating health condition. Pop’s looked at me and said, “I gotta get out of here.” The look in his eyes when he said that told me that this would be the last time he would share those sentiments. When my grandmother passed, I vowed to do all that I can to get him home. Every reform, every appeal that came about, I filed on his behalf. Every professional relationship and resource was leveraged in attempts to at least get his sentence recalculated and bring us closer to a parole hearing. While the COVID-​19 Pandemic came with many stresses, it brought me and my family a blessing that would change the narrative of our lives moving forward. The traumatic event that occurred over 35 years ago and the Compassionate Release Act of 2022 aided in the immediate release of my Pop’s. On April 21, 2022, the Masquerade Ball for us was officially over, but for millions of families across the U.S., this marathon continues.

14 THE SEED OF HOPE “Maybe You’ll Go Away for College” Lolu Drummond

Introduction

When I was little, I used to have this routine where I would wake up, see my mom missing and come downstairs bawling just for my grandma to repeat the same thing over again. “Why are you crying? Your mom went to work.” Every day she came home, it felt just as good as the day before, if not better. I just love my mom so much. Her presence means so much to me. When she wasn’t there, for just three months, it took a toll on me. She was a single parent. My dad was around occasionally, but I was raised by my mom and grandmother. She had also recently had my baby brother, who was just a few months old at that time. It was a regular day when she was arrested, and everything happened so fast. I remember going to bed and waking up to banging. Then I heard my mom screaming and asking for her phone. She was saying, “my kids are here!” and then just like that she was gone. I remember crying my eyes out. I remember constantly asking my grandmother when mom was going to come home, and I remember always being told a different date. This happened about three different times. It kept getting pushed back, and so did my hope. Eventually, I stopped getting excited when I heard her re-​ entry dates. I barely remember life in those three months apart from the overwhelming grief of missing my mom. When she was arrested, they took her to Georgia. We didn’t get to visit her, and I faintly remember a few very short and extremely emotional phone calls. They didn’t come in often, they didn’t last long, and I couldn’t help but take up the whole time crying, barely being able to speak. Life without her felt so odd until an unexpected seed was planted. DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-18

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One day I received a letter from her with a drawing of Daphne Duck on it. It was the first time I had ever received mail with my name on it, so it was a layered experience. I always wanted my own mail, so it was special that my first one was from my mom. I opened the letter and felt like I had a piece of my mom with me as I saw her handwriting. She said a lot in the letter. As an 8-​year-​old, I didn’t grasp the words much. I was just excited that I had what felt like a piece of my mom. On another page of the letter, she kissed the paper with lip gloss and told me to hold it to the light. I was able to see her actual kisses on the paper. I had my mom’s love in an envelope, and I cherished that with my whole heart. It kept me anchored and gave me the strength to wait for her until she finally came home. Nine years later, I went off to college. I applied and was accepted while we were going through homelessness and I received a full scholarship to Howard University. I never thought that was possible for me. As I unpacked my art to decorate the wall by my bed in my dorm room, I saw the letter my mom wrote to me when she was in jail all those years ago. I decided to reread it, and I burst into tears reading the words “sometimes in life, we do, or we have to do things that might hurt the people we love. Someday you might even have to leave me. Maybe you’ll go away for college….” I couldn’t believe it. There I was sitting in my college dorm, away from my mom, and reading her say in the letter, that maybe I’d do just that nine years before it even happened. She told me about how prayer kept her afloat in there, and that she always prayed for me. She said when she wrote the letter it just flowed off her tongue like a word of prophecy. He revealed to my mom the plans He had for me, and they surely came to pass. Spoken Word

The One who works all things together held us together when the sins of my mother came to take what it was due The wages of sin is death, and it sure did come to kill, to steal and to destroy all that was left of our family unit In whatever vessel willing to open itself up to be used, sin crept in and abused, filled it up and refused to stop there Coming to take what it was due, sin showed up again, this time at our front door, and we’ve heard this before When God told Cain sin lies at the door, and its desire is for … YOU But you shall rule over it And just as he still chose to let it rule him, the same decision was decided by these men These vessels held the roots to sin in their soil, bore its fruit and allowed us all to taste its bitterness

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For me it was breakfast in bed I woke up to the screaming and tussling and it was simply nasty But this was just the natural fruit of sin A bad seed produces a bad tree and a bad tree produces a bad fruit, there’s no way around it Within a few minutes I had lost my mom for an uncertain amount of time and no time at all to process it The next few months were difficult, blurry and filled with uncertainty The only thing I was certain of was that I couldn’t see the future I started to become more and more hopeless that I would see her again soon But in the midst of this chaotic season a seed was planted This seed was unlike the first, in fact I didn’t know it was a seed at all This seed came in a vessel with my name on it, was watered with letters written in ink and grew into the sweetest fruit I’ve ever known Words planted in hope sprung into fulfillment My mother had written me a letter, in it was the encouragement to continue to pray to “gentle Jesus,” an affirmation of her love for me and a God inspired word “Maybe you’ll go away for college” After about 3 months mom came home and things were back to normal for the most part except we began to struggle finding a stable place to live Though we were moving from soil to soil to try to stay alive and grow, that seed that was planted began to take root I kept talking to “gentle Jesus” and without my knowledge He kept working all things together Our circumstances didn’t look like they were getting better, in fact if I could explain it in weather I’d say it was a storm But that’s where I was reformed, from one seed of sin to a seed of another kind God planted in me an incorruptible seed, one without sin, I was born again through Him And when the time came to apply for higher education, we were yet again struggling in the same living situation The rain came and the winds blew but the seed was unshaken, growing, thriving and surviving When I wrote a prayer to Him that we couldn’t afford college and I wasn’t smart enough for a full ride, there He was holding all things together by the word of His power No other school provided financial aid but Howard … the only school that was … “away” So when I sat in my dorm and I reopened that vessel and read the flow of the ink written words, I tasted the fruit of that new seed and it was simply good Because the One who held it all together certainly saw the future and worked it together for good

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“And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them” (New Living Translation of the Bible, 1996/​2015, Romans 8:28) Inspiration from: Romans 8 1 Peter 1 John 15 Hebrews 1

FIGURE 14.1 The

seed of hope. Image by the author.

92  Lolu Drummond

References New International Version of the Bible. (2011). New International Version of the Bible Online. www.then​ivbi​ble.com/​ (Original work published 1968). New Living Translation of the Bible. (2015). New International Version of the Bible Online. https://​nlt.to/​ (Original work published 1996).

15 IN MEMORY OF YOU, DAD Shanell Kitt

This chapter is a peek into the mind of my younger self and reveals the perspective of a daughter whose father was incarcerated in New York State throughout points of her childhood. I aim to be as transparent as possible with expressing these unpleasant, impactful memories. To note, this chapter was especially difficult to produce because of having to face and make the choice to finally work toward processing thoughts that were repressed over the years. These memories of my father are not the ones that I lean into the most. He was a dynamic soul. Thoughts of him tend to center on his laughter and robust stories of his young adult years, his “bigger than life” presence, and his style. Other times, the memories drift toward wondering, what was the root cause of his angry outbursts? As a young child, I didn’t connect the potential of being incarcerated as the root, and sadly, he is no longer alive for me to ask. There are many things I want to ask him to that point. Recalling memories of my father behind chilly walls does not bring me a sense of warmth but, rather, a feeling of avoidance. It is “easier” to continue repressing the memories, but to actively do so is not healthy. Am I ready to discuss these memories? Should I seek counseling throughout this process? The answer is yes to both questions. New York. 1990s. Bumpy, bumpy bus ride. Small, crowded van. I am cold. I am hungry. What is that smell? There is crying. Mothers and children. Mothers and children. Security gates. The waiting room. Gray. Police. Uniforms. Dad.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-19

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_​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​ It was time to go on a visit. My family and I stepped onto the bus that went directly to the prison my father was in. The unpleasant smell of the bus was the beginning of the discomfort, and I recall these rides as especially bumpy. Were we not supposed to have any experience of comfort throughout this process? I cried. The tears rolled downward, overcoming the peak of my cheeks, collecting in a slowly swaying wet ball underneath my chin. “Can I have some Pringles?” My mother typically packed snacks for our trips, and Pringles usually made the cut. During these rides, I held on tightly to my mother’s right hand, absorbing her determination and will. In retrospect, I appreciate my mother’s efforts in bringing us to see our father. She could have easily left us home and taken the trip by herself. She understood the value of keeping our bonds watered, and although these experiences were traumatic, not seeing my father at all may have caused trauma as well. These are not typical situations, well, these are not ideal decisions one should be led to make. _​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​ An excerpt from my mother, Sylvia: I’m Sylvia Kitt. I was married to Eugene Kitt for 28 years. He was incarcerated several times during our marriage. No matter where he was, I took the children to see him –​from the time they were newborns to their teenage years. We would ride buses in the middle of the night to towns in upstate New York. We would catch trains in Westchester County. Love was the motivation that kept us going. He as the father and head of the family needed to have a connection with his children. No matter how far he was. Many times I struggled with two babies and food packages to prisons as far as Clinton Correctional Facility and as close as Rikers Island. The children were just happy to see their dad. When they were babies, their young minds could not understand why daddy lived away from us sometimes. As they got older, they started to understand what was going on. But the times when he came home, it was a happy occasion for us all. _​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​ I don’t remember asking many questions. The adults in my life shared information about my father’s situation in curated fragments that were just enough for my young brain to process. I didn’t know why he was away, but I felt the physical void each time he was gone. As a child under the age of ten, I wanted to go to the park with my Dad, not visit him behind bars. Although he was away, he always made an effort to send us letters

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and colorful birthday cards. I always appreciated these tokens of love and knowing that he was okay enough to write and send the notes. The 1990s is historically known as a period of a rapid increase in arrests and imprisonment. According to a 1997 New York Times article, “corrections officials have built 213 state and federal prisons from 1990 to 1995 to cope with a quickly expanding inmate population, the Justice Department reported today” (1997). The article further notes, “as of June 30, 1995, state or federal prisons held 1.02 million people, up from 715,649 in 1990” (The Associated Press, The New York Times, 1997). How many were Black people, like me? Like Dad? Black Americans are much more likely to be incarcerated. Mass incarceration is predominantly, Black incarceration. Black people are nearly six times as likely to be incarcerated as white people, and nearly three times as likely to be incarcerated as their Latinx counterparts…Black defendants generally receive longer sentences than their white counterparts for the same crime. (Lopez, 2016) We routinely visited my father while he was incarcerated during periods of my childhood. Our tight-​knit family, often dressed in similar colors or matching outfits, traveled dreary distances to see his smile, sometimes, it was behind a scratched, plastic window. We traveled to hear his boisterous voice, sometimes muddled in loud visiting rooms that were thick with sadness, regret, embarrassment, and concern. Sometimes pride. Our visits became a normalized activity in my youth, although each time felt emotionally heavier than the last. Perhaps my understanding of the situation was developing. This wasn’t “normal,” this was a system. A large, icy one. Upon arrival, the sun seemed to hide behind the clouds, and the gray buildings looked unwelcoming. The gates were high, and the barbed wire encouraged compliance. Going to prisons at such a young age fostered a ball of confusion within and a sense of hatred toward the police, who acted as a barrier between my father and I. Didn’t they have children at home? Couldn’t they just unlock the big door and let Daddy come back with us? When we arrived, it felt like we were imprisoned, too. We were, quite literally, behind the same cold bars as my father. There were no colors, no smiles, no freedom. There were scores of Black families, and we all became processed within “the system.” I saw Black families undergo the cruelly organized system of timed reunification. Why did WE have to go through security gates? Why was my young body scanned by the large metal detectors? I did not understand any of it, but I knew in order to see my father, I would need to be subjected to a scan. My mother’s gold bangles –​the joyful sound they created as she

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walked –​turned dull as she placed them in a gray basket that moved eerily down the black conveyor belt, soon to be a negative image while underneath the x-​ray. We needed to take off our shoes and walk through a large door that beeped if someone did not properly follow the instructions. The beeping felt like a ringing in my brain, blended with the listless facial expressions of law enforcement. This process always felt dehumanizing to me, and one that I wish I wasn’t accustomed to. Why didn’t they let all our dads come home with us? There were a few seats left on the bus, Daddy could have filled one of them. I remember looking around the space and seeing other daughters who were there to see their parents. I felt like a controlled subject whose feelings were not of importance. Did I do something wrong, too? We entered the waiting room, which was the space just before being connected with our family members. I remember different waiting rooms in various jails and prison settings during my childhood. Each one was different but somehow had the same scent. As children, we at times ran around the waiting room with the other children, my mom, of course, calling out to us to sit down. There was one time my brother stood on one of the bolted-​in chairs; somehow, he slipped and hit his head on the ground. He still has the scar from that incident. During what seemed like an eternity, I knew the police officers were cuffing my father in preparation to walk him toward the visiting room for our scheduled time together. Oh, how I wished he was able to run up to us freely, arms outstretched for a hug like the dads on TV. —​—​—​ He smiled when he saw us. _​_​_​_​_​_​ An excerpt from my brother, Shanard: Having a parent in prison definitely made a major impact on my life as a child growing into an adult. Some of my earliest memories included going to visit my father on Rikers Island. One memory in particular –​I fell on the ground after standing on a chair and hitting my forehead while in the waiting room. I had to be rushed to the hospital and needed stitches. I am reminded of this incident every time I look in the mirror. I must have been as young as three. Although this was a negative experience, overall, I don’t remember the visiting area being gloomy and the officers actually were very nice. I do remember on Christmas we would get whatever we wanted because my father would tell us a few days before what the prison had and we would get to pick because of who our father was in prison. When I was in middle school, I remember him being gone for as long as two years, I believe it was. Prior to leaving, I remember [the police] coming

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to get him early in the morning –​they persistently rang our apartment bell and knocked loudly on the door –​sounds that are difficult to forget. When I was a little older, we used to visit him every other Sunday at another prison because that was his scheduled visiting day. We NEVER missed a visit, thanks to my loyal mom. That experience was a lot for me because at this point, I must have been 12 years old; I remember taking the Metro North train and getting off at the Ossining stop. Seeing the big prison building after walking up a long hill was tough for a child to see. It was very difficult to process as a child. It’s very interesting because now I take that same train line going to work as a Supervisor for Special Needs individuals. I think it’s funny how life can come back in full circle. I believe growing up in these circumstances did make me the man I am today. I would say home life was a bit different because it was my mom and my grandmother there but not my father as being an only boy. Life was very different and difficult from my experience but knowing what I went through, I know when I have children I can not do anything to jeopardize my freedom so I can support my future wife, children, and family. _​_​_​_​_​_​_​_​ Once home, I noted that my Dad’s moods shifted a lot. I noticed changes in my actions –​when he was happy, this made me feel happy. When he was sad, this made me feel sad. In the moments, he felt angry, I felt angry, too. I remember him yelling a lot, whether it be an expression of excitement or frustration. There were times he was mean, times he took my siblings and me out for a ride on the town in his car while listening to varying cassette tapes. He loved music. He was spontaneous. He was free. As a child, I didn’t realize how impactful imprisonment must have been for my Dad. In retrospect, his frequent mood shifts could have been a response to adjusting to life outside of cold confinement. Perhaps, I would have presented in similar ways. Present day, I still feel that ball of confusion in regard to law enforcement. Their job is to protect society, but somehow, I did not feel protected. Police personnel were the first to violate my space –​they’ve entered my home numerous times with force, they’ve scanned my Black growing body, and they’ve cuffed my father in front of me. They made me feel humiliated and dismissed. They were a barrier, gates in human form. In 2014, my father passed away from significant medical ailments. He wasn’t incarcerated at this point, but his health state led him to a different type of imprisonment, one where his body was often in extreme pain. I remember the ulcers on his leg that prevented him from walking peacefully. I remember helping him wrap his sores with medical bandages. This type of bonding, while sad and traumatizing, was welcomed because Dad was home.

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—​—​—​ At the time of this writing, I am 33 years old, a licensed social worker, a twice over Howard University graduate (from the School of Social Work and from the College of Fine Arts), as well as beginning a new role as a Senior Clinician;

FIGURE 15.1 Upward

Prayer (2022–​2023) dedicated to my father, Geno. Image by the author.

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in this role, I will be serving vulnerable adult communities and supporting their mental health, housing, and employment needs. Full circle, as my brother stated earlier. I am also a visual artist who leans into my personal experience to create works that speak to my emotional processing. The creation of this text, with the input of my family, highlights not only our resiliency, but also our connection to one another. We miss you, Dad Through my work, I aim to express my inner feelings and communicate with and relate to others. In understanding the relationship between color and form, as well as the link between art and direct social work practice, I draw inspiration from my intersectional existence, history, environment, memories, dreams, and vernacular culture. Further influence roots from bold colors, interpersonal relationships, ritualistic practice, movement, and harmony (Figure 15.1). References Lopez, G. (2016, October 11). Mass Incarceration in America, Explained in 22 Maps and Charts. Vox. www.vox.com/​2015/​7/​13/​8913​297/​mass-​incarc​erat​ion-​maps-​ cha​rts The Associated Press. (1997, August 8). In 90’s, Prison Building by States and U.S. Government Surged. The New York Times. www.nyti​mes.com/​1997/​08/​08/​us/​in-​ 90-​s-​pri​son-​build​ing-​by-​sta​tes-​and-​us-​gov​ernm​ent-​sur​ged.html

16 NOW YOU SEE HIM, NOW YOU DON’T Justice Howard

Absence was always present Learned to live without you more than with you A thousand miles and metal bars Left me only feeling one parent’s love I don’t think I understand I don’t think I’d ever understand How prison took you by force But you were never around by choice The calls always came eventually My mom tells me phones for me Its you I hear in my ear Father of the year Reme6mber me? I can’t tell Asking for a refresher on my age My interests Leaving me wondering How one of the closest bonds Left us as strangers With familiar faces

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-20

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The Beginning (Elementary School Age)

The earliest memories I have of my father are disappearing acts. I used to think of him as a magician with surprise visits here and there. The actual reveal was the months of absence due to his incarceration. Prison phone calls were his most consistent communication. I do not remember when we ever shared the same home or when he and my mother exchanged more than a few words. Our relationship was always up and down. It was up when he could keep a job and stay out of trouble long enough to earn my mother’s approval to see me. It was down when the prison system took him on what my mother always described as, “going out of town” trips. No one ever linked any specific destination with these travels. My 9-​year-​old brain had to understand the unspoken between the spoken words for what my mother really meant. I understood why my father could never call me on my cell phone and why our conversation had to end before I heard that operator’s voice break up our strained communication. My father didn’t know me, and I barely had an idea about his type of person. But somehow, it still cut deep when he struggled to remember my age and my grade in school. We were strangers with familiar faces. Parents were a part of everything in school. Even school forms defaulted to needing both parents’ information. My forms never had both. Things never really hit hard until the yearly father-​daughter dance flyers came home. I would rush to throw them in the trash. I never got to experience what it was like for a father to waltz you around the dance floor. Nor having him pull out embarrassing dance moves that you beg for him to stop, but deep down inside, have you laughing to your core. Instead, I got my own Houdini, who could not escape his imprisonment before my eyes. The Climax (Middle School Age)

Father’s Day became an uncomfortable consistency. Once a year, my father’s absence hit the hardest on the day when I got reminded of what a present father looked like. During the week, the school forced us to make Father’s Day gifts, while on the weekend, church reminded me that my family was always seemingly incomplete. On many church Father’s Days, I remember trying to explain to other girls why they would never meet my father and why he had never been around. Did I really even understand why my father wasn’t around? Was he sad he missed so much of me? He would never talk about it or admit that the prison system had trapped him years ago. I was ashamed for other kids to know my father wasn’t around. But I was always surprised at how quickly others pointed out how my family didn’t look like theirs. Most were confused about my lack of depression over my father’s lack of presence. I did not know my father enough to miss him.

102  Justice Howard

When my father was released, his “in and out of my life trick” was in full effect. At the height of his act, I remember he pulled the biggest stunt I could imagine. He disappeared for years without a word. When it was my turn to call his distant phone, it was disconnected. The Start Over (High School Age)

Forgiveness was always a lost friend to me. Entering my young adult years, I had overly made up my mind about the anger I held toward my father. I understood how his time behind bars had robbed us of the time I yearned for as a child. But this time, when freedom was finally within the palm of his hand, he chose on his own to put even more distance between us. When my father appeared back in my life, he had moved back to the deep south, where most of his family resided. States stretched out our separation when before it was only just a few hours in space between us. I understand this move now as my father’s decision to finally help himself. His magic had run out, and he could not entirely be the present father he needed to be when immersed in the vices of my hometown. He could not go back to being incarcerated. Staying to be my parent wasn’t enough for him. This disappearance made me feel like he did not deserve a warm welcome back from me. Only time would prove he was here to stay. Phone calls from him became a weekly occurrence. He never made his living states away seem further than a house downstreet. Visits came after phone calls. We spent real time together and before I knew it, my father stood proud at my graduation by the close of my high school journey. The Unfamiliar (College to Present Age)

Our relationship was new. Sometimes it still feels fresh. Although the path was extraordinarily shaky, my dad has become a consistent force in my life. His consistency comes from a distance. He still lives in the deep south, while I moved further up north. His best magic for the past years was his way of transforming a phone call into the feeling of his actual presence. My father became a reliable support system and my biggest inspiration. We earned degrees together, and I couldn’t be prouder. As I complete my Master’s, my father earns his Bachelor’s. Just as I entered my college years, my father finally became a father to me. I may not see my father every day or even every year, but I find comfort now knowing when I call, like magic, he is there. Distant but Consistent, I now had someone I thought I didn’t need Someone I thought didn’t want me

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A Father I didn’t understand Never knew I could forgive The absence he allowed me to face Now the calls come weekly Right on time That familiar spoken “I love you” Years of lost love replaced with unconditional Thousands of miles between us But consistently my Father Years go by between us I’m glad I can lean on my Father

17 FALLING ON DEAF EARS Gabrielle Dunn

The US criminal justice system capitalizes on the criminalization of Black and Brown bodies. The ability for this form of slavery to continue is allowable by the 13th Amendment, which states that slavery and forced servitude are admissible as punishment for a crime. This allowed for Black bodies to continue to be used to build America without benefit. When I was a kid, I didn’t comprehend what this meant. I was angry. I wanted to blame everyone under the sun, especially my mom. It angered me that she hadn’t chosen the projection of our [her children] lives over her relationship with my dad. It angered me how forgiving and reliable she was for my dad. It angered me that I never had the chance to enjoy childhood. She angered me, and I angered her. However, I understand now that this is a capitalist system feeding off racism and classism. I must acknowledge the true common denominator, a system designed to maintain oppression, if I am going to share my story. Introduction

My Nana has always said, “you’ve got a testimony,” and it didn’t make sense to me for many years. What testimony did I have? I grew up in Newnan, Georgia, the most boring place known to man. I was an awkward Black girl with more brains than social skills. Being in the gifted program from K-​12 was an isolating experience. I was a clear outsider to my upper middle class, white classmates. I was an outsider to my Black peers as the only Black child in the gifted program until changing schools in fourth grade. I was one of few until graduation. My mom was emotionally detached from me. My only friend was my dad, and he was a convict or a prisoner, depending

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-21

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on when you asked. My siblings were practically my children. My brother will often say, aside from our grandparents, I raised him and, especially, our younger sister. My mother physically provided, but I was their support. I was smart and well-​behaved, but I never felt like I fit in. What was so special? The trauma that Black children experience being Black in America, alone, could send anyone over the edge. What I witnessed and endured as a child was nothing short of traumatic. I felt like another statistic about parental incarceration. Another Black child that would need serious therapy. I felt that I would have to work harder than any other Black woman to prove that my father’s mistakes were not a reflection of me. My life hasn’t been a series of unfortunate and sad events, though. I have achieved and overcome so much at just 21. I know that the sky is just the beginning of the limit. I’ve done quite well for myself, but this collection of pieces is the voice that I didn’t have. It is my turn to finally speak. Deception No. 13

The first ten were not written for those who looked like me Arguably none of your laws are for those who looked like me Desperate to maintain your reign over other bodies You couldn’t stand to be equal to those who looked like me Ready to take claim of what our bodies built You knew you were no match for those who looked like me Just as your religion made us devilish others Your clauses aimed to oppress those who looked like me “Except as punishment for crime” to YOUR laws Built to hinder the abilities of those who looked like me You determined offenses based on the egos of riches It was a crime to BREATHE for those who looked like me Funny how you preach the end of tyranny But it never ended for those who looked like me The 13th Amendment was utilized to allow Black bodies to continue to be used and abused by America. This poem serves to criticize and unapologetically expose the clear flaws in American law. This system also does not solely affect the incarcerated individual. It affects their entire circle, beginning with their significant other or spouse.

106  Gabrielle Dunn

Till Death Do Us Part, I Vowed to You My Heart

Till death do us part, I vowed to you my heart But now I’m on my own We taught our baby honesty But I’m lying to her face When she asks me where you are Now, I am the breadwinner How must I keep us together I couldn’t imagine it’d be this way So, when you ask how I am —​ What do you expect me to say? “Till death do us part, I vowed to you my heart” is written from the perspective of a spouse of an incarcerated individual. The spouse, especially when children are involved, takes on an immense amount of responsibility and pressure. He or she normally becomes the primary caregiver, as well as the primary source of income. This can cause rifts in the relationship and a stressful environment for the children. For me, this created a wall between my mother and I. I didn’t have the chance to create a true mother-​daughter bond, because I was determined to step up and be everything that I could to her. I took on an additional caregiver role to my mother. I was her shoulder to cry on. I tried my best to give her something to be proud of and pushed my own emotions as far down as my maturity level would allow. After all, I was still only a child. This poem allowed me to channel how I imagined conversations between the two of them should go based on what I was exposed to. It helps form a different perspective on my parent’s relationship and what that means about their relationship with me. Roger Rabbit

Ask me how I can stand him? How I tolerate his nonsense? Yes, I’ve cried. Yes, it hurt. But I can’t change time, and I wouldn’t try. Ask me why I stand firm never wavering, never betraying. How I look past the foolishness? It doesn’t seem this way but I have some quite dark days And he He makes me laugh.

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“Roger Rabbit” describes the relationship that I have with my father. It may be hard to understand, but he and I have a very close relationship. Family members on my mom’s side of the family often do not understand how I am so close to my father, despite his physical absence in my life. The title and ending line were inspired by the 1988 film, “Who Framed Roger Rabbit.” In this film, Jessica Rabbit, an attractive female character, is married to Roger Rabbit, a very humorous character that many people find annoying. When people ask how or why she is married to him, she responds, “he makes me laugh.” My father remains one of the only family members that I formed a true emotional connection to in my early years, and we always had fun together. Despite the pain of his absence and the broken promises, he gets me through my dark days. He makes me laugh. I wanted a strong relationship with my parents like all my friends, but I did not have the life that all my friends had. My mom was emotionally detached, so I chose to latch on to my dad no matter what it cost me. In my eyes, my dad is the one person that would never change, even if he was away. Consistency meant a lot to me in a world where nothing was guaranteed. Then and Now

I never think about whether I knew you before. I don’t suppose any kid does. But you question everything when you’re trying to put life back together again, when words and phrases are foreign when you realize that life kept moving (“What happened to the soul you used to be?”) Did you keep your promises before? Were you always this size? Was that tooth chipped before? Did your words always make me want to cry? What you say is not what you do. Your clothes hang limp around you. Your perfect smile, more crooked now. How you speak makes my heart bleed. (“What happened to the soul you used to be?”) Like a scientific discovery There’s something extraterrestrial about how you came back to me I wonder who held that pen that wrote me those letters

108  Gabrielle Dunn

Those hands, those hearts, just can’t be the same (“What happened to the soul you used to be?”) (Lyric: “Ghost,” Haley, 2014) “Then and Now” reflects my past experiences with re-​entry and what I fear may occur next time. Re-​entry is the process in which an individual who has been incarcerated adjusts to reintegrating into society. These individuals often find it difficult to be thrust back into “normal life” and often become repeat offenders for a variety of reasons. The hopes and beliefs that family members hold about how life will be when the individual is released normally are contrasted by the reality of the trauma that incarcerated individuals are subject to. As I begin to journey through adulthood, I am less naïve than I was as a child. I am aware of the psychological effects this broken criminal legal system has on incarcerated individuals, and I am aware that adjustment is a process. I maintain the hope that this time it will be different in order to maintain the smallest level of normality that I can, a relationship with my father. My Reality and Your Ego

I try to forget all the things I have never My imagination will only taunt me It will only give way to an internal hell that I never wish to live again A hell, no matter my allusions, that u will never truly see Have u ever wondered tho? Or do u truly believe that u weren’t the source of all things I recognize as trauma? Do u even acknowledge the trauma? Are you willing to shatter your image to truly break these things down? I do not wish to punish you for eternity I only want you to really take a step back “My Reality and Your Ego” addresses the internal conflict that I held within myself. For most of my life, my dad was my idol. Everyone had flaws, so it was okay when he said vile things or got caught up in other things. As I neared my high school graduation, I became more aware of the possibility that my dad would miss yet another milestone in my life. I found myself trying to rationalize all the things I never got to experience and never would. I began to enter almost the same intense depression that I had suffered years before. I experienced a rage that I often lost control of

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as a young child. In middle school, rage became a deep depression paired with the development of self-​harm. In the ninth grade, I overcame my rage and an eating disorder, which I still battle with today. I looked back at the things that I excused, and the hurt that I may have caused. I criticized the choices that I made in trying to protect myself, and I realized that my reality is not a false perception. My parents were narcissistic, and I had formed survival tactics that I did not know how to address. This poem’s structure mimics the structure of written dialogue. I utilized language that would be reflected in text messages, for example, utilizing the letter, “u,” instead of the full word, “you.” This attempts to satisfy the feeling of communicating these feelings and questions to another person rather than contemplating them internally. The grief, anger, and confusion that I was feeling had to remain unspoken. I did not want to risk being a target of other people’s unspoken pains. Telling Time

Just can’t miss this call I’ve waited all day long to—​ (This is a collect call from) Just hear your voice (An inmate at) I try to imagine how you look now (“All I got is these broken clocks”) I’ve memorized this message now The same mechanical voice after all these years (Press one to accept) It’s practically normal to me now I’ve forgotten how you sound without the echo and delays of faceless interactions (You may begin your call, now) The shortest fifteen minutes I’ll ever encounter (“All I got is these broken clocks”) I lie when I say I’m well What else am I to say?

110  Gabrielle Dunn

My sorrows have never turned back time (You have –​five minutes) I wish that judge knew how hard goodbye was to say Somehow, I miss you more than yesterday (“All I got is these broken clocks”) (Lyrics: “Broken Clocks” SZA, 2017) “Telling Time” is a timeless poem, ironically. Whether I am 18 or 8, 6 or 16, 12 or 21, I have the same desperation for unlimited access to my father. Emotionally, this poem was very difficult for me to write. I ventured into emotions that I have not really thought about for years because it has now been almost seven years since I last had a normal face-​to-​face conversation with my dad. The phrases in italics mimic the monologue of collect calls that often interrupts both your thoughts and conversation. I chose the song “Broken Clocks,” because broken clocks are unable to keep time going. I often feel like time seems unreal and frozen, because I am not able to share memories in real time with my dad. Not Trying to Forget

Remember that time –​I grow silent I’m not sure if I want to risk realizing another moment has slipped away Into the abyss. I tell myself that there will be more, That there is only so much I can do. It’s been so long since –​ yes I’m still here –​and you’re still there, So the memories begin to fade and intertwine. We’ll make more moments, but these never fade They mold life like hot metal under a strong hand. They stick like the fresh sap of a vengeful tree. Like Atlas holding the weight of my world Our good times make these talks possible But the rod of reality never fails to twist in my side So much that I can’t help when forgetting starts I don’t remember the time. I don’t remember the day. I don’t remember the details of almost anything. So please don’t ask me if I remember when. I fear one day I won’t clearly recall,

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And how will I lie when the silence falls Wraps around my heart reaching for my throat Leaving me gasping for air when there’s only smog–​ I’m praying you say goodnight. I need to breathe. Release me from the horrific guilt eating me. I don’t want to remember if that’s alright. Originally, “Not Trying To Forget” was meant to tell a story about communicating and keeping up with incarcerated individuals. However, as I wrote at 2:30 AM on a Monday morning, it became a reflection of the effects of that poor system. Many things happen in the first 18 years of life. It’s hard to remember every detail, but when your parent wasn’t there to remember either, it makes remembering so much more important. I feel horrible for not being able to hold on to every part of a memory with my father. The lines in italics mimic conversation, and the lines not italicized are my monologue of thoughts as I try to reason with my memory. The times that do not fade are the memories and emotions tied to my father’s absences. They are painful and bear an extreme weight, so I end the poem with the request not to remember. Even in My Own Castle

I don’t think I’ve felt this before. So much anger, so much unease All from the unnerving emptiness of a void that I could never—​ Imagine always a servant, always present the call for my assistance, while aggravating, Always consistent. But what about now? What do I do now that I’m no longer needed, no longer much more than an absence to later fill a distant thought. What do I do now that I want to lock myself away and build as many walls as I can. What happens now that I recognize how unhealthy my barricades are when I Fight and fight to stop construction. I aimlessly fire flares Desperately hoping to be sighted not for rescue—​ But simply to know that I have a neighbor, A person to say, “I see you,” a person to stay. Without the relief of a hug, a simple flare back will do. As I wander these halls, slipping in and out of familiarity,

112  Gabrielle Dunn

to shoot my flare and see the glow of another whether bright With proximity or faint in the distance, light was still there. But I walk these halls awake and restless, changing paths as if anyone would notice, Occasionally gathering the courage to fire Only to be left with the echo of my own shot. The smoke taunts me, boasting victory for I—​ have wasted yet another flare. It kills me to keep going, to keep wandering, To keep slipping in and out, To keep acting as if—​ I don’t want to be discovered in my own Castle. “Even In My Own Castle” is a poem I wrote during my first month as a true college freshman. I was adjusting to a new city, a new living environment, and a new me. I felt so many emotions from relief, to joy, to fear, but I also felt guilt and anxiety. I had finally done what I had always dreamed of doing, leaving home and going far far away. That was my dream, and yet I felt so guilty for trying to enjoy it. I flinched when my phone rang because I was not sure where the conversation would lead if it was my mother. She now had to figure out how to navigate single motherhood without her helper, me. I worried about what the stress would do to her, how she’d manage, how my siblings were behaving, and how they were managing the clear void I’d left them with. I wasn’t homesick, and that made me question my heart and whether this path was a mistake. I was more concerned with how everyone else was doing more than how I was adjusting. The city is so much louder than country suburbia. Dorm walls were paper thin. The food was different and couldn’t compare to Papa’s red beans and rice, or my grandma’s rice and broccoli casserole. I had not begun working yet, so I had no idea how to entertain myself after classes. My roommate and I were still complete strangers, and there was no one to quite call a friend. I desperately wanted to feel comfort, but I had nowhere to turn. Who would understand the emptiness inside of me? I had everything I worked so hard to have, but it meant nothing in those moments of solitude and grief, over the moments that I did not and would never have. How I Plead

I said goodbye, but not how I should’ve. I shouldn’t have at all.

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I should’ve begged, “Don’t Go.” But, I was blissfully ignorant to reality, Ignorant to the fact That all things come to light My Robinhood could be caught. I have no right to innocence. I was completely aware of what could be. How quickly flashing lights could tear you away from me How quickly I had forgotten the way my heart would bleed I beseech thee sir hood. –​Stay –​Do Good. I could’ve said these things. But, I was blissfully blind to the truth. The man in the robe sitting so high Higher than God it almost seems He never asked me So, I ponder my own accountability Am I innocent or guilty? “How I Plead” toys with the idea of accountability when an offender is asked, “how do you plead?” In the poem, the speaker pleads in different ways while keeping in mind what it means to be innocent or guilty. This poem encompasses the feeling of guilt that many children experience during the incarceration of a parent. In this poem, I expand on my own experience with guilt. Though not as clear as once before, I recall the last day that I saw my father nearly seven years ago. I still often feel like there was something that I could have done differently that day. I was spoiled by the length of time that he had been home, and I allowed myself to believe that, just like Robinhood, he was invincible. I allowed myself to be comfortable, and I had forgotten the pain and trauma of his absence. The man in the robe is the judge with the power to hold a part of my life from me, like a God. Even today, I battle with various forms of guilt as I carry on planning my life, unsure whether he will physically be present. Knight of Freedom

At night I can breathe The clanking metal gives me relief The weight almost leaves me At night I can breathe The silent, darkness is all I need The daunting day is behind me

114  Gabrielle Dunn

At night I can breathe Remove my helmet Retire my sword At night I can breathe While the world sleeps And I can pretend to be Calm, cool, collected Like a midnight breeze At night I can breathe Guilt can’t haunt me How they feel is beyond me Because at night I can breathe My well-​being isn’t a dream It’s my number one priority At night I can breathe Crumble into a ball Dance to my own beat Stare at the ceiling Cry, scream, dream At night I can breathe I utilize the night hours to put the days behind me. When the world is quiet, I have time to practice self-​care and evaluate how I can better serve me. I breathe in. I breathe out, and I try to unlearn. Conclusion

Life can be a rollercoaster, a series of ups, downs, twists, and turns. Sometimes it feels more like a downward rush, but the important thing is where you go from there. I’ve had to and continue to teach myself just what that means and looks like. I often find myself turning to art forms, especially creative writing, for healing. When reflecting on a title for this chapter, I thought of the central theme within each piece. I found that in each piece I was defying the silence that I thought was necessary to be accepted as a whole individual at home, at school, and in society at large. I was using a voice that I believed would forever fall on deaf ears because I had internalized so much shame and guilt from the stigma associated with being system impacted. This stigma hardens hearts toward system-​impacted children. We are labeled by the mistakes that we haven’t made. I am aware of this. I have experienced this, and I wanted to challenge it through a medium that served

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a dual purpose. By pouring my heart out onto these pages, I would begin to address this harmful narrative and display a means of healing, creative expression. Whether readers may or may not identify with parts of my life journey so far, there is no denying the error of turning away from system-​ impacted children. References Haley. (2014). Ghost. On Room 93. Astralwerks. SZA. (2017). Broken Clocks. On Ctrl. Top Dog & RCA.

18 HELPING FLOWERS GROW Sunlight, Water, and Love Jian Alaa Muhammad and Jaelah Millah Muhammad

To grow we need the right home (like flowers need the right soil). To shine we need good energy and positive thoughts (like flowers need the sun). To become stronger, we must embrace all the tears (like flowers soak up all the water). To expand and turn into the beautiful flowers that we are, we must love ourselves, our families, and our community (like how we depend on flowers to bloom every season). No matter what the seasons bring. No matter how the weather feels. Like flowers…

Black children of incarcerated parents are sure to bloom. This is a promise! Remember that brighter days will come, even when it rains for months. You can bloom in any spot, even those in the shade or in the dark. The light in your heart will always shine bright. Like the sun. To all the children of incarcerated parents: You will bloom no matter what happens in your family. You will bloom into a beautiful flower. What we mean by bloom is that you have to move on. Even though there will be obstacles in your way, you have to get over the obstacles to succeed. The obstacles are all the negativity that blocks your path. But you have to move on to get to the brighter side where the sun is. When a flower has sunlight, it grows taller and becomes stronger. Some obstacles that flowers may face while growing are weeds that get in the way, bugs that try to eat them, and weather that can destroy them. For example, as Jian and I grew our basil, bugs started eating it. This left DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-22

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FIGURE 18.1 Embrace

your emotions. Image by the authors.

holes in the plant. It didn’t destroy the leaf, it just didn’t look as nice. But it still tastes very good in our food. We also learned that keeping the basil in the sun too long will make its leaves shrivel. Although the extreme weather didn’t destroy the basil, putting it in the shade helped it to grow much taller. Flowers also struggle as seeds, but the flower tries its best to sprout up. Reading this, you may not see immediately how flowers and plants relate to children of incarcerated parents. But weeds are similar to the people who will try to make you think negatively about yourself by holding you down so that you cannot rise. The bugs are also like people, because they may make holes form inside you by the mean things they say about you and the things they do to you. The weather relates because, like on rainy or sunny days, your life may be dark and sad or bright and happy. Our main message is that, like plants and flowers, you will face challenges but you must address those challenges so you may grow. To create new flowers, you must share your words and knowledge. To those seeds that were just like you. They will bloom up and explore the world, just like you. And like a flower

118  Jian Alaa Muhammad and Jaelah Millah Muhammad

Bloom more flowers around the globe that are stronger, taller, brighter, and resilient As a flower, you have the power to duplicate new generations. This is a blessing. Know your worth You will sometimes go down but you will come back up again. Like how sometimes a flower will wilt down in the fall and winter seasons. Then in the summer it grows back stronger and has more to bring to the world. So, you must never let someone tell you how to bloom. You will bloom like you bloom. In the colder seasons, us flowers need to rest after all the hard work of growing through the warmer seasons over the years. Once we come back up, we will teach the next generation of flowers, with more knowledge and strength. Just by being yourself, you have a lot to teach the world and all those around you. Even when it may seem hard to find the flower inside you. Know that it is there and waiting to be grown (Figure 18.1). All of this growth is long and serious work. Always find time to laugh. The joke below is for you to start your journey with a smile: What flowers can blow kisses? (Answer below) Tulips (Two lips)…………………………………………LOL!

19 EMOTIONS William Myhre

Emotions in my body Wishing to let them flow Like a steady river A River I aspire to be Sometimes they don’t flow I feel burdened I feel stuck Almost like quick sand gripping my feet I push through Letting free Knowing I can’t hold in Having fun but But sometimes it feels like a sin And with this pen I flow Like the River I aspire to be My emotions running free So I can be happy

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-23

20 CRISIS TO CREATIVITY Akiya McKnight

This chapter is for my young Black and Brown people who have or had a parent in prison. For every time your cries and frustrations were looked over, every time you were pre-​judged, and for every resource you were denied. I see you, you are safe to talk about your experiences and you are a rare breed of people who can achieve more than the average. If you don’t take anything else from this chapter, I want you to remember we are thrivers not survivors. If you are reading this, most likely you and I have something in common. The most impactful thing we have in common is that we are extraordinary because of the experience of being a child of an incarcerated parent. On the surface, it sounds heartbreaking, but like Beyonce said in her hit, “You won’t break my soul,” in this case, IT won’t break our soul survivor to thriver stories. You and I both have or had a parent who is incarcerated, which is a hard experience. I’m sure this is an experience that none of us wanted to ever have in our lives, but these are just the cards we were dealt. Every hand of cards has its good, bad, and wild suits, but ultimately it’s always up to us how we play it. I know it can be easy to be flustered, frustrated, and even hopeless dealing with an incarcerated parent. That’s an energy space we don’t have to stay in. I didn’t always believe I could move past having my father in prison for 17 years. I struggled through many obstacles, but by the grace of God, I made something of myself. Actually, I didn’t just make something of myself, I’m thriving. I am good with much success. Before I get ahead of myself, I have to tell you how it all started. I was in crisis mode before I was even born into this world. My father was sentenced to 25 years to life while my mother was pregnant with me. I often wonder how my teenage mother felt, who now had the responsibility to raise her first child on her own. She did not have a choice on where she lived or DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-24

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the conditions she lived in. At that time, she didn’t have a job and hadn’t finished school to get a decent-​paying job. She wasn’t the only one living with decisions out of her control. My father was actually in a “hole” when I was born and it wasn’t until a few days into my life he was able to call and hear my first baby cries over the phone. Due to my father being incarcerated, my single mother worked multiple jobs to make ends meet. My siblings and I spent a lot of time either at my loving grandmother’s house or sometimes at home after school by ourselves. As you can imagine, I was forced to learn very young to protect myself and to be very aware of my environment as most of us do. Also, I grew up with a few uncles, aunts, and cousins who also were in and out of prison. So when my mother eventually served a short stint in prison, during my freshman year of high school, I had an understanding of what this new normal could be. Although I grew up surrounded by love and family, I still always felt a sense of hyper-​vigilance and walking through the world on defense. My dad was in prison and although I knew he would do anything to protect me physically, he could only do so much behind bars. I developed a lot of subconscious anger and was always ready to defend myself with words or physically. My response to conflict or when I felt attacked often escalated from 0 to 100. I struggled with authority, particularly from police, and even had really bad arguments with police officers as a teenager. Living in that constant state of fear soon turned into what I now know as anxiety. My anxiety and anger came to a major turning point when I was a freshman in high school. At the time, my father and mother were both incarcerated and I was under a lot of emotional stress. I went off verbally on a teacher to the point where I blacked out, until this day I cannot remember what was actually said. As I sat in my guidance counselor’s office, I was completely overwhelmed and had no choice but to break down in tears. This led my guidance counselor to recognize something serious was going on after I broke down crying with rage in her office. I could no longer hold in that I was struggling due to both my parents being in prison. Instead of suspension, I was referred to my school’s poetry therapy group for students who had parents in prison. When I was younger, I often lived in isolation and felt shame of my incarcerated parents. I had no one to express these feelings to. My mother always brought me tons of books and my father was a huge advocate for education. I naturally gravitated to reading which ultimately led me to write short stories in elementary school. I developed a very vast imagination. Poetry was introduced to me in elementary, but I didn’t fully engage myself in this creative art form until I was forced into the poetry therapy group. Being in the poetry group and hearing poems from other kids, who were going through the same struggles as me, helped me feel seen and I started to feel less alone. I even picked up a new form of expression, free journaling, which helped me process post-​traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and events

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that affected me. It was the mere act of keeping a journal filled with pages of countless traumatic prison visits, police raids of my home, and the financial instability of a single parent that ultimately led me to write my first short film, Served. It’s a story following the journey of two adolescent sisters whose mother goes to prison for the first time, over a decade later. I am a firm believer in turning your pain into your passion. Growing up I couldn’t have imagined the experience of being a child of an incarcerated parent would ultimately lead me to my purpose in this life. Every struggle, tear, anxiety attack, anger lash out, and feeling of isolation lead me to become a writer. At the end of high school after taking poetry and other creative writing classes, I realized ultimately I wanted to write films and TV shows. I took a film analysis class that confirmed creating and advocating stories about my community was going to be my life’s goal. During and after college, my career took some turns into various industries, but I was ultimately led back to screenwriting. My first film had to be personal and impactful. I didn’t have much experience making my own film and I definitely didn’t have much money. However, the one thing I did have was skills. Listed below are skills I learned from growing up as a child with an incarcerated parent which helped me with preparation, social capital, and finances for this film. • Resourcefulness (Finding Crew & Money) • Execution (Reading, observing, and risking shooting the film) • Resilience (Keeping it going and picking myself back up when everything went wrong) I wanted to create SERVED to tell the story of millions of children so that as a whole country we can understand the plight of children with incarcerated parents. I want the world to feel what we feel and walk in our shoes. It’s important for people like you and I to share our authentic experience of triumphant rather than victimhood. You deserve the success, peace, and happiness so bet on yourself to level up, out of your current circumstances. I’m not saying the road for us has been or will be easy, but staying your course will be rewarding.

PART 4

Parenting Behind and Beyond the Walls The Revolutionizing Relationships of BCOIP Sydni Myat Turner

The rise of mass incarceration caused by the War on Drugs and harsher sentencing policies began the new legal form of enslavement of Black bodies in America (Alexander, 2012). Over the decades, millions of Black people have been disproportionately imprisoned causing a disruption of the family unit (Coates, 2015). An overwhelming amount of the prison population consists of parents who had legal custody of their children prior to arrest (Maruschak et al., 2021). So, what happens to their children who are left behind? What happens to the parent-​child relationship during and post incarceration? How have their relationships changed with other people who are not their parents? One of the strongest institutions in the Black community has always been family (Billingsley, 1974; Billingsley & Morrison-​Rodriguez, 2007; Franklin, 1997). From enslavement through emancipation, Blacks attempted to uphold the institution of marriage and family, however, over time, the formation and structures of Black families have shifted from primarily nuclear (Billingsley, 1968; Billingsley & Morrison-​Rodriguez, 2007; Franklin, 1997; Gutman, 1977), through fictive kinships (Chatters, Taylor, & Jayakody, 1994). For whites, there is a normalized expectation of failure in the Black family structure. The Black misandric ideology and manifestations such as stereotypes, microaggressions, prejudice, and discrimination (i.e. dumb, violent, dangerous criminals) are common in America toward Black men, especially

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-25

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fathers (Oliver 2003, Taylor, Guy-​Walls, & Wilkerson, 2019). Undermining the normative involvement of Black fatherhood, whites fail to recognize the high rates of Black fatherhood, regardless of martial and residential status (Lemmons & Johnson, 2019). Historically rooted in societal stereotypes and the intersection of multiple identities, Black women and mothers are perceived by whites and portrayed in mass media as mammies, jezebels, breeder women of slavery, prostitutes, welfare queens, ghetto, ratchet, angry, and loud (Cole, 2009; Collins, 2000; Crenshaw, 1991; Rosenthal & Lobel, 2016). The inaccurate overgeneralizations of Black men and women have damaging effects. The stressors of discrimination, oppression, and racism, especially within the criminal legal system, heavily impact Black communities, families, and relationships of those incarcerated. Countering the white perspective, through the cultivation of understanding true Black history, Black families learn how to honor the relationships within their lives. The resilient Black Americans have generated a revolution through reimagination and recreation of their relationships. Enlightenment, education, and empowerment formulate awareness on familial restructuring in the Black community. Incarceration is so common that we have learned to adapt to parenting behind bars. In doing so, Black families have more effective approaches to addressing their varying relational needs as it relates to being directly impacted. The most formidable relationships I had with adults as a child were regularly interrupted by the extraction of my loved ones by the legal injustice system. (Dawan Alford, “Behind the Wall”) Having relationships with incarcerated family members is too common for Black children residing in inner-​city communities. As their neighborhoods are heavily targeted by the police, Black children of incarcerated parents (hereinafter “BCOIP”) are culturally taught the codes of the street from their relationships within family and community (Anderson, 2000). Being taught the game of life and how to play it, BCOIP are designed to be resilient as they survive and thrive. In society, the ability to make positive, conscious, and critical decisions are minimized as BCOIP are believed to have a greater likelihood of delinquency compared to their counterparts (Gabel & Shindledecker, 1993; Miller & Barnes, 2015; Muhammad, 2011; Muhammad et al., 2021; Noel & Najdowski, 2020). However, the navigation of visitation to see their incarcerated parents as children becomes a huge deterrent (Lockwood & Lewis, 2019). Sometimes, they even forgive their loved ones for the mistakes they made and in turn place the blame on the criminal legal system. Scarred from those memories and experiences, BCOIP

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can grow up to hate the racist institutional structure and make it their life’s mission to dismantle it. Even though my father has not been present for the majority of my life, I find that I’ve still managed to walk beside him. I say that to suggest that while he physically was not a part of my life, his incarceration and continued engagement with carceral systems has stuck with me. I couldn’t understand how the courts codified his actions as criminal and sanctioned them with such harsh penalties when I’ve only seen a man trying to survive. (Tashawn Reagon, “Letter to My Father”) The incarcerated parent-​child relationship has many phases of evolution as it changes during and after incarceration. The relationship differs for the adolescent child who grew into an adult child of an incarcerated parent. Relationships can range from parent-​child being considered best friends or to having no contact with each other (Gatewood et al., 2023). As an adult, their voice finally peaks from behind their childhood shadows. With age, authors began to understand the true basis of healthy relationships as they unpack their trauma to heal their inner self. The newfound relationships created by these BCOIP are founded on love, respect, safety, honesty, and loyalty. And that includes the decision to keep, change, or stop communication with their incarcerated parent. Experiencing hurt, pain, and feelings of abandonment from the past, BCOIP find it extremely important to truly forgive to have true peace. As adults, having autonomy over their lives, authors were able to start their self-​care and growth journey, therefore, capable of extending grace and establishing solid boundaries. Before he came home, therapy was a major part of my life, and I was continuing to do self-​work. (Jasmine Johnson, “Parenting Your Parent”) Research tends to focus on relationships while the parent is in prison, but what happens when they return? There is research on reentry when the child is a minor or young adult (Young & Jefferson Smith, 2019), but what is the experience when they are 35+​years old with an aging parent? How did COVID-​19 impact reentry and being restricted in the house during the lockdown? The transition of an incarcerated parent to formerly incarcerated parent is not always an easy one and is rarely spoken of. Some BCOIP authors explain the experience of parenting behind bars was by far easier than post-​ release. For years, sometimes over a decade, the parent-​child relationship was structured with scheduled collect calls, written letters, and long prepared visits. Being on the outside together was a distant memory and the reality

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of their relationship after release could only be imagined. With no physical control while incarcerated, parents are forced to either respect and listen to their children or face the consequences of their reactions to their decisions. Parents who are repeat offenders often exhibit inconsistent patterns causing their children to feel abandoned and unheard (Arditti, 2012; Siennick, 2016). Being incarcerated allowed some authors to feel a small sense of peace knowing exactly where their parents are and that they have access to them. My baby girl still wanted to greet her grandma. I was torn, between protecting my daughter’s perception of reality and allowing my mother to see her own grandchild. Prison set her back even further. (Dawan Alford, “Moms”) The relationships that are under scrutiny by most are the parent-​child, but how has being a BCOIP affected other relationships and how they connect with others? Some authors experience familial incarceration, sibling incarceration, partner incarceration, or neighbor incarceration, as well as their parents. Their children have to navigate their grandparent’s imprisonment and BCOIP have to navigate new terrains when they may not have reflected on their own feelings. Knowing their desired children deserve a healed parent, BCOIP authors were determined to become whole. They strive every day to reach their fullest potential by being the best version of themselves. In doing so, the incarcerated or formerly incarcerated grandparent, uncle, aunt, cousin, sibling, spouse, etc. may or may not be given the opportunity to form a bond with their children. The authors of “Parenting Behind and Beyond the Walls: The Revolutionizing Relationships of BCOIP” center around four major themes: understanding forgiveness, relearning, parenting your parents, and BCOIP’s own parental success. In this chapter, you will read about the obstacles and challenges BCOIP endure and overcome within relationships with their incarcerated parents, siblings, extended family members, and personal self. The authors offer several pieces of advice and tips to improve the incarcerated or formerly incarcerated parent-​child relationship. They speak directly to other children of incarcerated parents, to show how they navigated their situation, in order to help others going through a similar situation. This is an opportunity for readers to get the child’s side of how parental incarceration has affected them, a narrative that is not always told. Parental and familial support are known to influence educational attainment. The next part, “The Student and the Teacher: Education beyond Books,” elaborates on how their relationships affected their educational trajectories. References Alexander, M. (2012). The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. The New Press.

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Anderson, E. (2000). Code of the Street: Decency, Violence, and the Moral Life of the Inner City. W. W. Norton. Arditti, J. A. (2012). Parental Incarceration and the Family: Psychological and Social Effects of Imprisonment on Children, Parents, and Caregivers. New York University Press. Billingsley, A. (1968). Black Children in White Families. Englewood Cliffs, PrenticeHall, Inc. Billingsley, A. (1974). Black Families and the Struggle for Survival. Friendship Press. Billingsley, A., & Morrison-​Rodriguez, B. (2007). The Black family in the twenty-​ first century and the church as an action system: A macro perspective. In L. A. See (Ed.), Human Behavior in the Social Environment from an African-​American Perspective, (Chapter 3, pp. 199–217). Routledge. Chatters, L. M., Taylor, R. J., & Jayakody, R. (1994). Fictive kinship relations in black extended families. Journal of Comparative Family Studies, 25(3), 297–​312. Coates, T.-​N. (2015, October). 50 Years after the Moynihan Report, examining the Black family in the age of mass incarceration. The Atlantic. www.thea​tlan​tic.com/​ magaz​ine/​arch​ive/​2015/​10/​the-​black-​fam​ily-​in-​the-​age-​of-​mass-​incarc​erat​ion/​ 403​246/​ Cole, E. R. (2009). Intersectionality and research in psychology. The American Psychologist, 64(3), 170–​180. Collins, P. H. (2000). Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment. 2nd ed. Routledge. Crenshaw, K. (1991). Mapping the margins: Intersectionality, identity politics, and violence against women of color. Stanford Law Review, 43(6), 1241–​1299. https://​ doi.org/​10.2307/​1229​039 Franklin, M. (1997). “Power to the people”: Sociopolitics and the archaeology of black Americans. Historical Archaeology, 31(3), 36–​50. Gabel, S., & Shindledecker, R. (1993). Characteristics of children whose parents have been incarcerated. Hospital & Community Psychiatry, 44(7), 656–​660. https://​ doi.org/​10.1176/​ps.44.7.656 Gatewood, B. J., Muhammad, B. M., & Turner, S. (2023). Breaking Generational Curses: Success and Opportunity among Black Children of Incarcerated Parents. Social Forces. Gutman, H. G. (1977). The Black Family in Slavery and Freedom, 1750-​ 1925. Vintage. Lemmons, B. P., & Johnson, W. E. (2019). Game Changers: A Critical Race Theory Analysis of the Economic, Social, and Political Factors Impacting Black Fatherhood and Family Formation. Social Work in Public Health, 34(1), 86–​101. https://​doi. org/​10.1080/​19371​918.2018.1562​406 Lockwood, B., & Lewis, N. (2019, December 18). This Is What It’s Like to Visit a Family Member in Prison. The Marshall Project. www.the​mars​hall​proj​ect.org/​ 2019/​12/​18/​the-​long-​jour​ney-​to-​visit-​a-​fam​ily-​mem​ber-​in-​pri​son Maruschak, L. M., Bronson, J., & Alper, M. (2021). Parents in Prison and Their Minor Children: Survey of Prison Inmates, 2016. U.S. Department of Justice. Miller, H. V., & Barnes, J. C. (2015). The association between parental incarceration and health, education, and economic outcomes in young adulthood. American Journal of Criminal Justice, 40(4), 765–​ 784. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s12​ 103-​015-​9288-​4 Muhammad, B. M. (2011). Exploring the Silence among Children of Prisoners [Rutgers University]. https://​doi.org/​doi:10.7282/​T3VX0​FVR

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Muhammad, B. M., Gatewood, B. J., & Turner, S. (2021). Children of Incarcerated Parents: Pathways to Resilience & Success Research Report (pp. 1–​34). Howard University. Noel, M. E., & Najdowski, C. J. (2020). Caregivers’ expectations, reflected appraisals, and arrests among adolescents who experienced parental incarceration. Youth and Society. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​00441​18X2​0951​068 Oliver, M. B. (2003). African American men as “criminal and dangerous”: implications of media portrayals of crime on the “criminalization” of African American men. Journal of African American Studies, 7(2), 3–​18. Rosenthal L., & Lobel M. (2016, Sep). Stereotypes of Black American women related to sexuality and motherhood. Psychology of Women Quarterly, 40(3), 414–​427. doi: 10.1177/​0361684315627459 Siennick, S. E. (2016). Parental incarceration and intergenerational transfers to young adults. Journal of Family Issues, 37(10), 1433–​ 1457. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​ 01925​13X1​4550​366 Taylor, E., Guy-​Walls, P., & Wilkerson, P. (2019). The historical perspectives of stereotypes on African-​ American males. Journal of Human Rights and Social Work, 4, 213–​225. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s41​134-​019-​00096-​y Young, D. S., & Jefferson Smith, C. (2019). Young adult reflections on the impact of parental incarceration and reentry. Journal of Offender Rehabilitation, 58(5), 421–​443. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​10509​674.2019.1615​596

21 BEHIND THE WALL Dawan Alford

My mother, my father, and my uncle, all succumbed to the heaviness, trauma, and over-​policing that came with Reagan’s Anti-​Drug Abuse Act and the War on Drugs. The most formidable relationships I had with adults as a child were regularly interrupted by the extraction of my loved ones by a legal injustice system. The natural progression into adolescence for myself, and most Black males I knew, was accompanied by indoctrination of cultural codes, which included careful maneuvering to avoid the tentacles of jail. Even the more respected men, I knew, were being imprisoned due to the smallest infractions like parking tickets, child support, loitering, or drug use. My grandmother, who raised us, had two children, my mother and her son, Anthony, my uncle. “Uncle Ant” was my first hero. He was known for his style, sports, prowess, and charismatic personality. He frequently visited NYC through the transit rail system that ran just feet from our house, which earned him his old nickname, “New York.” He’d share stories with me and my brother about his experiences in the streets and in prison, which he termed, “behind the wall.” When we played basketball, he played “jail-​ball” and said, “the guys behind the wall were better players than Michael Jordan.” When it was dinner time, he’d yell, “CHOW UP!” His voice reverberated through the house’s walls in a deep echo, mimicking the call to eat in prison. He taught us to exercise as he learned in prison; no weights, all calisthenics, and mastering your own body mass. What happened to him behind that wall changed him and he instilled in us, even as children, lessons he carried that were shaping his moral composition. On a nice summer day, my siblings, all the neighborhood kids, and I would play games outside. On this day, while playing, I mistakenly pushed my sister a little too hard and she fell and began to cry. As a punishment for DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-26

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being too rough with our sisters, Uncle Ant gathered the boys in a corner to share a story of what happens to boys that hurt girls. He called his friend over and they towered over our diminutive statures. He began explaining what happens when men go to jail for rape, domestic abuse, or general abuse toward children and women. He started explaining how much bigger the inmates were than people in the outside world and asked us, “when the guard looks away, what y’all gonna do?” The grotesque detail in which he went into explaining what he witnessed first-​hand pierced my soul and never left. He grabbed a broomstick, snapped it across his knee, and put the sharp, ragged, point close to our noses. He asked, “do you know what happens next?” We were children, I was probably 11 years old, looking into the eyes of these two men, with my uncle venting about traumas he endured. We had no clue that jail or prison could be this bad, but we could sense the pulsing agony of the moment that branded itself in his consciousness. He thumbed the broomstick, just below an unpronounced tip, and viciously pounded the palm of his hand with it frantically. My brother tried to run. His friend pushed him back in the corner. He’d explain that it brought joy to the bodybuilder-​size men on the inside, to take out their harbored resentment of being unable to protect their daughters, sisters, and wives at home. My uncle paused and said, “this is what happens to you when you hurt girls, except my hand would be your ass.” We all went back to play in utter bewilderment. This was his way of teaching us to be more cognizant of the difference in levels of physicality between boys and girls. In so many ways, my uncle went to the extreme to provide lessons to my brother and I about principles he valued. He shared stories of how he eluded death and more about moments when others weren’t as lucky. The stories were always shared in gruesome detail. Looking back on it now, I think he used us as a form of talk therapy but always had an undertone of principles he needed us to understand. Sharing with us was probably the only time he ever shared those stories with anyone. He tried to instill in us not only a fear that came with choosing a life in the streets but also an understanding that was shared among various cultures when in a group setting. In prison, principles were prioritized over laws. Dignity and integrity kept you alive. This is an example of how prison impacted him most. We learned to be more aware of the potentiality of consequences. He returned home with little regard for protecting us from the harsh realities of our decisions. He wanted us to factor in the acuteness of consequence and the fragility of our existence. We had to understand how easy it was to die or be killed. He became like a soldier who had returned from war, and I noticed how I began to adopt his kind of measured, critical analysis in my decision-​making. I grew to experience my own fair share of encounters with violence, such as the loss of friends to gun violence, scrambling to escape shootouts, staring down the barrel of a police officer’s gun, and even witnessing the gruesome

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reality of people being killed. These images are seared into my consciousness forever. I imagine the images my uncle shared with me as a child. What has stuck with me most is an unrivaled ability to assess my environment and make calculated decisions about the possibilities of impending danger. Now diagnosed with PTSD, my ability to factor in the possibilities of danger is not as much of an interference, but a critical skill set I depended on while navigating the urban terrain often riddled with traps. A sixth sense, I suppose, formed by the magnifying of consequence from Uncle Ant (Figure 21.1).

FIGURE 21.1 Uncle

Ant aka New York. Photo from author.

22 73 DAYS Erika Hardison

For 73 days, my mother was incarcerated at Cook County jail in Chicago. She had been arrested and charged with kidnapping and abduction in the state of Illinois and Texas. I never saw her in jail and if I recall correctly I might have spoken to her over the phone, perhaps once. The events that led up to her being detained started as a snowball. It eventually erupted into a violent avalanche that affected not only her, but also me, my brother, her family, and I believe—​to some extent—​my father. My parents finalized their divorce when I was 5 years old. My father ended up with full custody and my mother relocated to Texas. I didn’t know immediately, of course. I found out my mother was gone for good on Mother’s Day. I had made her a card and I planned on giving it to her after coming home from Church. After changing clothes and settling in, I called her because she was staying with my maternal grandmother at the time. My maternal grandmother answered the phone and I wished her a Happy Mother’s Day. I asked for my mom and she told me she was gone. Of course, she tried to break it to me the best way she could, but I remember dropping the phone, screaming, and having a face full of tears. In that moment, I felt I would never see her again. It was the rawest form of abandonment I’ve ever felt, which has never left me. My paternal grandmother rushed into the room, grabbed the phone, and got all the details. I cried because at that moment I knew things between my mother and I would never be the same. She had left me without saying goodbye, and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see or hear from her again. Throughout that time, I lashed out. When I felt sad, I would pack my bag and threaten to run away. I wanted to run wherever my mom was. I was the only girl in my neighborhood who grew up with a single father. While I acknowledge all my DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-27

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privileges and resources, I felt emotionally broken and guilty. You see, my father was an engineer who worked in aviation and tech; therefore, he was providing me and my brother with a comfortable middle-​class environment. Besides stability, I knew that choosing and staying with my father would be rewarding. The way my father dealt with issues was with money. He believed that problems went away when money was factored in, so when I was sad—​which I often was—​he would take me on shopping trips and buy me whatever my brother or I wanted. This was a temporary fix to a bigger issue. While I enjoyed wearing gold jewelry, Jordan’s, and having all the name-​ brand clothes I saw in my favorite magazines, nothing ever replaced having a mom to come home to every day. There were times I tried to vocalize how difficult it was to not have a mother, but I was quickly reminded “how good I had it.” I was a Black, fat girl from the South Side of Chicago who lived in a nice house with a present and active father who showered me with anything and everything. My only maternal outlet at the time was my paternal grandmother, who is and has always been like a mother to me. I absolutely loved my grandmother and I wouldn’t be the woman I am today without her. However, my grandmother was born during the Great Depression, and despite her best efforts to be progressive and current, there were times when that generation gap was more apparent than others. Additionally, my father worked in the suburbs and was out of the house between 5 in the morning and home by 4 in the evening, which left my grandmother doing a lot of the child raising labor. But my grandmother and father were the closest things to a mother/​father dynamic and I learned to accept it. It took about a year or two for us to resume contact, maybe even three years. There were several times I had threatened to run away from home to go find her, despite not knowing where she was. I was between 6 and 8 years old, so running away meant hiding in the back of the closet at that time. My father tried to talk to me about my mother’s disappearance and I recall him keeping in contact with my maternal grandmother to see where she had settled. I eventually found out she had settled in Texas and was back in school. She was even learning Spanish and was planning a trip to Mexico. I had expressed how sad I was over how she left and she started calling more. She would also send me thoughtful packages in the mail like clothes and books. Those things meant a lot to me because we communicated and I felt like she was still involved in my life. I finally worked up the nerve to ask her to visit me and she said she would. The first time she said she would fly back to Chicago, I recall getting dressed up and going to the airport to wait for her. This was pre-​9/​11, so non-​passages could still go to the gates and wait for people. I was so excited to see her and she never showed up. I ugly-​ cried so hard going home. Why would she tell me she was coming to visit me and not show up? Didn’t she want to see the dress she bought me from Bloomingdale’s? When we got home, my dad called her on the phone but

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they talked in private. I tried to eavesdrop; I heard a few cuss words and that was it. He came out of the room and told me she missed her flight and she would be in town for Christmas. The truth of the matter was, from that day forward, he started buying all her tickets to visit. I only know this because my mother started bragging about it to her sisters. But that was only a band-​aid to a bigger problem. I was living in a fantasy. I would watch all the Black family TV shows and I couldn’t understand why I didn’t have a hands-​on mother along with my father every day. In my mind, we were the closest thing to The Cosby’s in the hood and I just knew if they got back together my quality of life would improve. But it didn’t. In fact, looking back at it, it almost ruined my life. My mother and father are like oil and water together. When the good times are good, they are good. But when the times are bad, it turns into a nightmare. To some degree, even now, I feel responsible for the things that took place because I was the one who begged both of my parents—​who had already separated from each other and had a tumultuous marriage and divorce—​to live in one house again for me and my brother. I thought years apart would add maturity to both parties, but it reared some of the most painful experiences of my childhood that inevitably impacted my coming-​of-​ age years. I was about 9 or 10 years old when I started asking my dad about the possibility of my mother moving in with us. He was against it at first, and so was my grandmother. In subtle ways, my grandmother tried to explain to me that my mother had a history of mental illness (my mother is bipolar and lives with chronic depression) and with my father’s short temper, it may not be the best decision. Nonetheless, he eventually gave in and my mother moved into our new house. I was excited, but the honeymoon didn’t last long and my home became a living hell. I knew my mother and father had an explosive past together. I don’t remember much of them being together before the divorce, but I recall painful memories of them fighting. My mother even today talks kindly of my father and uses words like “provider,” “a real man,” “the best father,” and “the smartest Black man I know,” to describe him, which are true. But my father, at least in my eyes as an adult, was also a womanizer, and his traits and characteristics became a breeding ground for misogynoir. I thought I would have been protected from it, but I wasn’t. As tensions continued to rise in my home, the sadness I thought was cured started rearing its head once again. Between self-​harming and writing suicidal letters in my diary, I felt responsible for the chaos I had encouraged between my parents. My father wasn’t a big believer in outside counseling and by the time my mother got me into therapy the harm had already been done and the therapy wasn’t consistent. I had cried so much for my mother to move with us, but now they hate each other, again, and by extension, I felt like my father hated me.

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Punishment in my house looked like taking video games, money, phone privileges, and curbing social extracurricular activities. My boomer parents weren’t big on corporal punishment and spanking. But one day, my dad hit me with a belt. I don’t even remember what I did. All I know is, I was in my bedroom and he came in and told me he was tired of me acting up and not respecting him. I recall the belt buckle leaving a bruise on my thumb. It must have punctured my skin because you could see the blood under the skin even though it wasn’t leaking. My paternal grandmother stopped my dad from hitting me because I was screaming and she ran into my room. My mother immediately went to the police and filed a report. My father was removed from the home and my mother was granted temporary custody. The police returned again with a search warrant shortly after because my mother told them my father had guns. He had served in Vietnam and owned a standard rifle and a small revolver he has from his father who served in WWII. He never used them or threatened me or anyone else with them, but I guess my mother was scared. Then my mother did something so ambitious that even to this day, some 30 years later, she’s still paying for it. My mother came and got me and my brother from school early. I was in the sixth grade and it was a cold and snowy day in March, too. We got in her car and as she drove off she told us we weren’t going back home. It didn’t register to me what was happening, but I remember her telling us that we are going to Texas. I admit, at the time, it seemed ok. After all, she had lived there and talked about how pleasant it was. I also resented the fact that my father never allowed me to visit her and I only saw her when she flew to Chicago. My mother had already packed what she could in her truck and after some brief counsel with a friend, who used to work for child services, we drove to Texas to find our new home together. We lived at my mother’s friend’s house for about 30 days before she kicked us out. She kicked us out because the police and child services had swarmed her door looking for us. They scared her and her kids and she told my mom we couldn’t stay there anymore. My mother was still looking for a job and her savings were dwindling. We stayed at a hotel while my mother figured out what to do with us. We entered a domestic violence shelter where I received therapy but it wasn’t consistent. I don’t know if it worked because I only had two or three sessions. We lived in the domestic violence program for about three months. During that time, older white families would adopt us into their homes and we would live there for a few weeks at a time. I wasn’t scared of white people at the time but I was cautious of them. After all, I was from Chicago and I only saw Black people for most of my life. All my teachers were Black, my neighbors were Black and even the police I dealt with were mostly Black. I lived with two white families—​both were extremely kind to me that I could remember. I had my own room at both homes and access to

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a swimming pool and hammock. The weather was humid and muggy but the perks weren’t that bad! I was about 12 years old at the time and looking back on it, there were a lot of white people in Texas. The families we were placed with were getting paid to house us. At the time, race didn’t play a factor in our housing situation because we were viewed as a battered family. I think our situation allowed white families to feel like saviors to a certain degree because they could get paid and help a marginalized family stay together as a unit. Or at least that’s what I told myself. My mother was able to transition out of the shelter and she found a beautiful apartment for us. I had my own room, with a vanity mirror and counter, and my own private bathroom door with a walk-​in closet. I was supposed to start junior high at Lake Highland in North Dallas, Texas. While I didn’t have all the latest fashion as I did in Chicago, I was still excited to start my junior high school life. My mother still didn’t have a job and we had to start dipping into our trust funds to cover the bills. I believe my mother even pursued child support, and that was probably the icing on the cake for my father. One early morning, just a week before I was supposed to start at Lake Highland, my brother and I were sleeping on the floor in my room. We didn’t have furniture, but we had a bunch of pillows and central air. The sun was barely up, but there were radios and commotion going on outside. I saw red and blue lights and heard voices through the walkie-​talkies. Then a group of white men came into my room, heavily armed. Me and my brother were lying on the floor and I saw them with their hands on their hip near their gun. I was scared and my only reaction was to cover my brother. Even now, when I see police in groups, I am always looking to see if children are near to protect them. Next, they confirmed our identities and told us to pack our stuff quickly. We went outside with morning breath, sleep still in our eyes, and carried what little belongings we had to the police car. My mother had a smile on her face and she told us not to be scared and that we were going back to our paternal grandmother. Years later she told me that her worse fear that day was us crying as they took us away because, for her, that would be the second time she had to watch law officials separate her from her children. The first time was when my father won custody in court, we were waiting in the daycare area in the courthouse and instead of our mother coming to get us, our father did. The police stood on both sides of her and behind her. She smiled at us as we drove off and I kept looking back at her. As soon as we turned the corner, the police moved and that’s when I saw her in handcuffs. My heart broke because I knew I’d lose her again and it was all my father’s fault, and in a lot of ways, mine, too. Within hours we were put on a flight back to Chicago. My paternal grandmother and father met us at the airport and all I felt was emptiness. I wasn’t happy. My social life in my neighborhood seemed to be destroyed.

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Everyone talked about me being kidnapped. I wasn’t kidnapped. I wasn’t in harm’s way in Texas with my mother. She didn’t hit me either. But while I was gone, my father was able to tell his side of the story unchallenged. My father’s point of view was that my mother was unfit to be granted sole custody because she had given us up before. Because he was the breadwinner and essentially in a different economic class altogether, he was able to make the argument that our quality of life was better under his care. My mother’s biggest mistake in all of this is being poor. She didn’t have the same resources to hire expensive lawyers as my father. She didn’t have a white-​collar job in tech either. She was a substitute teacher who had spent a lot of her adult life working retail and customer service adjacent jobs. She couldn’t spoil my brother and me the same way my father could. I wanted to run away but had nowhere to go. My father failed me by not getting me into therapy because that anger lingered in me for years. Not only was I not allowed to talk to my mother, but I also wasn’t allowed to see her either. So here I was in junior high school feeling angry, misguided, unsupported, and unloved. My mother was still incarcerated, and to make matters worse, my father had begun having relations with my neighbor—​a woman who my mother considered a friend when she moved to Chicago. This made me rebel. I hated the world and began lashing out by doing things I would not have probably done if my life had been relatively normal. I started running with gangs, selling drugs, fighting, and doing petty crimes just because I could. Now I was living next door to a woman, whom my mother thought was a friend, who was dating my father. She was cosigning his story by using the word “kidnapped” and “troubled” to describe me to others. This woman, let’s call her Evelyn, had a daughter a few years older than me, let’s call her Kelly. They started joking that my father would marry Evelyn, and Kelly even told people that my dad was going to be her future stepdad. The people who I thought were my friends were laughing at me and my mother. The only way I could defend myself was by fighting. I was already teased for being fat, wearing glasses, and being called a nerd. Now I was known as the girl who was kidnapped by her mother and nobody wanted to be my friend. Girls were especially cruel to me after I returned from Texas. I believe it was a mix of Evelyn and Kelly gossiping in the neighborhood, and the fact it appeared no woman (besides my grandmother) stood up for me. So one day, I jumped Kelly and hit her with a bag that had a couple of cans of canned corn in it. My father encouraged Kelly and Evelyn to call the police on me, so I moved out that night to my mother’s house. She had been released from Cook County jail for almost a year. I was only 15 years old at this time. Having my father encourage the same people who were determined to ruin my reputation with the police changed how I looked at my father forever. It was clear he would use his status to harm me and my mother without thinking twice, if he felt he was losing control over us. He could no longer control the narrative of

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my mother or himself because I was living it and seeing it in real-​time. That’s the thing about being a daddy’s girl—​you are led to believe that you will be protected from patriarchy through your father until you do something your father doesn’t like. My mother would tell me of some of the heinous things my father did to her when I was little and it was hard to believe it. But seeing him do those things to me, made me have empathy for her leaving us and wanting to take us away from him. This ignited my rage. Before I moved in with my mother, I was already skipping school to visit her. I would take my allowance and buy her breakfast and just sit with her and chat. I could feel her sense of embarrassment and failure. Here she was, an accomplished, educated bilingual Black woman, with degrees in psychology and education, who now was only seen as a woman with kidnapping and abduction charges. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t a career criminal or didn’t have any priors. My mother’s life was ruined and it’s a long-​standing guilt I’ve carried for decades. Sometimes I wish my mother never moved in with us but instead had her own place in Chicago. At least that way, I would have had the space to learn and bond with her on her terms without the drastic disruptions. Instead, our relationship is complicated because I can only imagine the hurt she feels every time she has to talk to me. She’s been ostracized from her church community, as well as her social circles and family. It seems only in America can a Black woman can be highly educated, bilingual, and a victim of domestic abuse but suffer the consequences for trying to ensure her kids are safe. Now, my brother and I are fully grown at 38 and 40, and I have a daughter of my own. Being a parent makes you sit with the things your parents did and taught you. It also gives you better clarity on where your parents possibly messed up so you can do better. My father passed away when I was 17 years old. Before his death, he had apologized to me and my mother, as well as both my grandmothers. While I appreciate his efforts to make things right, the only way he could have truly fixed this is to petition the courts to have her record expunged. He tried to course-​correct his actions by paying my mother’s rent and helping her with the resources she needed. But ultimately, her record has impacted her quality of life. Despite her accomplishments, she can’t secure a job or even housing on her own. As a senior citizen now, she cannot obtain senior housing because of her record. As her health declines, I am faced with a decision. How can I improve my mother’s seasoned years? I don’t have many options. In fact, I can only think of two. One is to write a letter on my mother’s behalf and ask for a presidential pardon. A presidential pardon will allow her record to be completely sealed and she can spend the rest of her days living life without shame like she has for the past 30 years. The second option is to allow her to live with me. However, with the upcoming recession, the pandemic, and jobs preparing for a hiring freeze, financially, I cannot help her the way I’d like to at the current time. But I’m trying my best.

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If you are reading this, please know that writing this brought back painful memories that made me cry. But what happened to my family is a combination of classism, patriarchy, and a system that penalized a Black woman for trying to do the right thing for her children. Perhaps it was the wrong choice considering the results. I can’t stop thinking about how much happier my mother would be if she didn’t come back. But ultimately, my mother and women like her face steeper penalties when it comes to resisting and fighting back against their abusers. Yes, my father was a great provider and has a stable, well-​paying career that allowed me and my brother opportunities we would not have had otherwise. But ultimately, he was the classic case of an abuser; he was charming and intelligent (even a genius depending on who you ask) but as his daughter, I experienced emotional and physical abuse from my father and have seen how he treated my mother throughout the years. My hope is for lawmakers and family advocates to prevent situations like this from happening. Even though I had a long, rough patch with my dad, I still love him even though he’s no longer here. While it took him a few years to see how broken I was, he tried to fix it. Once we were in a better place, I told him my plans of going away for college. I envisioned myself going to college in New York City, while pursuing a career in media. While he nodded and promised to support me, in my heart, I don’t think he would have wanted me to leave Chicago, especially not for school. When my father died, my mother helped me graduate from homeschool (because I was disturbed and at this point, my father was playing favoritism with my brother to the point I was severely depressed)—​and I left Chicago. I have no regrets because I needed a new start in life. I was young and filled with hopes and dreams.

23 MOMS Dawan Alford

I grew up in a small urban city called Orange, New Jersey. In the city were two notorious project buildings, known by their addresses, 108 and 325. Each set of buildings had a total of four, tall, low-​income, brick development buildings, two on each side, that enclosed a basketball court and swimming pool between them. These buildings were commonly referred to as “the projects” and became drug havens and crime-​riddled as the crack epidemic of the 1980s terrorized the tri-​ state area. Northern New Jersey became particularly swamped with drug activity because it provided a thoroughfare to NYC by way of the public train system, which ran just feet from our home. My parents got swept up in its wrath young, succumbing to drugs and criminalistic behavior in their teens, never finishing high school. My mom and dad sold and abused drugs, immersing themselves in a life of crime, which led to my mother birthing five children before the age of 22, with a number of unknown suitors. My father was the only one out of all of my siblings’ fathers, who made any attempt to stay connected to all of us, although his attempts were futile. My grandmother thankfully raised four of us, while my mom stumbled in and out of our lives. For example, she once told her small children, all under the age of 11, I must’ve been 7 or 8, that she was going to the store and didn’t return for weeks. Our grandmother would swoop in, caring for us, in complete bewilderment, that we were left unattended. We’d be eating cold soup out of cans for days, in fear of using the stove, getting ourselves ready for school alone, and when asked where our mother was, we’d answer, like children would, “she went to the store.” When we reached our early teens, the relationship with my mom had been severely fractured. She was incarcerated and sentenced to five years, after being caught in North Carolina for trafficking and her sentence lasted DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-28

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throughout my secondary schooling, from eighth through twelfth grade. Although my grandmother had full custody of us by this time, it impacted us deeply when we got the news of her incarceration. It was devastating for me, seeing the impact it mostly had on my younger sister who was in the sixth grade. She would go to high school before seeing our mom again. The distance made it nearly impossible to visit her with my grandmother and our relationship fizzled away. I vaguely remember if she wrote us any letters, but by then, she was so inconsistent in our lives, we never reached out. My senior year of high school she was slated for her release. I learned more about guardianship and that my biological mother had lost custody of us when filling out college application forms. When applying for federal aid, the applications would ask for your parent’s name and income and I’d always leave it blank. I began feeling like I didn’t really have a maternal representative. Here is where I learned that I was considered a ward of the state. I harbored so much resentment for the void she left in my life, that when asked about her presence, I’d say, “I didn’t have a mom.” I was too embarrassed to say that she was incarcerated, so I resorted to saying things like, “I didn’t know of her whereabouts.” When she returned from her bid, I remember she got a job working as a server at IHOP for menial wages. I remember visiting her at work with my friends as she served us, and for the first time I had witnessed my mother having a job. I was proud of her, even if she was only a server. I would make sure we tipped her really well and tell her I was proud of her. Discouraged and having acquired no skills while incarcerated, she relapsed and started using drugs again. Fast forward ten years or so, I’d have my own daughter in my late 20s. As my child grew, there would be instances where we’d pass my mother in the streets of our neighborhood; the same neighborhood where she grew up. An addict, unhoused and unwell, running into her in the streets near our home when taking my daughter for walks, was challenging. I was embarrassed, ashamed, sad, and frustrated by the tight grip that drug addiction had on my mother. My baby girl, just a toddler, didn’t see what I saw and still wanted to greet her grandma. I was torn between protecting my daughter’s perception of reality and allowing my mother to see her only granddaughter. I would still allow them to foster a relationship, but deep inside, I feared the impact of the inconsistency and harm of abandonment. I deemed it inevitable for my own child, as I had come to know too closely. Prison set her back even further.

24 APPLE DON’T FALL FAR Shatarra King

They say the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. Lord knows I tried really hard to be my own tree. As most girls do, I immediately fell in love with my daddy. I was like his shadow until my mother and I relocated from Chicago to Houston. I was around 4 years old at the time. While I did not understand the move, it surely makes a whole lot of sense to me now. The very last thing I recall about the move was being in Houston and my daddy coming to visit. I stood at the metro bus stop crying because I did not want him to return to Chicago. At 5, I was not able to express my emotions, but there was a feeling I had that told me something was not right about him leaving me. Later at around 15 years old, I remember hearing that the police were waiting for him at the airport as soon as he got off the plane. The first man I had ever loved had been detained by the state. My daddy was sentenced to over 20 years behind bars for attempted murder. As I grew more into myself, I met a guy in my senior year of high school who was just as dreamy as one could imagine. We spent a whole summer together before we separated. I went on to attend Clark Atlanta University, leaving him behind as a memory. That was until his younger sister reached out to me over social media informing me that he was incarcerated and wanted my address. For five years, we were pen pals until one day I received an unexpected phone call from a regular phone number; no press five now! He informed me that he was home and wanted to see me in person. I tried to avoid it but eventually gave in because he had become my best friend. In 2013, I flew from Atlanta to Dallas one April weekend. This one weekend altered my post-​graduation plans quickly. After graduation, I moved to Dallas to live with this dreamy man. Soon after my move, I became pregnant with my first child. By April 2014, I was a young mother playing house. I learned DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-29

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quickly that playing house was no fun. The relationship quickly went from the honeymoon phase to hell on wheels. Before our son was 2 years old, his father was sentenced to 12 years in federal prison. Not only did my son’s father receive this prison sentence, so did my son and I. For the first three months, my son would look for his father every time I pulled into the garage. This was the start of a long journey. Initially, my son’s father and I agreed that we would not bring our son to a prison facility to visit. We decided that we did not want him to witness his father incarcerated. However, as we rounded the two-​year mark, it became difficult for his father to hear everything his son was experiencing and growing through without him. After much thought, I agreed to bring our son to visit. At the time, our son was 4. He had already been out of the country, traveled to several states in the U.S., and had begun learning a second language. Upon our first visit, we were asked to remove our shoes and walk through a metal detector. My son started crying, looked at me, and said, “I don’t have to do this at the airport.” As tears flooded my eyes, I pleaded with my baby to comply as I knew what awaited him on the other side of the door. At that very moment, I knew this would not be an easy task. Fast forward to March 2020, as we entered a global pandemic, for the first time in two years, prisons no longer allowed visitors for incarcerated people. Much like the rest of the world, the dynamics of my co-​parenting situation drastically changed. During the pandemic, we relied heavily on emails and phone calls. Early in the pandemic, incarcerated people were limited to an hour of out-​time every two days. What this meant to us was that changes in our son’s life needed to be documented. I could relay this to his father and provide him space to share insights and assist with the parenting journey. Because of my own father’s incarceration for most of my life, I knew from experience that my son needed to have his father’s influence in his. My son’s father and I have made it our mission to find ways to co-​parent despite our circumstances. Generally, we start most conversations with how our son’s week at school went with glows and grows. This allows me to give him glows, which are the good things our son accomplished. Then I tell him grows, which are the negatives. This mainly includes the marks our son received in his daily folder at school. Once I shared this information with him, we discussed options for adjusting his activities at home or outside school to assist with his behaviors. He also discusses privately with our son how his behavior affects mommy and what he can do to help make mommy’s job a little easier. Another thing he does is to discuss the consequences or punishment options with our son and then report them back to me. First, I have noticed during this time that it has allowed me as a mother to change how I parent. My parenting changed in a way that I had to truly recognize I was not the only one responsible for the outcome of our son’s life. It was beneficial to be inclusive rather than exclusive. Because of his incarceration,

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it made no sense to punish him as a parent. And second, it allows him to recognize the identifiers that may have led him to this path that ultimately restricted his freedom. My advice, do not isolate or exclude them. It will be challenging, and you will not always agree. But because they have been stripped of everything they have ever had control over, allow them the opportunity to have some sense of normalcy. And allow your child to understand and build a relationship with the other parent, considering that the other parent is in a healthy mental state. However, if the relationship is unhealthy, I encourage all parties to participate in family counseling before moving into co-​parenting. This will be the foundation for the transition upon the incarcerated parent’s release. My hope for individuals reading this chapter is that it allows parents to collectively work with the child’s other parent to create effective co-​parenting plans.

25 OBSTACLES ON BOTH SIDES OF THE GATE Kiara W. S. Bynum

The definition of an obstacle is “a thing that blocks one’s way or hinders progress” (Dictionary.com, 2012). Although obstacles are inevitable, they are not necessarily a death sentence. Obstacles surface for various reasons and occur in different seasons of an individual’s life. Nonetheless, these stumbling blocks can transform into stepping stones. Roger Crawford once said, “Being challenged in life is inevitable, being defeated is optional” (2020). Obstacles that affect children of incarcerated parents are insurmountable. I experienced social and emotional obstacles, which include shame, depression, and low self-​ esteem. In addition, antisocial behavior has dominated my life; however, I have always attributed it to being an only child. I felt shame in various ways. I not only had to deal with the shame of my father’s incarceration, but I had to also deal with the lifestyle of my paternal family. It was a savage lifestyle. There was no concern about living with social standards or morals. Those relatives did not value life, education, or themselves. Meanwhile, my mother made a conscious effort to ensure those things were instilled in me which was amazing. She was reared properly and made sure I was as well. As a 4 year old, my maternal grandfather, “Daddy,” was my only active father figure. I was the only grandchild in my family who did not live with both parents. It did not matter whether the family was whole or healthy, I just longed to dwell in a two-​parent household. Around the third or fourth grade, I realized that my reality was different from that of my peers. At that time, I realized my life was an obstacle once I began experiencing shame. This one gripped my heart and soul for the majority of my life. It was shameful to acknowledge that I had an incarcerated parent. I was ashamed of being asked

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-30

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questions. Some of those questions were, “how long has he been in prison,” or “what did he do?” Those questions were taboo. No one would want to answer them, no matter which side of the gate he was on. For many years, I said my father lived in Florida because, in my adolescent mind, I felt like Florida was very far away. Then, once my grandfather (Daddy) passed away, my story changed to my father being dead. Daddy had just died of lung cancer, and his demise happened in my fifth-​grade year. Then, my great-​grandmother passed away three months later. In sixth grade, my Social Studies teacher pulled me out of class to ask about my father. I vividly remember telling her, “he is dead.” There were no more questions or comments and we went right back to class. This became my story. It was my reality to my peers and friends. I never shared the truth with my best friends or the guy I was dating. It was easy to lie because his father had passed away when he was a child; therefore, he understood. This lie became true in my mind and became my story for the next 13 years!! Although the narrative to others was that he died, I did meet him in prison for the first time when I was 11. I was terrified. I saw nothing, but horrible people. Seemingly, I felt everyone was looking at me and that created so much fear that I did not return for years. We kept in contact via phone and letters until I was 16 years old. I had begun to hate him after that just for the simple fact that he was not there in my life, and seeing peers in two parent families at that time made it difficult. It was during this time I remember being greatly affected by the absence of my father. For the next seven years, I continued to experience shame, depression, and low self-​esteem. These obstacles changed the trajectory of my life. Albeit life took a turn. My father was on a court order in my hometown and had more privileges to travel outside the jail. He traveled to my home church on Easter of 1997 and neither one of us recognized the other. Because I was scared and did not know what to expect, I wasted no time after service and left. Nonetheless, five months later, he came back to the church and likewise the same thing happened –​no communication and no contact. I did not want to meet him just because I feared the what-​ifs. What will he say? What will I say? I did not want to meet him or be involved in any part of his life. It took until I was 23 years old to reunite with my father. No longer holding onto fear and resentment, I visited my father in prison for the second time, almost 11 years later. Despite being searched and going through metal detectors, my shame had ceased. Clothing policies changed quite often. I saw people being mistreated for no reason. Nevertheless, sitting at a table with my father was priceless. I had seen him often in church rooms with over 300 other people, but it could not compare to this visit. Visitations were always pleasant, full of laughter among many serious conversations about life, with and without him, and family issues we both experienced. I often

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sat there with a big smile and laughter erupted from my soul. There was no comparison to my experience as a child. This time the bond was made and our relationship began to grow. It grew through many conversations via phone, letters, and plenty of visits. It flourished into what every little girl dreamed of, even behind the gates. In retrospect, this was a relationship that I sat high on the shelf for the past 22 years. Now, these things that I once saw as obstacles were no longer seen as such for me. I could now see them as stairs to be climbed with pride. My shame became obsolete. Then, I began to coin the phrase “No More Shame” for my life. After living through the lens of “No More Shame” for so long, I was now faced with shame and travesty once again. During the rise of the COVID-​ 19 pandemic in 2020, the entire world experienced obstacles and stress. My father received an early release from prison during that time. At that moment, I no longer saw myself as a child of an incarcerated parent. I was an adult child whose father was residing with her –​as a registered sex offender with the city. Shame reared its ugly head again. All the feelings of my inner child rose to the surface. It was a shame that now his identity had become my identity through the eyes of the neighborhood. Trying to adjust and transition was uneasy. I was not only living with someone else, but I was also residing with a father who I had never lived with previously. Unquestionably, the obstacles multiplied. The stressors and psychological issues were unbearable, so I sought professional counseling. I had thought about the old adage, “A mind is a terrible thing to lose.” That statement resonated with me. I felt like I was on the losing end. I needed an outlet, even though everyone in my life thought I should be happy just because my father was home. They wanted me to be overwhelmingly excited, but I was stressed. Communication was no longer relaxed as it was in the past. It had become very edgy and almost non-​existent. COVID-​19 was at a high and we both felt imprisoned. We were unable to leave the house and didn’t know how to cope with this new normal. The days became long and silent, while the nights grew shorter. We had started off having good mornings discussing our day, and ending the night with great conversations about life. Eventually, those moments turned into work sessions in my office. Usually, I would not see my father until after 12 noon. I was no longer being greeted and there was no more conversation. The tension was great. It was literally one obstacle after another and our relationship suffered. Neither one of us had proper guidance on how to develop a relationship on this side of the gate. Trying to continue the relationship became impossible. As a result, the relationship ended through a heated disagreement. I demanded that he move out. Then there was shame again. I was ashamed of what people would say and how they would perceive me. I had held our relationship to such a high level and had shared 22 years

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of the ups and downs of our relationship. I crawled from the hurt and shame, through prayer, my faith, and counseling therapy. I realized what Michael Jordan said, “Obstacles don’t have to stop you. If you run into a wall, don’t turn around and give up. Figure out how to climb it. Go through it or work around it” (Allan, 2015). This guided me to no longer allow the actions of another to dictate the tempo of my life. I have learned to manage my wounds from obstacles. I know how to live with the limp. Living with a limp doesn’t mean I am disabled or have a disability. It simply means I have a testimony! God has brought me through the storm. Now, I am on the other side. It doesn’t matter what anyone and especially an incarcerated parent has done or does. It is important not to see yourself through the lens of them. You are an offspring of your parents, although your life does not have to reflect it. Your words have power. You have the power to speak to the obstacle and it will be removed. You possess the power to overcome. Ultimately, you have the power to live with no more shame. References Allan, T. J. (2015, November 24). How Michael Jordan’s Mindset Made Him a Great Competitor. U.S.A. Basketball. www.usab.com/​youth/​news/​2012/​08/​how-​mich​ ael-​jord​ans-​mind​set-​made-​him-​great.aspx Crawford, R. (2020). Challenges Are Inevitable: Defeat Is Optional. Made For Success Publishing. Dictionary. (2012). Definition of Obstacle. Dictionary. www.dic​tion​ary.com/​bro​wse/​ obsta​cle

26 PARENTING YOU PARENT Jasmine Johnson

As I sat with my grandmother as she took her last breath, I knew that her duties and commitment to my father would now be shifted to me. The truth is, I’ve always had a lot of anxiety about my father coming home from prison. Not because of our relationship, but because I wanted to be a resource for him. On January 20, 2020, my grandmother passed away from lung cancer. My anxiety now had to be suppressed. I had to ensure that he would come home to a suitable environment. A year and a half later, on his birthday, my father was released from prison. On his birthday and the anniversary of his first year home from a 17-​year sentence, my father and I headed to dinner to celebrate. He said out loud, “Man, this has been a year for me!” I chuckled and looked at him. His response to my chuckle was, “Well, a year for you too!” Although we didn’t elaborate on the events and emotions that we both felt over the past year, it was at that moment we both acknowledged that the transition wasn’t as easy as we thought it would be. While my father was incarcerated, we were able to maintain the relationship we built prior to his prison sentence. The older I became, I learned that relationships with a solid foundation have a better chance of survival and are more likely to weather any storm. What neither of us anticipated upon his return was how his relationships, or my relationships with other people, would affect how we interacted. It is said that once incarcerated, people remain the same age they were at the time of their sentencing. My father was incarcerated when he was 30 years old, and I was 11. By the time he returned, I was no longer a child, but a 27-​year-​old woman. In theory, once he came home, we were both around the same age, me 27 and him still a 30-​year-​old man. Before my DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-31

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father was released, I lived comfortably in a one-​bedroom apartment, paying less than $1,000 in rent. I had little to no worries in the world. But when my grandmother died, I knew I would have to provide a place for him to live and thrive. It was my goal to create a space for him to be his best self. Me creating this space for us took a lot of work and preparation. I knew that I was probably the only one in my family who could provide this for him. As I prepared to create an environment for him, I made adjustments in my life and my home, while trying to maintain a space for myself to thrive. Although I joke a lot and call this phase of my life “Parenting my Parent,” it’s the honest truth. Parents prepare for their newborn child to come into the world. They make adjustments in their lifestyles and who they are as individuals, in order to give their children the best life possible. I had to do the same for my father. Before he came home, therapy was a major part of my life, and I was continuing to do self-​work. I didn’t internalize this at the moment, but I was emotionally preparing myself for his return. In this process, I was also preparing myself for us to live together, which is something we hadn’t done since I was 4 years old. During this time, I didn’t think about how his return would affect me or how I would have to “parent” him. I’m thankful to God, always, because I was prepared internally for his return. As nothing truly prepares you to be the best parent, there were no books on how to “parent” my formerly incarcerated father in the way he needed. When my father was sent to prison, I was 11 years old (his oldest child), and my sister was 5 years old (his youngest child). When he returned, we were all adults, who had our own unique personalities and had adapted to living life without our father physically present. I believe this was difficult for him and for us. In many ways, it was easier for him to parent us while he was in prison. He did not have to deal with the realities we were living. I often told him how to parent me as an adult, while also parenting my inner child. Additionally, I was faced with assisting him on how to parent his other children. I am always thankful that my father and I had a solid foundation before his time in prison. We were prepared to embark on our new journey because of the tools and preparation we had. Many people thought our living together would be the biggest challenge, but that was the least of our worries. The most difficult thing my father and I dealt with in that first year was understanding when to lead and when to follow. Being an alpha man, my father never really had to “listen” to someone. His presence alone made people conform to what he wanted and needed. This was a conflict for us because he was entering a household where I did things on my own term (under the guidelines of Islam). Also, I am a reflection of him in a female form, which made our personalities clash. Over the past year, we had to address a lot of trauma from his childhood and mine, including how his life choices affected me and the relationships

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with my siblings. We had to address how our relationship had an effect on his relationship with others. We had to rebuild the foundation that was established before he went to prison, rebuild as adults, as a father, and as his adult daughter. When I reflect on this transitional year, I am thankful that we were able to build a solid foundation. Seventeen lessons of parenting your parent are as follows: 1 If you haven’t already, seek a therapist to help you navigate change. 2 Lead with love every day. 3 Remind yourself that God will not give you more than you can bear. 4 Your purpose is bigger than you. 5 Stand firm in your beliefs despite those that may not agree. 6 Honor and respect your boundaries. 7 Grace can still exist with the boundaries you’ve set. 8 People who know better, do better. So if they knew better, they’d do better, but sometimes they don’t know. 9 In times of need, remind yourself that the world has moved past what your parents experienced. This will assist with your patience level. 10 Understand that plans do change. 11 Only truly great people can operate under chaos, so show everyone what you are made of. 12 If you need to “block” your parents, do so within reason. As a Muslim, my father received his “3 days” often. 13 Visit what’s familiar to you, such as the ways you communicated while your parent was in prison. Our way was to write letters. 14 Understand all battles are not your battles to fight. 15 We don’t know what battles they had to fight in prison. They don’t deserve to constantly fight when they come home. 16 Grow through what you go through. 17 Be specific in your prayers!

27 LETTER TO MY FATHER Tashawn Reagon

On November 9, 2019, a New York family court judge smiled and declared, “you are officially adopted.” As I looked around, I saw familiar faces beaming with joy in celebration of what the law codified, and what I had already known to be true, a family. At 25 years old, this was the last year that I could be legally adopted by my parents. For the majority of my life, I was raised by my paternal aunt and her partner. However, the word aunt doesn’t actually have any relevance to her position in my life, as she has always been my mother, or “TT” as I call her. My mother’s partner, Bob, has also always been in my life and took on the role of a parent around the age of 7. And while in some ways the new legality of my adoption was insignificant, we all hugged each other a little tighter. At this moment, the larger significance of my adoption held so many things for my family. While on the surface, it was going to make writing a living will a lot easier; it also meant that my Black and brown, masculine presenting, lesbian parents were allowed to adopt a child. For those who do not know the history, queer couples for years were not legally allowed to adopt children. Regardless of the circumstances, their sexual orientation or “lifestyle” was deemed dangerous and improper to the lives of children. However, my adoption opened up a door that I thought had been closed for quite some time now. This adoption was not just a celebration of the law recognizing queer families, but it also relinquished any legal ties I had to my birth parents –​ensuring that people I had no real connection to, that only the law told me were my parents, no longer had a say over my life. For weeks leading up to my adoption, I found myself processing deep panic and concern about what this meant for me and my relationship with my father.1 While trying to process my feelings, I sought the help of my therapist, DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-32

Letter to My Father  153

who so lovingly suggested that I write a letter to my father. I didn’t have to send it, and I didn’t even have to share it with anyone, but the exercise, in theory, would allow me to name my thoughts, feelings, and questions, about our history and his absence. While I lightly agreed to the exercise, somewhere deep down inside, I knew that I wasn’t ready to actually name what I wanted to say to him. How come you couldn’t take care of me? Was I planned? Why did you abandon me? I had all of these unanswered questions and fears about losing the only ties I still held to my biological father. And at the same time, I found myself sitting in an equal space of excitement, as I embraced the validation the law provided to the family I already knew to be mine. As I reflect on where I am now, both a doctoral student studying the effects of carceral systems, and a “child of a previously incarcerated parent,” I struggle to put my story into my own words, outside of the theory I have fallen on for so many years. Words that make sense to me at least. Words that actually describe my experience from my perspective. Writing this piece unleashed tears I didn’t know existed. When my father’s name is brought up in rooms, my stomach always begins to churn; my heart begins to race. My father has been in and (mostly) out of my life since I was a young child. And despite this, I haven’t fallen apart. I’ve managed. But I have always wondered, what would it be like if he was present? To this day, I don’t think I have the answers or language from him about my birth story and his lack of parenting capacity. And even with my birth certificate naming new parents, and my father having no legal parental ties to me, I refuse to let go or remove him from my story. So what now? Even though my father has not been present for the majority of my life, I find that I’ve still managed to walk beside him. I say that to suggest that while he physically was not a part of my life, his incarceration and continued engagement with carceral systems has stuck with me. When I was 13 years old, my father was convicted and incarcerated for the third time. In a case wrought with police misconduct, my father was characterized only by his repeated offenses and faced a decade in California federal prison under the mandatory minimum sentencing requirements. When I look at my father, I see a Black man struggling with addiction, who turned to drug dealing as a last resort to make ends meet. I couldn’t understand how the courts codified his actions as criminal and sanctioned them with such harsh penalties when I’ve only seen a man trying to survive. For the majority of my adult and professional life, I have been both intrigued and perplexed by the American practice of punishment and the formal institution of imprisonment. My father is one of the thousands of individuals, particularly Black and brown, who commit nonviolent crimes to solve or mitigate their unmet social needs. In theory, we live by a social contract, absent of race, between the state and its citizens. Citizens who violate the contract are removed, rehabilitated, and brought back into society. In reality,

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however, the state does not uphold its side of the contract, guaranteeing life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. As a result, the U.S. incarcerates more people than any other country. Its conflation of survival and crime has led to the unaccountable and inaccurate application of justice and the removal of Black and brown people from our communities. I am compelled by these contradictions of obscenely punishing survival and obstructing pathways for reintegration by removing people from society, instead of changing the conditions that propel their actions. The inconsistencies that I continue to witness have driven me to interrogate the underlying function of incarceration, not as a tool for creating a functioning society, but rather for propelling the surveillance and social control of Black and brown individuals. So plainly, our methods of punishment are unquestioningly unjust and unfair. While I was not raised by my birth parents, mainly due to their struggles with addiction and incarceration, I come from a legacy of civil rights leaders, musicians, academics, and artists. It is a community of dysfunctional functionality, struggle, and an immense love of powerful women, who continue to guide me and push me to question the validity of our institutions and also my place within them. While it could be said that most young people would not be able to sustain such strength on their legs under the weight of such legacies, I, through my profound capacity, have found not only my strength but also my evolving voice. So despite all of this, I write this to my father: Writing this letter has been the hardest thing for me. There are parts of my life that I wished you were present for, and yet, so many promises you named that were broken. I think I simply gave up and took growing up without you as the best thing for me. I was so often told that you made the best decision for us when you realized you couldn’t take care of me. That I should find solace in that. And while I am grateful that I was raised by such loving women and community, I have profound hurt and pain from your absence. Our paths have crossed and divided again, but to be truthful, I liked it being the latter. This piece isn’t a note expressing my anger, hurt, and pain, but rather a thank you for teaching me how to find love and family. Note 1 My birth mother has never been a part of my upbringing and raising.

PART 5

The Student and the Teacher Education Beyond Books Britany Jenine Gatewood College graduates are not typically associated with BCOIP. If you only read what has been published for years, not even high school graduation is something they usually achieve. Rates of suspension, dropouts, and disciplinary actions are the metrics that people turn to (Miller & Barnes, 2015; Turney & Haskins, 2014). But what about the BCOIP who graduate college, gain Ph.Ds., or even law degrees? What about the people that fall in between what is deemed “educational success?” Where are their stories? A quick Google search of “education and Black children” yields results that are consumed with examining how Black children fall through the cracks, the dire environments of inner-​city schools, and the low rates of graduation. The first search result says, “Black students spend less time in the classroom due to discipline, which further hinders their access to quality education. Black students are nearly two times as likely to be suspended without educational services as white students” (UNCF, 2023). A search of “Black children of incarcerated parents and education” yielded similar results, with the first entry being “Black children are six times as likely as white children to have a parent who’s been incarcerated” (Morsy & Rothstein, 2016). These searches show the pervasiveness of the negative, racist images BCOIP are associated with. Recently, research has started to look at how children of incarcerated parents are striving when it comes to educational attainment (Gatewood, 2020; Gatewood et al., 2023; Hollins, 2021; Muhammad et al., 2021). Research is now exploring how Eurocentric views of educational success are different when it comes to BCOIP (Gatewood et al, 2023; Hollins, 2021) and highlighting their achievements (Nichols et al., 2016). Educational attainment is hindered by structural and institutional racism, and many times Black

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children, and especially, BCOIP, are pushed out of the system on purpose (i.e., the school-​to-​prison pipeline) (Crenshaw et al., 2015; Kim et al., 2010; Morris, 2016; Nocella II et al., 2014). BCOIP contributors explore how education has shaped their lives and counter the narratives that assume lower educational attainment and the lack of self-​motivation to succeed. In my classroom, I was practicing restorative justice years before I knew what it was…As an adult, I realize how important restorative justice is to me because I know in my heart if my father ever came back into my life, I would have forgiven him. (Jay Baron, “What Is a ‘Bad’ Guy?”) BCOIP as teachers is a profession that many are led to. All teachers bring their past experiences and lessons learned with them as they teach the next generations, and BCOIP are no different. BCOIP have a unique perspective that can influence how they respond to and interact with their students. Children have access to media and information in a way that they never had before. Stereotypes of incarcerated people, and in general Black people, within the media depict them as criminals, “bad” people, and scary characters (Johnson, 2012). Although teachers only see their students for a limited amount of time, they can deliver a counternarrative to the negative imagery that students are constantly being given. BCOIP are unique because as teachers, they can humanize this population and give an alternative view than the labels ascribed to incarcerated people. After graduation, I lived in NYC and I continued to pursue my education, eventually earning two master’s degrees and a Ph.D. (Whitney Hollins, “Intergenerational Achievement: Class of 2025”) As researchers focus on the poor educational outcomes of BCOIP, they fail to discuss those who succeed in their studies and the pursuit of higher education. There are many that go on to graduate college and even earn graduate degrees (Gatewood et al., 2023; Muhammad et al., 2021). Although some do not graduate college or even high school, that does not mean that they failed. Their stories tend to end at “dropping out,” which can insinuate their value is tied to their educational attainment. School is not the only indicator of success, and furthermore, BCOIP tend to view their success outside of Eurocentric indicators (Gatewood et al., 2023). In middle school, I made a deal with myself that even if I didn’t get the top grades in the class, I would still be completely devoted to my education, and I knew I was willing to fight harder with each downfall.​ (Arieanna Hollins, “Intergenerational Achievement: Class of 2025”)

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Resilience is a quality that most BCOIP tend to exhibit (Ashmitha & Annalakshmi, 2020; Muhammad, 2018; Muhammad et al., 2021; Nichols et al., 2016). Because of high ACEs, there are many hardships they must endure. Like most students, BCOIP also have to navigate parents/​guardians, classes, homework, teachers, and their peers. However, their personal life can also weigh heavy on them. Pressures to excel in school as a Black child has its own challenges. Institutional and structural racism and classism proliferate our school systems, and teachers often have lower expectations for Black and Brown students (Gershenson et al., 2016). Like Arieanna, internal motivation and resilience have pushed BCOIP to go beyond the expectations that society has for them. The following chapters follow three BCOIP with three different relationships with education. One teaches young kids, one is beginning her undergraduate studies, and one is pursuing their fourth degree. “The Student and the Teacher: Education beyond Books” highlights how parental incarceration has influenced not only their studies but also how they teach others. Authors show other BCOIP that they can be teachers, educators, lawyers, doctors, and much more. They reflect on how parental incarceration influences their educational trajectory and where they are now. Education, both formal and informal, are needed within the revolution. “The Revolution Begins Now: A National Call to Action” will dive into how the education of others and self are needed for social change. References Ashmitha, P., & Annalakshmi, N. (2020). Understanding pathways to resilience among children of incarcerated parents. Indian Journal of Positive Psychology, 11(2), 75–​87. Crenshaw, K. W., Ocen, P., & Nanda, J. (2015). Black Girls Matter: Pushed Out, Overpoliced, and Underprotected (pp. 1–​53). African American Policy Forum and Center for Intersectionality and Social Policy Studies. Gatewood, B. J. (2020, January 7). The Educational Attainment of COIP Is Not What You Think. www.drmuh​amma​dexp​erie​nce.com/​post/​educ​atio​nal-​att​ainm​ent Gatewood, B. J., Muhammad, B. M., & Turner, S. (2023). Breaking Generational Curses: Success and Opportunity among Black Children of Incarcerated Parents. Social Forces. Gershenson, S., Holt, S. B., & Papageorge, N. W. (2016). Who believes in me? The effect of student –​teacher demographic match on teacher expectations. Economics of Education Review, 52, 209–​224. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​j.eco​nedu​ rev.2016.03.002 Hollins, W. Q. (2021. Supporting Children of Incarcerated Parents in Schools: Foregrounding Youth Voices to Improve Educational Support. Routledge. https://​ doi.org/​10.4324/​978100​3202​141 Johnson, T. T. (2012). The Impact of Negative Stereotypes & Representations of African-​Americans in the Media and African-​American Incarceration [University of California, Los Angeles].

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Kim, C. Y., Losen, D. J., & Hewitt, D. T. (2010). The School-​to-​Prison Pipeline: Structuring Legal Reform. NYU Press. Miller, H. V., & Barnes, J. C. (2015). The association between parental incarceration and health, education, and economic outcomes in young adulthood. American Journal of Criminal Justice, 40(4), 765–​ 784. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s12​ 103-​015-​9288-​4 Morris, M. (2016). Pushout: The Criminalization of Black Girls in Schools. The New Press. www.ama​zon.com/​Push​out-​Crim​inal​izat​ion-​Black-​Girls-​Scho​ols/​dp/​162​ 0970​945 Morsy, L., & Rothstein, R. (2016, October 21). How does our discriminatory criminal justice system affect children?: Black children are six times as likely as white children to have a parent who’s been incarcerated. Economic Policy Institute. www.epi.org/​publ​icat​ion/​how-​does-​our-​dis​crim​inat​ory-​crimi​nal-​just​ice-​sys​tem-​aff​ ect-​child​ren-​black-​child​ren-​are-​six-​times-​as-​lik​ely-​as-​white-​child​ren-​to-​have-​a-​ par​ent-​whos-​been-​incar​cera​ted/​ Muhammad, B. M. (2018). Against All Odds: Resilient Children of Incarcerated Parents. In L. Gordon (Ed.), Contemporary Research and Analysis on the Children of Prisoners: Invisible Children (pp. 141–​154). Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Muhammad, B. M., Gatewood, B. J., & Turner, S. (2021). Children of Incarcerated Parents: Pathways to Resilience & Success Research Report (pp. 1–​34). Howard University. Nichols, E. B., Loper, A. B., & Meyer, J. P. (2016). Promoting educational resiliency in youth with incarcerated parents: The impact of parental incarceration, school characteristics, and connectedness on school outcomes. Journal of Youth and Adolescence, 45, 1090–​1109. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s10​964-​015-​0337-​6 Nocella II, A. J., Parmar, P., & Stovall, D. (Eds.). (2014). From Education to Incarceration: Dismantling the School-​ to-​ Prison Pipeline. Peter Lang Inc., International Academic Publishers. Turney, K., & Haskins, A. R. (2014). Falling behind? Children’s early grade retention after paternal incarceration. Sociology of Education, 87(4), 241–​258. https://​doi. org/​10.1177/​00380​4071​4547​086 UNCF. (2023). K–​12 disparity facts and statistics. UNCF. https://​uncf.org/​pages/​k-​ 12-​dispar​ity-​facts-​and-​stats

28 WHAT IS A “BAD” GUY? Jay Baron

As I am standing on the playground, two 4 year olds run past me. They are running in circles, both laughing, and it appears that they are engaged in a gunplay game. Jayden (a white boy) has formed a gun using his hands, and the other child, Kai (a Black boy), uses a stick. The game continues for a while, and at some point, Kai falls to the ground. Jayden shouts, “You’re going to jail, bad guy!” Kai with a panicked look on his face, then shouts back, “No, I don’t wanna go to jail!” As they yell back and forth and I move closer, while quietly observing. Kai, still lying on the ground, pleads not to be arrested and repeatedly says, they are just playing a shooting game. Jayden has now bent down and is attempting to grab Kai’s hands to arrest him says, “That’s the game! You’re a bad guy. Bad guys go to jail!” I usually wait a few minutes to intervene, but I could see this conversation was not going to be productive and both children seemed to be distressed. Kai began to cry intensely. I calmly walk over and get down on their level while asking, “What game are you both playing?” Both boys respond, “A chase game!” I asked them to explain how the game was supposed to go and what their roles were. After listening to them both, it seemed that they started out playing a simple chase game. Somehow the game evolved and Jayden assigned the role of the bad guy to Kai without asking. I know it may seem trivial, but when role-​playing, it is essential that children are able to assign and/​or take on roles and discuss actions based on their choice. Throughout my years of being a pre-​K teacher, I have worked in privileged neighborhoods and private schools where the majority of my students are white and maybe one or two are Black. I have observed that Black children are often assigned these “bad” guy roles, placed in these roles

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where they are the “chaser,” or deemed the scary character by their white peers. Sometimes the Black child wants to be the chaser or “bad” guy and that’s okay, as long as they agree. At other times, that child may not want to be in that role. Oftentimes, it is hard for a child to separate their classmates from an assigned role. For example, if a child is constantly being assigned the villain or the “bad” guy role, then their peers may start associating them with being bad. Jayden and Kai continue bickering back and forth, and Jayden says, “Well, he is the bad guy! That’s the game.” I take a deep breath and ask Jayden, “What makes him a bad guy? What makes any person a ‘bad’ guy?” Although the question was directed toward Jayden, both boys had much to say. Within a few minutes, it was very obvious that their ideas and thoughts had been guided by TV shows and movies that they had seen. Or perhaps, they had received this information from a family member. The boys had listed all the reasons a person would be “bad” –​stealing from the store, stealing from a bank, hurting someone, etc. And, of course, after listing all the reasons, the only outcome for a bad guy was jail! They had thought spending millions of years in jail for a crime was just. I took another deep breath and asked them to take a breath with me. I looked at both of them and asked, “Can I give examples of behaviors that I have observed from both of you in our classroom?” They both shook their heads yes. I gave them examples of situations where they both made unsafe or unfriendly choices. I continued, When those situations happened, we both worked together to help find a solution. I spoke to you both about why your choices were not appropriate and how to make a more appropriate choice next time. When we finished talking, you both were asked to follow up with a helpful choice and then you were allowed to return to the group. I added, Did you think allowing you both to rejoin the group was a good choice? Or should I have given a longer or more serious consequence, such as not being able to play with a toy or be in a space for a week, a month, even a year? They both agreed that they should have been allowed back into play. Suddenly with a confused facial expression, Jayden blurts out, “But we are not bad guys!” I reminded them of all the reasons they had just given me about what makes a person a bad guy. I could see that they were thinking about it, and I decided to add a bit more information. “Did you know that

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there are no ‘bad’ guys, just people who make bad choices?” They cried out in unison, “Whattt!” I continued on, Some people are in jail after making one mistake. Some people make that one mistake and aren’t given a second chance like you were given. Do they have to stay a long time without the opportunity to make things right? I ask, “What do you think about that?” They both agree that it wasn’t fair. I continued, “And there are many people who are in jail accused of a crime, but did not commit it.” Their eyes grew wide and their mouths dropped open. They were shocked! In my attempts to keep their attention and not drag out this teachable moment, I quickly thought of how I wanted this conversation to end. I finally say, Let’s quickly go over some rules. If you are playing any kind of game, you need to figure out who is who and what the game is. If someone wants to be a “bad” guy, it’s their choice, but the moment someone says, “Stop” or “No,” you must stop the game and figure out what is needed. If you need help, the teachers are here. They nodded in agreement. Before I dismissed them, I asked them to check on each other. They do so and they run off to play together. Checking on a person doesn’t mean just saying, “I’m sorry” and going on about your day. It’s important that you help them feel better through actions or words. You ask them if they are okay, followed by asking, “What can I do to help YOU feel better?” Maybe they needed a hug or want you to draw them a picture, or maybe they want you to give them space. The follow-​up is very important and it shows that you are going to make an effort to make sure the other person is okay. Oftentimes as adults, we are quick to jump into an unfolding situation and immediately correct a child’s behavior or offer suggestions. Generally, adults place their own ideas and personal experiences on children and assume their intentions. As a teacher with over 15 years of experience, I have learned that sometimes you just have to wait and watch before intervening. In this case, I used my judgment and decided to intervene after a few exchanges because I could see that both children were visibly upset, and the interactions were not positive. Throughout the years, I have observed children engage in many forms of gunplay. It could be superheroes versus villains, “cops and robbers,” children mimicking their family members who are hunters, or even Star Wars role-​ playing. It took a long time for me to accept that it isn’t just violent play, but

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serves a purpose for children. It is one of the ways that children make sense of their environment or make sense of something they have seen or heard. After having children engage in gunplay every year, I came to a realization that gunplay, a form of role-​playing, is developmentally appropriate. Many schools have a zero policy for that type of play, but I have been very fortunate to have worked at schools that allowed it at the discretion of the teacher. Instead of banning gunplay, I meet with the class to explain that guns are tools and ask what rules they think we should have. I, of course, incorporate the rules that I have established over the years and what seems to work best with the current group of children. When I reflect on any situation that involves gunplay and/​or discussions/​ play about jail, I ask myself, Does my experience of having an incarcerated parent influence my teaching or how I approach these situations? Absolutely! Growing up with an incarcerated father has always been a part of my life, even if I didn’t want to admit it. It has definitely shaped me as a person and as a teacher. Whenever the opportunity presents itself, I always try to consider what impact my experience can have on children and how I can open or extend their viewpoint. Who knows what negative imagery they have received from media or family members? When my father was imprisoned, I had very little information about his story. I still don’t. I don’t even know when exactly he was jailed. It didn’t help that all the stories portrayed him as a deadbeat father, and as a “bad” guy. I wondered for many years, Was he really a bad guy, or was that the perspective of my mother? Did he deserve to go to jail? I have vague memories of visiting him in jail when I was in elementary school, it was also around this time that I saw him last. He was on the back of a jail pickup truck on his way to clean trash on the side of the street. We were just passing by, going about our day, and my mother said, “Look there is your father.” At that moment, I had neutral feelings about the experience, but I would reflect on this later as this was the last time I saw him alive. Soon after, he was deported. I often thought, Did he deserve to be deported back to his home country and never again able to set foot on American soil? Even if I could reach out, he was now further away from me, and I was further away from the truth. I never spoke with him again. My father died when I was 35 years old, and a piece of me died as well knowing that I would never be able to reconnect or find out what really happened. Even before his death, I vowed never to withhold information from my own children and promised to create a safe space where we could talk about tough topics. In my classroom, I practiced restorative justice for years before I knew what it was. When I was a child, my mother would call me naive for being too forgiving or too kind. As an adult, I realize how important restorative justice is to me because I know, in my heart, if my father ever came back into my life, I would have forgiven him. Being a part of a school community, we

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accept that everyone makes mistakes (even teachers). When children engage in unfriendly or unsafe behavior, even if repetitive, they are not shunned from the community, but given the tools and opportunities to grow as learners in a safe space. I may not always have an answer when it comes to gunplay, incarceration, and language about tough topics, but I have the ability to reach out to colleagues who are able to provide input and resources. I can get age-​appropriate books and access information about different families’ experiences. I will continue to address important issues that are often overlooked because it is vital in a community that we learn and heal together.

29 INTERGENERATIONAL ACHIEVEMENT Class of 2025 Whitney Hollins and Arieanna Hollins

One of the most persistent outcomes associated with being the child of an incarcerated parent is intergenerational incarceration, or the idea that these children are more likely to become incarcerated themselves. Despite decades of research into this topic with no confirmed causal link, many people still associate children of incarcerated parents with intergenerational incarceration and continue to search for a definitive connection. While so much attention has been paid to this notion, few researchers have looked at stories of intergenerational achievement, or stories of success among multiple generations of a family impacted by incarceration. We will explore our own stories as a directly impacted Black aunt and niece to provide an example of intergenerational achievement and shed light on the ways in which families are deemed broken by incarceration. We often come together in ways, unacknowledged by society, to combat the challenges posed by being Black children of incarcerated parents. While we are aware that our stories are just two out of many, we are also conscious of the fact that too often these stories are not told or at least not listened to. We are grateful for the space to share our stories and we want to acknowledge that this space was created for us by other Black women, who are not family by blood, but by choice. Whitney (Aunt)

School has been my solace for as long as I can remember. My mother often tells a story that has become family lore and illustrates my commitment to school. One morning after she came home from her overnight shift, she was helping me get ready for school. As I stood up and began to exit the DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-35

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bathroom, I fainted. After I regained consciousness, my mother insisted I stay home from school. She put me back in bed and then went to sleep herself, exhausted from a long night at work. After she was sound asleep, I quickly re-​dressed and walked the few blocks until I reached my school. For me, it was not about a perfect attendance award, but instead about being in a space where I was engaged and challenged. I felt a sense of belonging when I was at school. As a child, prone to anxiety, being in a space where I knew the rules and routines was comforting. I thrived under consistency and relished the opportunity to learn new information. I always assumed that I would go to college, not only because it was positioned as the path to more opportunities and a “better life,” but also because I genuinely liked learning. Therefore, it was never a question of if I would go to college, but where. While weighing my collegiate options, my niece, Arieanna, was born. Her father was only 14 years old at the time. The whole family was concerned about what this meant for their futures, not only for my brother and his former partner but also for the baby. Nonetheless, my niece was beautiful and intelligent, as she remains today. I spent time with her when I could, but my focus was on college. Originally, I planned to go to Howard University because it was (1) relatively close to home, and (2) a beacon of Black excellence. My father was still incarcerated during this time, so my Aunt Lori, his sister, took on some of the usual parental responsibilities, offering to take me to tour the campus and pay my seat deposit. She even offered to let me live with her. Being young and full of an overwhelming desire for independence, I did not want to live with my aunt, but I appreciated the offer. At some point during the summer, I changed my mind and decided to leave Maryland entirely and attend St. John’s University. The bright lights of New York were calling me, and the idea of living there was beyond exciting. I apologized to my aunt and headed off to the Big Apple. She, as always, remained supportive and loving, gifting me with a copy of The Purpose Driven Life as I completed my undergraduate studies. As the people most important gathered for my graduation, I was thrilled that my niece, who was only 5 years old then, could be present. It began to dawn on me just how important it was for her to see not only her aunt, but also a Black woman, walk across that stage. Even though I was still relatively young and I was still figuring life out, I wanted to support her the same way that my aunt supported me. After graduation, I lived in NYC and I continued to pursue my education, eventually earning two master’s degrees and a Ph.D. Once I became settled enough, I could bring my niece to visit and stay with me occasionally. I was proud to see the woman she was growing into and it was evident early on that she was not only an excellent student but also a kind-​hearted person. As she neared graduation, she discussed her college aspirations with me. When the acceptance letters came in, she faced a decision similar to the one I had to

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make almost 20 years prior. She could stay closer to home and go to Howard University or she could attend Fordham University in New York. I helped her think through her choices, but let her know the choice was hers. When she ultimately chose to attend Howard, I was thrilled. In 2021, I moved back to Maryland and began to consider going back to school. Since I began my advocacy work with families directly impacted by incarceration many years ago, I have been thinking about ways I could better support them. One option I considered was attending law school and gaining knowledge about how the legal system works. I decided to apply and was accepted into the Howard University School of Law. When I was accepted, my niece was one of the first people I told. She was beyond excited for me and we both laughed when we realized that if I did choose to attend, we would both be Howard University Class of 2025. Recently my niece asked if she could move in with me while attending college, as I live within commuting distance of the campus. It made me think back to the days when I was ready to begin college and my aunt had offered me a place to stay. My aunt is no longer with us. She was a statuesque woman with freckles and long hair that reached the middle of her back. She was a God-​fearing woman who gave me my first introduction to the community of Black women at the hair salon. She wrote sermons that moved people to tears and loved people with her whole heart, including me. When she died shortly after I graduated undergrad, I couldn’t help but feel like I let her down by not attending Howard and coming to live with her. And while I can’t go back, I do feel her presence in my relationship with my niece now and my ability to offer her what my aunt tried to offer me. Anna (Niece)

I would say I’ve been pursuing my education since I could say my ABCs, but that would be completely obvious. What I can say is that I became fully invested in my education around the time my father became incarcerated. My father was incarcerated when I was 5 years old and remained there until I was 7. Most people would think that a child of that age would only be thinking about how much time they were going to spend on the monkey bars, trampling through the mulch, and playing tag with their friends at recess before the teacher called them inside. Instead, I was thinking about how long it would take me to remember each letter of each word for my spelling tests, so my father and I would have enough time to go through them on a phone call. Those phone calls were not only everything to me because I spent time talking to my father, but because I found love and warmth when we bonded over my education. Some people conceive their own stories about children whose parents have been incarcerated or are presently incarcerated. I feel when we look

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at parents who have been incarcerated, we see them as people who simply don’t make good choices. Although my father didn’t always make good choices, he still was able to guide me from his temporary home behind bars. At 5 years old, I didn’t understand what my father was experiencing, so I can’t say that his choices motivated me to improve. I had no thoughts of engaging in any illegal activities, and I never feared that I’d end up in the same position as my father. Truthfully, I was thankful that my father helped me study and that he was still able to be there for me. Plain and simple. It was during this time studying for those spelling tests, I became aware of how important my education was to me. I had questioned myself on why I strived so hard to get good grades on little spelling tests when other kids weren’t as panicked. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to make everyone proud, especially my father, but I did it for myself, and it took me a while to realize that. Working hard and focusing on goals I’d set for myself, and accomplishing those goals, was like heaven to me. Obtaining satisfaction from every check mark I could put next to my objectives. It made me feel good inside to actually overcome challenges and make steps toward my finish line, which I’m still doing. I was obsessed with discovering new things and critically analyzing every new detail I learned. Much like my aunt, I loved every second of my education and there was no doubt in my mind that the passion would continue. In middle school, I made a deal with myself that even if I didn’t get the top grades in the class, I would still be completely devoted to my education, and I knew I was willing to fight harder with each downfall. Nothing stopped me. There were times when I had definitely fallen short of my standards. Whether that was getting a C on a big test or exam in high school or feeling out of touch when it came to socializing, which were things I never really thought about in elementary or middle school. I didn’t get Cs or bad grades in middle school, especially not on big tests. I was very involved with participating in sports, particularly volleyball, and discussions when I was younger, so when I got to high school and wasn’t involved as much in those activities, I felt like I had let myself down. I was extremely disappointed that I wasn’t taking the steps I needed to fulfill the standards that not only the educational system had for me but the standards I held myself accountable for, as well. Although I knew that I wanted to follow my journey with schooling, I became more and more determined to stay diligent and intellectually engaged. I was persistent and made sure my passion for learning was sustained. I graduated with high honors and was 56th in my high school class. While I wasn’t valedictorian, it was one of my greatest accomplishments. Eleven years later, I’m extremely proud to say that I now attend the illustrious HBCU, Howard University. I just finished my freshman year and am ready to head into sophomore year. I also received a scholarship from the Thurman Perry Foundation for women who have been directly impacted by incarceration. My aunt let me know

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about the scholarship and encouraged me to apply. As always, my family continues to support me on my journey. I think about my educational journey often. Although I want to become a pediatric surgeon, it’s not just the career I’m chasing. I feel when people talk about what they want to be when they grow up, they just imagine themselves already there. Whether it’s walking on the moon, giving a dog its rabies shots, or delivering a brand-​new human into this world, many people envision the destination. For me, it’s not just the destination but also the journey. It’s every little aspect that I get to immerse myself in and dissect on the way there. It’s learning every bone in the body and how many inches are in a foot. There’s nothing I don’t want to learn. The toddler that was excited she knew her ABCs is now the same adult that’s excited she knows when red blood cells are placed in lower concentrations, they’re more likely to die off. I know in my heart that focusing on my education is one of the things that keeps me going through life, and it makes me truly happy. I can say that no matter what obstacles I’ve encountered, I’ve maintained my focus. What Have We Learned from Our Stories? What Can Others Learn?

While we know our stories and experiences are unique, we do hope some of it is relatable. Our family, despite being impacted by incarceration, has made a decision to support each other and stay connected. We may not be the traditional nuclear family, but it works for us. It’s who we are and we are proud of our bond. We have also made a choice to be of service. Whenever someone has put out a hand to help us, we use the other to help someone else. Sometimes we help simply by being a listening ear. Being the child of an incarcerated parent can be difficult. Having someone who can relate to you or who is willing to listen is extremely important. There are a growing number of support programs for children and other directly impacted people. A space of community where people can feel safe to discuss their feelings is vital to our mental health. Lastly, we would encourage everyone to do their own research and not believe the hype. Having an incarcerated parent doesn’t mean their child is destined for the same fate. A supportive family, whether family by blood or by choice, and a safe space to express themselves allow children of incarcerated parents to thrive. We don’t have to live in the shadows. We have nothing to be ashamed of, and as more of us speak out, the world will be able to see just how beautiful and amazing we truly are. Moving Forward

Families and people impacted by incarceration are often viewed as broken. However, we know that these families, like our own, are incredibly resourceful and do what they need to do to support each other during difficult times. While

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we both have experienced the incarceration of a parental figure, we have also experienced a deep love for education and learning, and an unwavering commitment to each other and our families. Parental incarceration is rarely welcomed or celebrated, and we are not suggesting that it should be. It is a traumatic experience and its effects are often compounded by systemic racism, bureaucracy, and institutional barriers. However, constantly positioning children of incarcerated parents as vulnerable, at-​ risk, and delinquent fails to acknowledge the complexity and unique circumstances that incarceration, especially incarceration at the intersection of Blackness, presents. When research is constantly searching for the negative, we must ask why? Literature only wants to discuss what is “wrong” with “these people and their families,” when there is so much right. We must ask why? It cannot be said that the positive or the right doesn’t exist, when this chapter and this book are proof that it does.

PART 6

The Revolution Begins Now A National Call to Action Britany Jenine Gatewood

The 2010s began a resurgence in Black liberation protests, marches, and social movements. Injustices and brutality within the criminal legal system sparked campaigns highlighting the inequalities and state violence that Black communities face. When talking about social movements, incarcerated parents (Gatewood & Norris, 2019), and even more so their children, are often not highlighted as political actors. BCOIP often describe their parents’ incarceration as influencing their political activity and attitudes (Gatewood et al., 2023; Muhammad et al., 2021). Parental incarceration can become a catalyst for change, which can be seen in such movements as #WeGotUsNow, an organization that is centered on children of incarcerated parents (We Got Us Now, 2020). As the authors wrote their stories, they wanted to show others that they were not alone and they were fighting for and with them. Antagonizing social structures and speaking out against injustices is not only a tenant of critical race theory (Delgado et al., 2012), but essential to any social movement by an oppressed group (Almeida, 2019). The activism and advocacy of these BCOIP are important to see because it is a counternarrative to the imagery society has. Generally, research shows the hardships they have to endure and the negative life outcomes. Movement scholarship has yet to speak to children of incarcerated parents, let alone BCOIP as movement leaders (Muhammad et al., 2021). Locally and nationally renowned BCOIP activists such as Tony Lewis, Jr., Bree Anderson, Ebony Underwood, and Tiffany Brown are just a small number of those making waves. There are probably many that do not self-​ disclose their parental incarceration but are known for speaking their truth against the legal system. The intersectional lens of being Black and a child

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of an incarcerated parent, along with other identities, means they must fight oppression on a myriad of fronts. Black literary activism has been used for generations as a way to not only challenge what has been written about them (Ernest, 2004), but also move their audiences toward their cause (Van De Velde, 2022). These authors are doing the same. For the children of formerly incarcerated parents: this is your permission to be free. You are not forever bound to your parents’ poor decisions and outcomes. (Tonisha Taylor, “This Is Your Permission to Be Free”) The act of rest and care pushes back and disrupts white supremacy and capitalism (Hersey, 2022). As seen in the section, “Reclaiming Black Wellness: Every Revolution has to Begin Somewhere,” it can be a form of liberation. Each of the following authors had to heal something in themselves before being able to help others around them. They turn their pain, hurt, love, and dedication into businesses, social movements, community organizations, and much more. They are advocating for a revolution, not just in society, but also a revolution within themselves to rise above the barriers given to them. I speak so that other people understand that incarceration takes a deep toll not only on those inside but on families, especially the women, who often bear the burden of keeping everything together by ourselves. (Kristal Bush, “A Woman on the Outside”) The following authors saw a gap in a need and attempted to fill it with the resources they had. Black women, in particular, are culturally socialized to care for their community (Hill-​Collins, 2005). Therefore, it can be seen as second nature to fill gaps when society does not provide them. BCOIP’s motivation for community work is often to help others going through the same things as them and to help alleviate others’ pain and stress of parental incarceration (Gatewood et al., 2023; Muhammad et al., 2021). Their success in life is not categorized by how much money they make but by how they have helped others around them (Gatewood et al., 2023). They want to show others that they do not have to be a statistic like the research tends to highlight. By working together, they can liberate their community. They are giving the call for us all to act because this social revolution will involve not just them, but also all of us. Within this section, you can feel how the authors are talking directly to those who are like them to show how they can turn their pain into action. These authors are showing that they are not only more than the statistics, but they are also advocating for themselves and those around them. “The Revolution Begins Now: A National Call to Action” will highlight the power

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and agency of BCOIP as they attend protests, marches, and conduct criminal legal work publicly and privately. You will get a peek into their motivations for action, although they have a myriad of institutions and people working against them. The revolution is only as powerful as the individuals. As you read this chapter, consider the following questions. How do you currently advocate for yourself and others? Is there more you can be doing? Do you know the resources and opportunities offered in your area? What cycles are you invested in breaking? Will you give yourself permission to be free? What questions do you have that continuously go unanswered? Have you set solid boundaries in your life? How do you relate to these stories and will you reflect? Are you apart from this social revolution? References Almeida, P. (2019). Social Movements: The Structure of Collective Mobilization. University of California Press. Delgado, R., Stefancic, J., & Harris, A. (2012). Critical Race Theory: An Introduction. NYU Press. Ernest, J. (2004). Liberation Historiography: African American Writers and the Challenge of History, 1794–​ 1861 (New edition). The University of North Carolina Press. Gatewood, B. J., Muhammad, B. M., & Turner, S. (2023). Breaking Generational Curses: Success and Opportunity among Black Children of Incarcerated Parents. Social Forces. Gatewood, B. J., & Norris, A. (2019). Silence around Prisoner Protests: Criminology, U.S. Black Women and State-​Sanctioned Violence. Decolonization of Criminology and Justice, 1(1), 52–​77. Hersey, T. (2022). Rest Is Resistance: A Manifesto. Little, Brown Spark. Hill-​Collins, P. (2005). Black Sexual Politics: African American, Gender, and the New Racism. Routledge. Muhammad, B. M., Gatewood, B. J., & Turner, S. (2021). Children of Incarcerated Parents: Pathways to Resilience & Success Research Report (pp. 1–​34). Howard University. Van De Velde, C. (2022). The Power of Slogans: Using Protest Writings in Social Movement Research. Social Movement Studies, 0(0), 1–​ 20. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1080/​14742​837.2022.2084​065 We Got Us Now. (2020). Who We Are. www.weg​otus​now.org/​who-​we-​are

30 THE INTERNAL REVOLUTION Anyé Young

My name is Anyé. I’m 20 years old and my father has been incarcerated since I was 9. I wrote and published my first book, “Teen Guide to Living with Incarcerated Parents,” when I was 16 years old. Everything that led up to me finally publishing my book marked the start of my internal revolution. Journaling was something I did from a very young age. Many of the Disney characters I looked up to keep a diary. After a while, the habit stuck with me. My mother eventually encouraged me to start writing about what I was going through with my Dad being in prison. And so, it started as short journal entries to get my feelings out and reflect on my experience. But the more I wrote and read back to myself, the more I saw the difference between what things I could change and what things were out of my control. I came to understand that while I could not control my father going to prison and serving a lengthy sentence, I could control my outlook. He was serving that sentence due to mandatory minimum laws in North Carolina, not because the punishment met the crime. His incarceration was always something that made me feel angry, frustrated, and sometimes ashamed. My father was a provider of financial resources, counseling, and physical and emotional security. I felt that he didn’t deserve it, neither of us did. After a while, anger and shame became so comfortable that it was like second nature to me. My coping mechanism through middle and high school was pulling away from my close relationships and not sharing. My cycle was my comfort. It was being angry and then going into denial, and being angry all over again. The same cycle that left me hopeless and lacking self-​esteem, day in and day out. By the time I found out that over 2 million children were being affected by mass incarceration, I grew angrier because it seemed like no one was talking about it. This was something I had the power to change. DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-37

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When I was 9, I would have wanted someone to create that resource for me, so the book became my way of creating a resource I initially did not have. Through doing this, more resources became available to me. Looking back, I see this as an instance of good karma and I feel more self-​assured knowing I contributed to helping those other 2 million children out there just like me. So, I kept going. Continuing to contribute in the ways that I can has helped me process and accept my reality every day. I’m sure you are aware of the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Prior to publishing, I felt I was constantly moving between the denial and anger stages. I never really got past them until I started sharing my story with others. As a child experiencing the daily effects of parental incarceration, I can tell you the first thing that will make a genuine difference in your life and outlook. It is how you take on the grieving process. Maybe you’re not at a point where you feel comfortable publicly sharing your experience. What does sharing look like for you? How can you bring yourself to reach out to others? How can you begin to find meaning for yourself? What steps can you take to forgive your parent for their mistakes? Not solely for them, but for yourself. You deserve to find peace. You may get to a place where you feel overwhelmed and sometimes helpless but do not let these feelings color your outlook on the world because you will reach a place of acceptance. This is how you can begin to move on and reshape your future. This is how you can begin to break your cycle. Maintaining your mental health in college is tricky. For me, coping became especially difficult after I started college. I was juggling so many things at once; my social life, my family life, my career, work, etc. There are so many expectations you feel like you have to live up to, so many obligations and deadlines you need to meet. It’s very easy to drown under all of it. At times, I began to question myself. I’d feel so low because I was disappointed in myself. I never felt like I was successful enough or making enough progress. But I came to realize that my view of progress and success was flawed. Granted, it was shaped by how I was raised and what I was taught in schools. But it was flawed nonetheless. I thought that progress looked like getting from point A to point B. I thought it had to be straightforward and linear. No matter how many steps forward I took, taking any step back felt like failure, and it was a threat to my self-​esteem. What if we stopped thinking about our progress as solely linear? You will run into the same kinds of problems over and over and over. You’ll learn over time how to “fail” better if you really fail at all. So, rather than looking at things through a black-​and-​white lens, why not embrace the nuances of your progress? You will learn through cycles in your life to be self-​compassionate and show yourself lots of grace. This is something that I am still working on too.

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I mean, I’ve been talking to a bird on my phone for the last three months (I wish I was joking). Over a summer, I downloaded an app called Finch. It’s a tool I’ve found very useful and motivating when self-​care feels nearly impossible. I would recommend this app for anyone wanting to reframe how they measure their progress. It’s nice to acknowledge the everyday accomplishments we may overlook on a daily basis. Getting out of bed, brushing your teeth, eating, cleaning your room, drinking water, listening to music, etc. Finch is a tool that has helped me practice gratitude and resilience. Something that I sometimes forgot how to do. Every day I am challenged with accepting things as they are, finding happiness, and focusing on the things I actually have power over. Every day I am challenged with accepting another day lost with my Dad. And despite it all, I am to cherish the life and blessings I am given. Grief makes it hard to appreciate what you do have and act on the things you can change. But it’s not impossible. Your outlook can change a lot. Outlook can change how you respond to opportunities, people, and even how you see yourself. Outlook can change what kind of goals you set for yourself. Most of all, it changes who you are as a person. Take, for example, writing letters to my Dad. This has probably been one of the hardest things I’ve had to do because it was always such a surreal experience for me. I was 12. The first couple of times I ever wrote a letter, I never actually got around to sending any of them out. I remember writing and crying onto my notebook, just trying my best to keep it together and get through to the end of the page. I remember how the words on the page smudged in a way that was nearly illegible. I couldn’t have sent that out. So, I ripped it up and started over. By then, the idea of writing a letter had already taken an emotional toll on me and I came to hate it. I very rarely sent them out. Even having to physically walk myself to a mailbox affected me negatively because all I could do was compare my experience to everyone else. It reminded me of what privileges I did not have. My Dad wasn’t just a phone call or text away. I had to wait for him to call me every other week for 15 minutes at a time. Near the latter part of my college career, I was finally able to write and send out letters without being as emotionally impacted. I had accepted my reality. But I had also learned to prioritize my own well-​being. I stopped writing letters out of my imagined obligation and only wrote when I felt I was ready. For a long time, I thought that I had to send out letters or else I was being selfish. And maybe I was. But why did I believe that was such an awful thing for me to do? Is it not okay to be selfish to take care of your emotional, mental, and physical well-​being? I’ve struggled so much over the years with making my health a priority. And if I want to show up for anyone, I need to make sure I’m okay first. Practicing a little selfishness put me in a place where I could start to disconnect my sense of self-​worth and identity from my circumstances.

178  Anyé Young

Maybe you’re not at a point in your life where you can formally advocate for others, but why not advocate for yourself? I believe this is the first real step to breaking a cycle. The so-​called “cycle of incarceration” has nothing to do with who you’re related to and everything to do with the resources and opportunities available to you. Having a parent in prison does not automatically brand you as a future convict. This is a way of thinking that can keep you trapped in a cycle that you are capable of breaking. Every revolution has to begin somewhere. Why not start with you?

31 THIS IS YOUR PERMISSION TO BE FREE Tonisha Taylor

This is for adult children who still harbor uneasy feelings about their parents’ past transgressions. Sometimes we never get to a point of resolving past hurts and forging tighter bonds in the here and now. Despite this, there still needs to be a mental or physical space that you can tap into. Just for you. Even when a resolution is attempted, so many words go unspoken. This derails any attempt to move toward a space of mutual understanding and closure. You still have to speak those words. For you. My mother chose the streets over her children for many years. The end result was an abundance of heartache for us, the children. Over the span of ten years, she was constantly in and out of prison. Every time we thought she was going to get it right, she didn’t. It hurt. It took us right back onto the disappointing roller coaster ride of emotions. We thought it would never end. She eventually turned her life around, earned degrees, had a successful career as a social worker, and became a pillar of her church community. But, she did not actively mend the gaping holes in the hearts of her children. I truly believe that she thought that her accomplishments would erase all the bad times, the hard years, and the broken promises. As of this writing, my mother is very ill. There’s a plethora of medical issues happening at once, and it is greatly diminishing her quality of life. She is now expecting all five of her children to band together to provide her 24/​7 care. We all refused. I am the oldest. I’m almost 40 years old. I have a demanding career and a family of my own to manage. I have already lost years of my life in order to pick up my mother’s slack. I have checked out emotionally, mentally, and physically. I truly have nothing else to give her but a listening ear over the phone, or an occasional visit. My sisters and brothers range from their late DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-38

180  Tonisha Taylor

20s through their mid-​30s, and they also have their own lives. From tending to children, changing careers, or trying to carve out one’s place in the world, we are all booked and busy. Above having our own lives, we all share the common sentiment: How could she expect us to be there for her when she wasn’t there for us? Being there means something different to all of us. Among my siblings and I, there are some commonalities. My mother was never warm. There were no hugs, no kisses, and no positive affirmations, even if we expressed hurt, anger, or disappointment. The best advice she would give us was to “shake that shit off.” As I’ve grown older, I realize that this was how she coped, but it was clearly a poor coping mechanism. I have had many conversations with my mother about my thoughts and feelings regarding her past incarcerations and absences from my life. I felt the most heard when she was in prison. Perhaps this is because she had no choice but to listen. In later years after her final stint in prison, she became more defensive. The conversations became more contentious because she didn’t want to hear it. Still, I spoke. I got those words out because I needed to, whether she wanted to hear me or not. I’m doing the same now when discussing her medical condition. She might not want to hear it, but she knows where I stand. As I’ve gotten older, I learned that two things can be true at once. I had a horrible past, but I also have a very pleasant present. When I became a parent, I vowed to do the opposite of what my mother did with us. I was hell-​bent on not repeating a cycle of emotional neglect. I pour love into my children because it was the love I wanted. I remind my children often of how beautiful, talented, and special they are to me. I spend time with them doing things that were never done with me: baking treats, having silly dance-​offs, playing board games, and cuddling. Furthermore, I chose to pour into myself after years of self-​neglect. I now operate from a place of self-​care. I do what pleases me first, and if there is something left for others, then they can have it. Self-​care can be simple, for example, making myself unavailable for a block of time in order to gather my thoughts. It might also be visiting friends I haven’t seen in a while, getting a massage, or going on a solo trip. It just needs to be a mental or physical space that recharges me, if I sense a threat to my well-​being. My mother’s demands for care serve as a threat to my very pleasant present. This makes me reinforce my stance on self-​care even more. I love my mother. She gave me life. However, without a foundation of affection, warmth, and trust, I don’t feel obligated to care for her the way she is demanding. I don’t feel bad about it. Neither do my siblings. We are not out to hurt her. We are doing the best we can. So we are going to be there for her, but it is not going to be on her terms. That doesn’t make us wrong. I am committed to helping her obtain the care she needs, but I am saving the parts of myself that I need for me.

This is Your Permission To Be Free  181

I want to have two very important conversations; one with formerly incarcerated parents, and the other with their adult children: For parents who were formerly incarcerated: you must understand that your adult children cannot be your crutches. For years I’ve wrestled with understanding the perspective of an incarcerated parent. Without a doubt, there are challenges that you face that I will never truly comprehend. However, upon being released and trying to reintegrate into the family that was left behind, there are some points that must be considered. Being incarcerated may have very well impeded some of your social skills and ability to navigate the new world that you are released into, but that is not your child’s burden to bear. It is yours. At the same time, your adult child needs to be heard, understood, and affirmed. They may be physically grown, but I promise there’s a little child inside of them that still sorely needs the nurturance and guidance that they did not receive in the past. You might not want to hear of the pain and trauma they have endured as a result of your absence, but you are the main audience they need. For the children of formerly incarcerated parents: this is your permission to be free. You are not forever bound to your parents’ poor decisions and outcomes. You are not the clean-​up person for them in perpetuity. You need to live your own life, you need that for you. Do not, under any circumstances, put their needs before your own. You will feel guilty when you start to enforce boundaries, but I promise you that in the long term, the payoff is worth it. You were meant to flourish and thrive in this world. You cannot do that if you are carrying burdens that do not belong to you. Release it, for you.

32 ASK THE QUESTION Say Something Kiara W. S. Bynum

Asking questions is a compelling way to unlock value in a person. It opens the heart and mind of an individual. What have you always wanted to ask a person and never have? What have you wished you were asked that no one ever did? In thinking about children of incarcerated parents, oftentimes, it is what is failed to be said that is imperative for them. I was that child for over 40 years. I grew into an adult who was still locked up emotionally. This was because there was no one around me who had the courage to ask the difficult questions, such as: How do you feel? What do you think about your father being incarcerated? Are you angry? Do you want to talk about it? During my childhood, I was never asked any of those questions. My family members did not talk to me about my father’s incarceration. When I finally entered adulthood, this was still the case. Nobody checked in on me concerning my feelings. If only someone would have talked to me, things may have worked out differently for me. I always felt that someone should have asked me the right questions. No one sees us as victims, even when we have been labeled by society as the “hidden victims” of incarceration. Although some of our parents’ crimes were not done to us, we must still embrace their truth, regardless of how we feel about what they may have done. In instances when the deeds of our parents were not done against us, their acts still affect us in adverse ways. While rearing me, my mother did not agree with my viewpoint on this and unfortunately she still doesn’t subscribe to my ideology. My mom’s supporting statement related to my father, has always been, “he did nothing to you.” Little did she know, it greatly affected my mental and emotional health, as well as my social well-​being. Because I never discussed my experiences, no one ever noticed what I was feeling

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-39

Ask the Question  183

on the inside. I always kept a smile on my face, even when I felt ashamed. Figuratively, I was bleeding on the inside. It is imperative to know that the choices and actions of parents have great effects on children. These effects can be positive or negative. Therefore, parents should strive to make positive impacts within the lives of their children. Even when a child does not have a relationship with their imprisoned parent, they will still mourn their absence. Researchers look for barriers such as criminal activity, suspension, and expulsion from school, or even psychological strain to justify the collateral consequences of incarceration. Yes, these are some of the barriers that children with parents in prison may face; however, I never exhibited any of those barriers. If the adults in my life were looking to identify me by those barriers, this may be why I was never asked the questions that needed to be asked. Although I did not experience these barriers, many others have. Still, I would have been so grateful if someone would have just talked to me. It would have made a big difference in my life if I had been asked the right questions. For example, how do you feel about your father being incarcerated? Would you like to go visit him? How does his incarceration make you feel about yourself? All of these questions could have led to me being able to have more conversations about my feelings and experiences. I feel that such conversations would have helped me in feeling confident about talking about my father and his incarceration. Communication is a must. Knowing how a child feels should be imperative. Finding out a child’s mental and emotional status is the most important. I never discussed my feelings with anyone about anything. Many people just assumed I was always good. I never felt comfortable sharing my feelings. By the time I became mature enough to recognize my feelings, I also began experiencing shame. The shame clung to me as if I were born with it. Many people have heard of the popular phrase, “If You See Something, Say Something,” this saying has become more popular in recent years. What people may not realize is that it also relates to children of incarcerated parents. In my experience, my father’s imprisonment was a silent issue. Everyone knew about it, but no one ever discussed the matter. This may be because I come from an extremely small town and I was the only child of an incarcerated parent in my community. In addition, I grew up in the same town, where my father had formerly resided, and I knew that people were aware of my dad’s imprisonment. I also knew that those people loved me. Nevertheless, I never understood why people in the community never discussed the issue with me. Even now, my father has been released from prison, and still, no one discusses him with me. I assume no one knew how to address it. I was 11 years old when I first agreed to a visit with my dad in prison. My mother always allowed it to be my choice. Nonetheless, I did not want to go anymore due to the experience from a child’s standpoint, which was a very

184  Kiara W. S. Bynum

scary situation. No child is comfortable in a prison for the first time. Seeing guards, hearing the loud sounds of doors closing behind you, is petrifying, especially as a child. My mother never forced me to talk with my father on the phone. She would answer it and talk to him. Then, call me on the phone. If I wanted to answer, I did. If I did not want to talk, I didn’t answer the call. Understandably, my mother never scorned me for my decision. Through my mother’s actions, I was allowed to gain a healthy view of my father. It allowed me to not blame or fault my mother, and to not treat my father with disrespect. Hence, I was finally able to establish a relationship with him. Growing up, I never heard my mother speak ill of my father around me. When she spoke of my dad, she always spoke well of him as a person. His crime was never discussed, and I was never compared to his actions. Now, as a grown woman, I would advise any parent, caregiver, or family member to take my mother’s approach. I would advise anyone to respect their child’s incarcerated parent. To not speak ill of the imprisoned parent, despite the person’s crime. To never compare a child’s behavior to the actions of his or her incarcerated parent. It is always important for a child to understand for themself and get to know their incarcerated parent. Then, the child can formulate their own opinions. This could help a child grow with a desire and hope of becoming a productive citizen in society. I also grew up in a single-​ parent home, and my mother worked. Unfortunately, even while being employed, she still struggled financially. We always fell just above the eligibility for social services. My mother made a dollar too much, so my family was unable to receive any governmental assistance. After reaching a certain age, children become burdened with the responsibility of getting a job to help their family financially. Financial assistance is critical in rearing children; this is especially true for single parents. In addition, finances can come into play, when one desires higher education. Loans can be a great option for some, but most single-​parent families are already in too much debt. Therefore, they may already be struggling. Having assistance for children of incarcerated parents pursuing post-​ secondary education is a policy that would tremendously benefit those interested in higher education. It could also work to break the generational cycle of imprisonment. In order to break this cycle, it will take intentional effort within families, society, as well as policy changes from every sector, nationality, and culture of our world. Ask the question, say something to the child, to the family member, the caregiver, to the politicians, in local communities and around the world. I was raised in a state where the incarceration rate was number one in the country. Those statistics held true for an immensely long time. That spoke volumes because there were no services for children of incarcerated parents in my state. There are still no non-​ profit organizations that service the population. Although there is a need for programs that can help caregivers,

Ask the Question  185

and families become more aware of the needs of these children, they remain limited. If you don’t know how to address parental incarceration, find someone who does. Seek a social worker, a therapist, a counselor, a pastor, or someone who has experience in dealing with this silenced, and un-​talked to population. Many of us with direct experiences are starving and malnourished on the inside. Some of us are bleeding internally from holding in our pain for so long or crying deeply on the inside. This is because we have no outlet. Having no outlet makes many of us powerless. Outlets are power sources that we do not have. In other words, if we have no one to plug into, we become powerless. Oftentimes, society never experiences our gifts and talents because they end up lying dormant within us. Then we become unnoticed in society, which results in us becoming hidden. People should learn how to cope with issues as they present themselves to children with incarcerated parents. Stress is a major factor that plagues caregivers and children. Never forget that your voice has power and can literally change the perspectives of children of incarcerated parents. Just ask the question and be a good listener or where the conversation takes you. Most importantly, use silence to your advantage. In other words, do not feel rushed to answer a question because it may alter the conversational flow. Ask the question.

33 WHY MY MOM? Quniana Futrell

When I would see her slip, I went harder for others! I remember the first time I said aloud, I HATE MY MOM! I know many believe the word hate and mom should never go into the same sentence, but if you had my mom, you might consider it. My mom was a professional criminal. She stayed in trouble, and on top of that, she was a heroin addict. I’ve spent more time alone, afraid in the back of police cars, or even confused at blood banks as a child than any adult, I am sure. Like I said, I HATED HER! I couldn’t believe the very woman who birthed me and had one job, to nurture me, was devastatingly failing! Why couldn’t she be like the moms I saw on TV? Why couldn’t she be like some of the moms I saw coming to school functions or parent-​teacher conferences? Why couldn’t I ever look out at my school performances as a child and see her there smiling and rooting for me??? Why My Mom? It wasn’t until I got older and understood for myself what it meant to be a woman, let alone a mother, that I can remember looking at her and seeing the woman behind the title, mom. I was able to see her brokenness. I was able to see the fight within, and sis was getting whopped. Oddly enough, she had never lost a physical fight in her life. It didn’t matter the size or gender of her opponent, my mom was a G! However, when it came to the sadness that was in her eyes and the weariness that laid on her daily, I could see that this was a fight she was losing. She was always tired, and always trying hard to create this independent life for us. I remember asking her, “Mom, what is your story?” This one question turned into an emotionally long conversation I will never forget. It was at that very moment that I was able to shift from this HATE for her, and it developed into grace and eventually unconditional love.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-40

Why My Mom?  187

It wasn’t until then that I truly learned what forgiveness was, that it made sense to me to let go of all the hurt, pain, and sadness. In this lesson, I unlocked the cheat code to my mom’s drug addiction. It was her pain. How could I not forgive a woman who is hurting? Who am I not to give her grace? In order to allow God to relieve me of the sting of the many shattering memories I had with my mom, I had to let it go! Who knew that years later, I would write my first book called, Our Moms, and it would become a best seller all about children and their moms who are in prison. Who knew I would begin a nonprofit organization, Building Resilience in Communities Inc., a 501c3 helping to restore hope into the lives of children affected by parental incarceration? Who knew this pain would empower me enough to pursue my purpose? My commitment to the healing work of counseling for years and making the decision to forgive was the catalyst that took me from Portsmouth, VA, to Kampala, Uganda, to serve children and families affected by incarceration. I was so excited to do this work, and I began to do it so easily. I knew it was my purpose when I said to myself I would do this work without compensation. Being an advocate comes with its rewards, but it also comes with its challenges. Watching my words and programs change the lives of thousands, all while my mom was still an addict and back and forth in the system, was heart-​aching. When I would see her slip, I went harder for others. My hope was that somebody’s mom that came in contact with me would “get it.” That they would heal their inner child so they could raise a healthy child. The truth of the matter is, I questioned the “correctional” system. It puzzled me how my mom would go in and out and come home with a stack of certificates, and yet return to the same reckless activities. On October 22, 2020, I picked my mom up from her final stay. She was at Fluvanna Correctional Facility in Virginia for over a year, where she was serving time for her third strike. She was a convicted felon who, at this point, had gotten caught and convicted two times prior. In fact, for her last stay, I got the call that they arrested her the Friday before her surprise 55th birthday party that I was planning. Families were even beginning to arrive at my home when she was arrested ... but that is a long story for another book. When I picked her up from Fluvanna Correctional Facility that Thursday, I did not fathom that it would be my last time being with her. We had breakfast plans with my children the next day. I was starting to be hopeful, however, I was resistant to getting too happy because I could feel something was off. Nevertheless, we found her dead the next day not even 24 hours after her release. She returned to a bad batch of fentanyl. I remember sitting on her bed while the medical examiners were doing their jobs and a spirit of peace came over me. I knew at that moment she FINALLY found REST! As tired as she had been over my life, I now saw her rested. I now had peace after

188  Quniana Futrell

over 35 years of not knowing where my mom was or if she was safe either in prison or on the streets. You see, “60% of adults report experiencing difficult family circumstances during childhood” (National Center for Mental Health Promotion and Youth Violence Prevention, 2012). Of this 60%, we have found that the vast majority aren’t aware of what to do with their trauma so those adverse childhood experiences become their new norm. One of the traumas many believe to be “normal” is wounds caused by their mother. Since typically moms are the pillar of the family and rock of the community, no one likes to think negatively of them. However, what happens when she turns out to be the one person who hurts you the most? That was my story; I imagined everyone had a parent incarcerated or addicted to drugs. It took me too long to discover that I didn’t really hate my mom; I hated the drugs and some of her actions. My mom had a constant battle within herself that I couldn’t fight for her. Simply put, it was her trying to heal. I had to lead with forgiveness and instill boundaries as an adult in order to have a relationship with her. The truth is, her true transformation would come when she was ready, and I had to give her grace without re-​traumatizing myself. Instead of allowing myself to become the next statistic in my family, I allowed my purpose to override my pain. I am an avid activist in my community bringing healing to families in a transformational yet unconventional way. Why My Mom® has become a trademarked, award-​winning book anthology and docuseries championing for those with what I call “momma trauma.” There is a direct correlation between trauma and incarceration. This series is the framework I use in my community to help others answer the wounding question, Why My Mom® and know that Trauma Ain’t Normal®. As an empathetic advocate, I promote individual healing, unlearning unhealthy generational patterns, and work toward decreasing the recidivism rate. Our hearts want what they want, but for those who are struggling with overriding pain with a purpose, those with momma trauma, and those who do not know how to give grace without re-​traumatization, this advice could save you some energy. Remember, it is HER healing and not yours. Although you may not be able to save her, you can plant seeds of hope into others and save your generation by being the curse breaker! You are only responsible for your healing and being your best self. Love you unconditionally and all others with boundaries, and it will save you a lot of heartaches. YOU ARE A CHAMPION!!! Reference National Center for Mental Health Promotion and Youth Violence Prevention. (2012). Childhood Trauma and Its Effect on Healthy Development. Safe Schools/​ Healthy Students and Project LAUNCH Programs.

34 YOUTH OF INCARCERATED PARENTS UNITED Kleo Torres

My life changed forever when I was in the eighth grade at my middle school basketball tryout. I remember I was practicing my layup until I saw two of my aunts walk into the gym. It was really confusing because they lived about 30 minutes away, and I could only wonder why they would be there. I knew that tryouts were closed to the public, so there had to have been a good reason why they would show up. I wasn’t sure what was going on, it was like everyone was keeping things a secret as I was sent home to pack my belongings. Every time I asked a question, I was brushed off. Eventually, I learned that social services had taken me away due to my mother being incarcerated that morning. My aunts showed up to my basketball tryout because they officially had become our guardians in a matter of a week. As I was getting acquainted with the move, I was traveling in the early morning to still finish out my eighth-​grade year at my current middle school. I remember the very next day I attended school after moving in with my aunt. I was approached by a classmate who said, “Kleo, was that your mom on the news?” It felt like my world came tumbling down in a matter of 24 hours. There are 2.7 million minor American children with a parent in jail or prison (Damron, n.d.), and I am an exception to both. I have attended four different schools in my high school career. I’ve had to adapt to different rules and personalities in different households. Lastly, I’ve met a great variety of people and had to adjust to several different locations. Being impacted by parental incarceration dealt me cards at a young age that forced me to grow up a lot earlier than I expected. Do you know the feeling of going hungry because you’re too uncomfortable to open a refrigerator that isn’t yours? Do you know the feeling of spending birthdays and holidays with another family or just alone? The worst feeling anyone can feel is feeling like a burden. DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-41

190  Kleo Torres

In my adult life, I have learned to deal with my circumstances. I don’t often find myself dwelling on things I cannot control. Though I still have my bad days, I know I am in control of the life ahead of me. My parents are both still in and out of the system; however, I find happiness in the life that has transpired for me. There isn’t one day that I don’t think about what life could have been like for me as a young adult. Would I be smarter? Would I be as driven? Would I be happier? I have accepted that it is normal to be curious, but I find comfort in knowing I can make what I want out of this life because I am the driver. Today I am an honors graduate of Alabama State University, where I committed to a full-​ ride track and field scholarship to pursue higher education. I am currently a graduate student pursuing my Master of Public Administration at American University while working full-​ time as an Account Manager for Fortune 10 company. Furthermore, I am the founder and president of the nonprofit organization, Youth of Incarcerated Parents United. Youth of Incarcerated Parents United is a registered nonprofit corporation founded in Washington, DC, that is dedicated to serving children that have been impacted by parental incarceration. Our vision is to contribute to a world in which all children feel empowered through their own stories and possess pathways to opportunity and victory. Our mission is to enrich the quality of life, instill hope, and transform the trajectories of children with incarcerated parents. Lastly, our purpose is to create a safe space for children who have been impacted by parental incarceration. By fostering growth within those affected, we provide educational and extracurricular resources while promoting awareness in the community. As I have overcome adversity and the mental, emotional, and financial struggles that have occurred, I always look back on how vulnerable I was as a child and even now as an adult. The statistics written for me do not represent the person I am today. However, there was a lot of hard work getting to this place in my life and I want to make that work a little easier for children going through the same struggles that I have gone through. I know what it feels like to not have the prom dress I desired as a high schooler. I know what it feels like to put my time and energy into a sport to be able to pay for college because there was no other way. I know what it feels like to want a place that I can call home for my own comfortability. Being impacted by parental incarceration sent me odds that I never expected to endure, and I can only imagine the experiences that other children have gone through. Youth of Incarcerated Parents United isn’t just a nonprofit; it is a community standing in solidarity with one another. Children of those who have been incarcerated are five times more likely to go to prison than children of parents who have never been incarcerated. However, with the resources in place for those impacted by parental incarceration, their trajectory, and

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path in life can look completely different than what statistics show. Though the parents of these children are doing the time on the inside, the children are doing the time on the outside. Most of my life has been lived through trial and error, where I didn’t have the answers but, learned as I went along. I believe we deserve more than that, so it is my duty to bring awareness to this community. Youth of Incarcerated Parents United normalizes the discussion surrounding children with incarcerated parents and caters to the need of each child individually. However, we cannot do this alone as we invite donors to contribute to our cause as we look forward to the continued transformation. It is our supporters that drive our organization to expansion and our children to tranquility. Youth of Incarcerated Parents United uses all investments to provide educational and extracurricular resources to children with incarcerated parents. When I reflect on who I am today, I feel gratitude. Being thankful for the little and big things in my life has made me optimistic about the future. Gratitude has shielded me from negativity. I hope to convey the message of resiliency across this country. Children with incarcerated parents are more than a statistic, we are capable. Reference Damron, N. (n.d.). Life beyond Bars: Children with an Incarcerated Parent. Institute for Research on Poverty. Retrieved April 2, 2023, from www.irp.wisc.edu/​publi​ cati​ons/​fac​tshe​ets/​pdfs/​Fac​tshe​et7-​Incarc​erat​ion.pdf

35 BUILDING THE FUTURE US Youth Ambassadors on A Mission Jaelah Millah Muhammad and Jian Alaa Muhammad

To all children who have the dream to create something, we hope this chapter motivates you to start today. We want you to know that, when you have a dream, work hard to pursue it. You don’t have to wait until you are an adult or when you think your life is perfect. You must always remember that even when people don’t believe in your dreams, or encourage you to keep going, you can still achieve your dreams. Having a parent in prison should never mean giving up on your dreams or your life. As the Youth Ambassadors for Project Iron Kids, we believe in the potential that each child has inside of them no matter what. Project Iron Kids is an initiative to increase the number of books for children of incarcerated parents. Through cartoon characters experiencing parental incarceration, we use reading materials, educational empowerment, and multimedia tools to show their lived experiences. Children are reminded that they are not the only ones living through family incarceration. This is used to help children understand that they are not alone. The experience of having a mother and/​or father in prison or jail is challenging. Project Iron Kids provides resources for caretakers to create opportunities to openly discuss the child’s feelings and help them deal with their parent’s absence. The mission is to show how being Black, young, educated, employed, and a child of an incarcerated parent is an honor. We want the children to know this because they might feel depressed. This may happen because once other kids know about the incarcerated parent, they may bully them, make fun of them, or even call them bad names. This is why we teach kids that it is alright and it is not their fault. We remind them that incarcerated parents can still love them. Being loved is one of the best things you can have, and that is what children need most. DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-42

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We started working as Youth Ambassadors at the ages of 9 and 6. During our first year of work, we would attend a weekly after-​school workshop that allowed us to encourage and empower children of absentee or incarcerated parents. During these working groups, we all were assigned to small teams. Each team selected a leader who had to share with the larger group what we talked about. As Youth Ambassadors, we work closely with team leaders to make sure that all children have time to share. This was how we talked about all of our unique experiences. Mostly we spoke about those things that we were afraid to share in other spaces. For example, when the groups were separated, there would be siblings in some groups. Sometimes there was the goofy one and another that was more serious. We learned that each of them had different personalities and stories. Even though both siblings were from the same home and had the same parent in prison, they didn’t talk about these things at home with each other. My sister and I would show how it’s okay for siblings to have their own stories. One sibling’s side of the story is just as important as the others sibling’s. Both stories should be told and heard just the same. My story is different than my sister’s story, and there is nothing wrong with that. We always reminded the class that they are stronger together than apart. When siblings are dealing with having a parent in prison, they should work together through the ups and downs. My sister and I are always there for each other. We talk about this often in the group meeting. We are happy to see siblings coming back to classes and talking about how they are now talking together in their homes. This is what makes being a Youth Ambassador so great. Being paid to do this work is very awesome, but helping empower young people is the icing on the cake. As Youth Ambassadors, we really enjoy our conversations about the future, like “what do you want to be when you grow up?” or “Do you want to be an entrepreneur one day? Do you know what an entrepreneur is?” This part of the workshop is where children start talking about things they like to do, things they dream about, and many things they have never shared with others before. The best part about this job is that all of the things we were doing were coming naturally alive. Meaning that we didn’t have to write down what we wanted to say, we just came and free-​styled because we have lived experiences. This makes the work super easy and enjoyable. When this happens, you know that you have the right job. You must always love what you’re doing, and if you don’t, try something else. Being Youth Ambassadors is not easy. There is a lot of work to do, but it’s possible. We teach our peers how to be strong and have power. To build stronger generations to come. This is important because young people deserve to know that other kids are going through the same things. Some schools don’t even teach about this topic, especially not for pre-​teens, like us. During our first day of meeting the amazing kids in the program, they were shy, but over time they started feeling comfortable being themselves. Sometimes

194  Jaelah Millah Muhammad and Jian Alaa Muhammad

some of the boys in the program just wanted to exercise or play around. We started each session with stretching, jumping jacks, push-​ups, and other easy exercises. Many of the boys were happy to show their physical strength. We worked to help build the strength inside of them. When we had Zoom classes, some kids let their siblings and cousins join in on the screen. This was okay with us because everyone is welcome into Project Iron Kids. Being a youth ambassador is super fun, but in the end, you get money and blessings. Now, some people might say that kids can’t make money. That’s not true. There are a lot of ways to make money as a child. You just have to find some way to start. We started making money by doing chores around the house for $5 each. So think about this. If you do ten chores in a day or over time, you could make $50. That’s half of one hundred dollars which is HUGE! Another job that we do is babysitting. We charge our parents $10 per hour while they are busy working in the home office. So think about it, when we babysit for 5 hours in one week, we can earn $100 from two weeks of babysitting. This totals $150 to be shared between me and my sister. That’s $75 earned each. Always remember when you start making money, you have to start giving money back to the house. For example, we give 10% of all the money that we make to our mom and dad. This is how we help to pay our family house bills. So think about it, if we use the example from the $150 we made, to give 10% we would need to take $15 from our earnings to give to the house. That gives us $135 to share evenly. So we end up with $67.50 each. If babysitting or being a Youth Ambassador is not your thing, you can rake leaves, wash the family car, disinfect the house, and more. You just have to think and plan what you can do to make money. If you take out the garbage for your parents, then you can charge $5 depending on how much garbage you take out. Now, if your parents don’t want to pay you, then there’s a trick for that. You can say, “this is part of entrepreneurship so I can make my own money. By doing this you can teach me how to save and spend, and it helps with my math skills.” Making money is amazing, and it is educational. But you have to remember to save money as well as giving some to your parents. By doing this, you can support the family legacy and cover basic house bills. You can save some for Eid, Christmas, or even Halloween. But speaking about saving, you should always save some money. Our rule is that, YOU DON’T TOUCH IT! Always save another 10% of the money you earn. Why don’t you touch it? Because saving money can help you in the future. This money could be used for an emergency or just to save for a rainy day. When you can make your own money, it is very empowering. We come from a family of entrepreneurs. All of us started working at our family stores when we were young. Our stores have been in the family for more than 40 years. We still work in the stores over the holidays. Our favorite store is the family restaurant. The Gift Horses Stake Bake And Take is special to us because we

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enjoy cooking so much. Cooking is always fun, especially when we have to make big orders on busy days. Now we see that our late grandparents, Al-​ D Muhammad (paternal grandfather) and Khadijah Muhammad (maternal grandmother) built and sustained stores to keep money in the family and build a legacy of successful business owners. Our plan is to make more Black girl-​owned family businesses. No matter if you are a child of an incarcerated parent or have any kind of disability, you can be successfully employed. You can also grow into a business leader, be the President or CEO of your own company, or be the next trillionaire. All you have to do is DREAM big, create a plan, save your money, manage your credit, help your family with house bills, send money to your incarcerated parent, and save for college. Never stop dreaming and find a healthy way to accomplish those dreams. Take things one day at a time and speak to anybody you know who has their own business. And please don’t ever forget to pray all the time. Pray over the money you make. Pray about your goals and dreams. Pray for your family. Pray for the next generations. Pray about your business plan. Pray for patience. Pray for good health. Pray for all children to have financial freedom. Remember that you are never too young to make your own money. There is no age limit on who can give money to charity, the community, or family. Start your journey today!

36 A WOMAN ON THE OUTSIDE Kristal Bush

Growing up, incarceration was normal to me and many people in my community. It wasn’t until the first day of my “Victims in Society” course during my sophomore year at Temple University that I realized not every Black child’s father has gone to prison. I remember that day vividly. I thought this class would be easy for me because I had so many lived experiences to share, to dissect, and to find closure or answers. I was ready to give it my all. It started with an icebreaker. The professor asked, “Why are you majoring in Criminal Justice?” Many of my white classmates raised their hands. “Because my father is a judge” they answered, or, “Because my mom is a lawyer.” At that moment, I wanted to run. I wanted to hide from my past, from what was “normal” to me. There I was, a girl from Philly whose family had been victimized by mass incarceration. My story was different from those of my classmates. Their family members were those whom I saw as the people who tore my family apart. How did they see my family? How could I tell my story? I slouched deeper in my chair, ashamed to share my “why?” A Black classmate raised her hand. I felt relieved. Finally, here is someone that can at least relate to my reason without me having to open my mouth. Then she said, “Well, my father is a correctional officer, and my brother is a police officer.” I sank deeper in my seat as my eyes fixated on the girl, as though my stare could magically send my thoughts to her. Listening to everyone’s responses, I kept thinking, “this is nothing like talking to my friends in my neighborhood.” I was far from the day in seventh grade when I met my best friend Sakeena. We embraced each other, and I said, “GIRLLLL your dad locked up? MINE TOO! Let’s be friends!” We understood each other innately.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-43

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My palms sweaty and anxiety mounting, I felt silenced but also knew I had to speak. My story mattered because it’s the story of so many Black children in America. I sat up and said, “I’m one of the victims who has suffered so much because of the systemic racism that is embedded in America’s criminal justice system.” Eyes pierced me as the words slowly came out of my mouth. I grew up in Philadelphia where I had to watch every man in my family disappear to prison. My father has been incarcerated since I was three years old. I’ve only visited him once due to the distance and lack of resources. Having watched my father and brothers spend decades behind bars made me understand the nuances of incarceration. Especially the lack of resources and far distances of most penitentiaries. I have struggled, as have many children of incarcerated parents. I was forced to assume mature responsibilities. I became a woman on the outside and a warrior on the inside. I was a college student using my refund checks from college to put money on my father’s books for commissary and phone time and paying lawyer’s fees for my brother. If that wasn’t enough, I adopted my nephew and became his primary caregiver because both of his parents were locked up. By the time I turned 20 years old, I had learned to channel my anger and frustration into creating a community for families impacted by incarceration. Through my organization called Bridging the Gap Transportation, I brought over 3,500 families to see their incarcerated fathers, partners, sons, and brothers in faraway prisons. My mission was to support women who were holding things down while the men in their lives served time. It wasn’t easy. When I saw the faces of the women and children loading into the van for a visit, I saw myself. When my father and brother came home after decades behind bars, it was a lot of adjustment. I began caring for my father as I did for my nephew. It was different from putting money on his books. He needed me for everything. I was responsible for paying his rent and for teaching him how to navigate the world. The Philadelphia he came back to was completely different from the one he left. Just when we started to rebuild our relationship, he was sent back to prison for a parole violation. A part of incarceration that often gets left out of the conversation is parole, which means so many restrictions. I had to pay his legal fees and continue to pay his rent while he was away. It was incredibly heartbreaking to relive that experience again. With the hand that life dealt me, I became an overachiever to block out the pain and pressures of my responsibilities. I juggled my career as a social worker, raised my nephew, and cared for my dad, all while receiving many accolades for the work of Bridging the Gap Transportation. But in my personal life, I was totally broken because I felt unworthy, unloveable, and very uncomfortable. As I struggled to put my family back together, I realized

198  Kristal Bush

this prison shit made us enemies. It divided us. I felt more connected with my loved ones when they were behind those prison gates than out in the world. It was hard to be the spokesperson for the casualties of incarceration when I didn’t have all the answers. I still don’t have the answers, but I keep speaking. I do it to find community, like when I met my friend Sakeena. I speak so that other people understand that incarceration takes a deep toll not only on those inside but on families, especially the women, who often bear the burden of keeping everything together by ourselves. It became obvious in that “Victims in Society” class at Temple that not everybody would understand how incarceration re-​ makes families, even wrenches us apart. That’s why I have committed my life to fight for my family … and advocating for the women and children on the outside.

37 THE INVISIBLE PART See Me, Hear Me Shameka Green

At the age of 7, I was sentenced to solitary confinement. My family had created a culture of secrecy and mistrust. My grandma would remind me, “what goes on in this house, stays in this house.” I felt like I was stuck in involuntary protective custody. All I know is one day, my mother was taking me to 7-​Eleven for a Slurpee, then the next day, she was gone. The more I asked about my mother’s whereabouts, the more I was lied to. My family told me my mother was at camp. If she’s at camp, why can’t we go see her? My questions were always met with that “look.” The look that signified you better stay in a child’s place and out of grown folk’s business. It was like a judge had sentenced me, but I wasn’t allowed to plead my case. I started sneaking around my grandma’s house for answers. I remember the day I heard my grandma on the phone, and she was telling the “real” story. Sweat dripping down my forehead, I leaned closer to the wall so I could hear what she was saying. My heart was racing. If she caught me, she would beat me with a switch. I finally leaned in good enough to hear. My mother was in jail for selling drugs. What felt like a day turned into years. My momma’s five-​year prison sentence became my sentence. When she went to prison, I became an invisible part. The piece that was rarely seen and never heard. Do you see me? Does my voice matter? My trust in my family was tainted the day they lied to me. Secrets became the way of life for us. I struggled to find my voice in school. I had to tell friends that my momma was in camp. What other reason would my momma miss my graduation? Teachers barely noticed me until I got into trouble. Beating somebody’s ass was the only way they would notice me. Oh! So now you see me. Did you ask why I live with my grandma? Or where the

DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-44

200  Shameka Green

fuck is my mother? No, because I’m invisible. Poor me, Invisible me! I’m just “the bad girl.” My secrets were like a warden keeping me confined to this shithole. Grandma’s house is supposed to be my safe haven, but it’s dark now. It’s cold, and I can’t see the light. No one talks to me or checks on me. The only visitor is the other “inmate” confined to grandma’s house. The inmate is my only friend, and he likes to play “house” with me. He likes me so much that he lets me play the momma, and he plays the daddy. He likes to wrestle and get on top of me. I like the visits because no one else comes to see me in the basement. I’m getting a visitor almost every night now when the lights go off. He likes to climb on top of me and hump me. When he humps me, he makes me put my hands on his dick. Is this what mommies and daddies do? My mind and body were sending me confusing messages. Should I tell grandma? Will she believe me? Is it because I’m bad? You know, the fast-​tail girl? I never told grandma. My secrets followed me like a criminal’s rap sheet. I grew up with secrets. I convinced myself that it was in the past, but it was being exposed in every relationship in my young adult life. I was the one that endured abuse from a man, just to be loved. I learned how to keep that a secret and endured that abuse in my solitary confinement. I was the person who trusts too much or not at all, the person that loves too hard, and the person that struggles with imposter syndrome, and low self-​confidence. If you didn’t see me, how do you expect me to see myself? Lying to me stripped my voice, I lost my rights and my choices. I became more exposed and prone to vulnerability. Children should not be invisible parts. Families and educators have an obligation to create safe spaces for children to heal. Spaces where children are allowed to freely express their feelings. Allowing children to feel heard will safely lead them to a journey of healing. We seek to be heard, but rarely are we understood. Children of incarcerated parents should not spend their time in solitary confinement. Suppressing our voice dims the light inside of us. My mother spent many years in and out of prison most of my life. After spending many years in prison, she was physically released but always stuck in solitary confinement. She was committed to her silence. She never spoke on her journey in prison. Was it violent like the television show “Wentworth”? What made her sell drugs? Did she miss me? Why is everything such a secret? I never received the answers I so desperately searched for. My voice was on mute until late adulthood when the pain returned to my doorstep. Here I am in my 40s, facing my trauma again. I experienced my mom going back to prison for a four-​to-​ten-​year sentence. The little girl in me battled with those old ugly emotions of embarrassment, anger, abandonment, and sadness. I wanted to run back to my “cell.” I didn’t want anyone to learn about my secret. The more I tried to hide, the more the secret was revealed.

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My mom’s story was highlighted on every news station and newspaper. Same story, different characters. Only this time, we had more innocent bystanders, my children. I had to own “My Truth.” My sentence had to end. Trauma is normal in my neighborhood. Loss was a familiar friend of mine since the age of 2 when my father was murdered. Meek Mill once said, “the streets left me with a heavy heart.” My father’s murder, stepfather’s murder, murder of my first boyfriend, my innocence being stolen by my molester, and a mother in prison left me with a black heart. I never found therapy, therapy found me. I was comfortable hiding my scars with band-​aids until I became a therapist. God called me to be a therapist. It’s my divine assignment to walk with others on their healing journey. It was in the therapy room where I witnessed life-​changing healing for my clients. It was then that I made the decision to become a client. I didn’t want to carry the pain from my grief anymore. I needed someone to walk with me on my journey. My therapist provided a safe space for me to finally hear my own voice and process my trauma. The more I heard my voice, the more I stood in my truth. Once I found my voice, I was UNSTOPPABLE! My voice was now being heard on platforms like BET and the Soul Train Awards. My children didn’t have to cover their scars with band-​aids. I held space for my kids to have these “uncomfortable” but necessary conversations. My momma’s trauma is not my trauma, my trauma is not my kids’ trauma. My family was going to break generational curses. I created a nonprofit, Emma’s House Inc., named after my grandmother. A safe space to EMPOWER BLACK GIRLS that look like me and provide therapy for children of incarcerated parents. A space filled with love and HOPE. A space for rewriting your story. In the words of the famous rapper, Eminem, “I am whatever you say I am. If I wasn’t, why would you say I am?” I am a Child of an Incarcerated Parent! This is me! I am a Marriage and Family Therapist, International Award-​ Winning Best-​Selling Author, Little Black Girl from Detroit, Entrepreneur, Wife, and Mom. I see me, I hear me!

CONCLUSION Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad, Britany Jenine Gatewood, and Sydni Myat Turner

Now that you have read their stories, many of which may have challenged your perceptions, what will you do with this information? First, put some respect on the names of Black children of incarcerated parents. Respect is a pillar in the Black community that cannot be taken for granted (Anderson, 2000). It is so much more than just a word. It allows for an individuals to move among their community as a recognized ambassador (Anderson, 2022). When you are respected, you are understood. In order to understand the plight of children of incarcerated parents, we must RESPECT them (Muhammad et al., 2021). Respect as it relates to (1) allowing them to speak for themselves; (2) providing them with the platform to share their narratives; (3) empowering them by dismantling the negative deficit-​based perspectives on their livelihood; (4) including them in work about them and providing compensation for their participation; (5) acknowledging their expertise through lived experience; (6) stepping back; and (7) allowing the children of incarcerated parents to step up. They are the experts of the field because they have lived or currently live the experience of parental incarceration (Hollins et al., 2019). Therefore, you should lean into counter-​ storytelling and challenge the research and ideas that have been presented by those without these life experiences. Next, do not underestimate them. We challenge you all to move beyond the culture of enforced silence (Muhammad, 2018). Silencing, lying, or omitting the truth to a Black child of an incarcerated parent is a disservice and denial of their true identity formation. You have seen in this book that silence can hinder the development of self-​liberation, social capital, and social freedom. When individuals gain understanding and are able to verbalize their strengths, it can lead to self-​confidence. Value of one’s self DOI: 10.4324/9781003301011-45

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may be used to combat some of the negative effects in dealing with the realities of having one or both parents incarcerated (Ryff, 2014). You should see yourself as an ally who takes responsibility for humanizing a population of leaders, community activists, research scholars, entrepreneurs, actors, academicians, and individuals. All BCOIP are not the same. They are not a homogenous population, and their parents’ lives should not dictate their lives (Hollins, 2019). In addition, this work sets the stage for further exploration into a variety of marginalized statuses. We would benefit from a better understanding of Indigenous, Latinx, Asian, Middle Eastern, LGBTQ+​ , etc., children of incarcerated parents. They all have unique experiences and should be seen as individuals and not just as stigmatized, racialized groups (Delgado et al., 2012). “Real recognizes real.” Similar to the research that highlights the importance of race alignment between research and subject, we argue experience alignment is also important (Gatewood et al., 2023; Hollins et al., 2019). Through the lens of a critical intersectional perspective, researchers (PI/​Co-​PI and/​or research team) should be encouraged to connect to their research topics by race, gender, and experience. This would allow for more humanistic interactions between the researcher, the subject, and the expert. In conducting research with directly impacted individuals, they should be included in all phases of the process. They should also be compensated for their engagement and leadership roles on projects and with programs. For example, this includes bringing them on as consultants or to lead the research project. The knowledge of lived experience should not have to be suppressed or erased in order to meet the threshold of subjectivity. “Experts” tend to tell a community what they need instead of asking. How can we want Black researchers to leave their lived experiences behind, yet we allow white researchers to carry their privilege throughout the entire research process? As you are figuring out what to do next, first look at yourself and answer the questions posed throughout this book. The Social Revolution

Speaking the truth is power. BCOIP turn their pain into passions, although they do not have the opportunities most have. Because of the intersections of their social identities, they are battling against society on multiple fronts. Despite this, they show resilience (Ashmitha & Annalakshmi, 2020; Muhammad, 2018; Tomlin et al., 2021). Empowering themselves and others, the stories of BCOIP bring life and light into darkness. They are using their words to “give themselves the permission to be free” and begin their internal revolution or continue their fight against injustice. The revolution has to start with the self before others can join. By sharing these stories, they are starting from within.

204  Bahiyyah Miallah Muhammad et al.

If you are directly impacted, we hope that this book has inspired you, and you know that you are not alone. Hopefully, you see yourself in these stories and feel empowered to start your own internal revolution. There is a misconception that all activists must be speaking to large audiences or leading marches. But there are many ways to speak truth to power and find where you fit in the revolution. You do not have to move mountains, by just being able to speak up in your inner circles, sending the uncomfortable text about how you are feeling to your formerly incarcerated parent, or writing that poem that allows you to cry, those are all revolutionary acts. There is no right way, no timeline, or no order in which to be a part of the movement. You are a part of it by just existing. There are millions who have a shared experience with you. You are not alone. We do this for you all. We see you. We respect you. References Anderson, E. (2000). Code of the Street: Decency, Violence, and the Moral Life of the Inner City. W. W. Norton. Anderson, E. (2022). Black in White Space: The Enduring Impact of Color in Everyday Life. University of Chicago Press. Ashmitha, P., & Annalakshmi, N. (2020). Understanding Pathways to Resilience among Children of Incarcerated Parents. Indian Journal of Positive Psychology, 11(2), 75–​87. Delgado, R., Stefancic, J., & Harris, A. (2012). Critical Race Theory: An Introduction. NYU Press. Gatewood, B. J., Muhammad, B. M., & Turner, S. (2023). Breaking Generational Curses: Success and Opportunity among Black Children of Incarcerated Parents. Social Problems (spad026). Oxford Academic. Hollins, W. Q. (2019). Guilty by Association: A Critical Analysis of How Imprisonment Affects the Children of Those Behind Bars [City University of New York]. In ProQuest Dissertations and Theses. Hollins, W. Q., Underwood, E., & Krupat, T. (2019). About Us, for Us, with Us: Collaboration as the Key to Progress in Research, Practice, and Policy. In J. M. Eddy & J. Poehlmann-​Tynan (Eds.), Handbook on Children with Incarcerated Parents: Research, Policy, and Practice (pp. 1–​ 386). Springer International Publishing. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​978-​3-​030-​16707-​3 Muhammad, B. M. (2018). Against All Odds: Resilient Children of Incarcerated Parents. In L. Gordon (Ed.), Contemporary Research and Analysis on the Children of Prisoners: Invisible Children (pp. 141–​154). Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Muhammad, B. M., Gatewood, B. J., & Turner, S. (2021). Children of Incarcerated Parents: Pathways to Resilience & Success Research Report. Washington, DC: Howard University. Ryff, C. D. (2014). Self Realization and Meaning Making in the Face of Adversity: A Eudaimonic Approach to Human Resilience. Journal of Psychology in Africa, 24(1), 1–​12. doi: 10.1080/​14330237.2014.904098 Tomlin, A., Ruprecht, K., & Arditti, J. A. (2021). Promoting Resilience with Children Impacted by Parental Incarceration. Zero to Three, 40(4), 5–​13.

AFTERWORD Tony Lewis, Jr.

Having an incarcerated parent has been my reality for the past 34 years. When I was 9 years old, my Father was sentenced to life without parole in federal prison for his role in a drug conspiracy in Washington, DC. This would alter my life and reconfigure everything I had known up until that point. I went from an innocent, only child with two loving parents, to a traumatized kid with an incarcerated Father and a Mother battling severe mental illness. What made matters worse regarding my family’s circumstances was that we lived in the epicenter of America’s crack and murder capital. Navigating my community safely became incredibly difficult for my peers and me. Many of them would die or get incarcerated starting in our early teens. Mass incarceration was not just some far-​off thing for us, but it was also an ever-​present predator with an insatiable appetite that hunted frequently in our community. After sentencing, my Father would be shipped to Otisville, New York, for a brief stay, before reaching his final destination at United States Penitentiary, Lompoc in California. For the next 13 years, my Father would be 3,000 miles away. That’s when the real battle began. The battle to stay connected, the battle to stay familiar, the battle to stay bonded. Incarceration has a way of eradicating the most sacred relationships, particularly when distance and poverty can make visiting next to impossible. Visiting is the key to familial bonds staying strong, it is foundational. But for many families experiencing incarceration, it’s too expensive. I saw my Father on three different occasions in those 13 years. I would visit for three consecutive days at a time, and the visits were spaced out to about every four years or so. Out of 4,745 days, I saw my Father only nine of those days. Most children from a neighborhood like ours would have never visited California, especially not to visit someone in prison. The alternative is what many families experience, they just don’t go.

206  Tony Lewis, Jr.

Those sacred relationships between parents and children, siblings, cousins, and friends are, in many cases, forever altered. My Father would eventually make it back to the east coast, where we could visit more frequently and get a chance to learn more about each other as men. I was no longer a teenager, I was now a young man who had survived many traumatic situations and used that pain to help others navigate their own. Our relationship over the years would strengthen, but prison continuously challenges the existence of the relationships as you would want it to be. I’ve had to deliver the news of the passing of multiple family members, including my grandmother (his mother) and two of his siblings. I’ve had to share the passing of his friends, my friends, and many of my maternal family members, including my grandmother, who raised me. Prison creates an abnormal existence that forces families to morph and adjust to that reality in order to create some semblance of normalcy. Nothing is normal, but you do your best to do normal things. This can include sharing ideas and even good news with your parents to make them feel a part of your life. My Father has missed all my graduations, all my professional achievements, and all of my personal milestones. The most important of these being my wedding and the birth of my two daughters. Through it all, I have kept him current, in the know, and informed. Calls, visits, letters, pictures, and emails have given us mediums to share memories. However, being forced to forge a relationship between my Father and my children from prison has been the hardest thing to do. Initially, neither of us wanted my children to visit a federal prison, but my wife insisted. I’m glad I listened to her because the girls love seeing him, and it helps to maintain their relationship outside of those phone calls. At the same time, it tears me apart to take them on those visits. It tore me apart to tell them that their Pop-​Pop is in prison, but I vowed to never lie to them. It tears me apart that my eldest is now the same age I was 34 years ago when my Father first went away. He still has the same sentence now, as he had then, LIFE WITHOUT THE POSSIBILITY OF PAROLE. I am uncertain about the intentions behind mass incarceration, and I try not to be a cynic in my thinking. What I do know is that it has been the greatest destabilizer in families and communities like the one I come from. The generational trauma that it has caused is immeasurable. Our communities are still dealing with the very things they claimed these draconian sentences would combat. The war on drugs has been a failure, while the war on families, like mine, has been successful. Through it all, my family, like our ancestors, have a resolve and a spirit that remains in spite of the most undesirable circumstances. We are still united, we are still connected, and we still love. We will never accept prison as my Father’s, or anyone else’s, final destination. We will fight for their freedom until we can no longer fight. FREE TONY LEWIS! TONY LEWIS IS FREE!

Afterword  207

UPDATE: as of March 20, 2023, Mr. Tony Lewis Sr. received his freedom after 34 years of being incarcerated (Vargas, 2023). Reference Vargas, T. (2023, March 20). Perspective | Tony Lewis Sr. Comes home, ending son’s long fight for father’s freedom. Washington Post. www.was​hing​tonp​ost.com/​dc-​ md-​va/​2023/​03/​20/​lewis-​pri​son-​home-​fat​her-​son/​

INDEX

Note: Page number followed by “f” indicate figures. abandonment, 63–​6 abuse, 63–​6 academic qualifications, 45–​6; see also education acceptance, 177 acting, 50–​1 active participants, 20 adult transitioning, 2 advocacy, 187–​8 alcohol dependency, 49–​52 Alford, Dawan, 124, 126 alienation, 64–​5 Anderson, Bree, 171 Anti-​Drug Abuse Act, 129 apathy, 26 appreciation, 26–​7 Arizona State University Center for Child Wellbeing, 6–​7 Arts: New Orleans Center for Creative Arts (NOCCA), 50; poetry, 32, 71, 100, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109–14, 119; self–expression, 79–122; selfreflective writing, 65–6; visual arts, 79–122, 98f aunt imprisonment, 164–​6 Bad Bitches Have Bad Days, 56 Barnett, Brittany K., 9 Baron, Jay, 156 Behind the Wall (Alford), 124

Bell, Callum, 19 Black liberation movements, 55 Black misanthropic ideology, 123–​4 Black wellness, 55–​77 #BlackLivesMatter, 2–​3, 10 Bridging the Gap Transportation, 197–​8 brother imprisonment, 196–​8 Brown, Tiffany, 171 Building Resilience in Communities Inc, 187 Bush, Kristal, 172 Chaney, Charnal, 56 child services, 132–​3 children, gunplay, 159–​61 “Children of Incarcarated Parents: Pathways to Resilience and Success” study (2019), 5 Ciera’s New Story (Payton), 19 cocaine, 64 Cole, Faith, 57, 71 college, 88–​92, 102–​3 communication, 51, 177, 183–​4 community standing, 190–​1 Constitution, 13th Amendment, 105–​6 conversing: about future, 193; relearning, 27 co-​parenting, 143–​4 COVID-​19 pandemic, 125–​6, 147–​8 Crawford, Roger, 145

Index  209

creativity, 79–​122 criminal definition, 3 criminal legal system involvement, 2 criminalization, 104 Crisis to Creativity (McKnight), 80 critical race theory (CRT), 4 culture, 79–​122 Deception No.13 (Dunn), 105 deficit models, 3 dehumanization, 22 deportation, 162 domestic violence, advocate for, 73 drama, 50–​1 dream recurrence, 65–​6 drugs of abuse, 36–​47, 64, 71–​3, 74–​5, 129–​31, 140–​1 Dunn, Gabrielle, 80 Dyer, Walter, 69 education, 155–​69; college, 88–​92, 102–​3; elementary school, 37–​8; graduation rates, 2; higher education, 88–​92; middle school, 101–​2 see also academic qualifications elementary school, 37–​8 embrace emotions, 117f emotional cocoon, 72–​3 Emotions (Myhere), 119 Even in My Own Castle (Dunn), 111–​12 Falling on Deaf Ears (Dunn), 80 familiarity, unlearning, 26–​7 family: definition, 11; differences from, 36–7; importance of, 123 father imprisonment, 36–​40, 59–​62, 74–​7, 93–​9, 100–​3, 120–​2, 146–​7, 149–​51, 152–​4, 175–​8, 182–​485 forgiveness, 187 Frazer, Quartina, 19, 32 Free Black Therapy, 56 freedom, 179–​81 genetic anger, 26 Gift Horses Stake Bake And Take, 194–​5 graduation rates, 2 grandfather imprisonment, 145–​8 grandmother as parent, 63–​4, 71–​2, 83–​4, 129–​30 gunplay, 159–​61 hatred, 186–​8 Hay, Louis, 69

healing, 30–​1 Helping Flowers Grow: Sunlight, Water and Love (Muhammad & Muhammad), 81, 116 high school age, 102 higher education, 88–​92 Hogan, Sherelles, 9–​10 Hollins, Arieanna, 156 Hollins, Whitney, 9 Hollins, William, 156 How I Read (Dunn), 112–​13 identity, 20; relearning, 25 imprisonment, 153–​4; see also relative imprisonment incarceration see relative imprisonment innovation, 79–​122 intergenerational achievement, 164–​9 Intergenerational Achievement: Class of 2025 (Hollins), 156 intergenerational incarceration, 164–​9 internal revolution, 175–​8 intersectionality, 4 Jefferson, Alicia, 56 Jin Crow South, 45 Johnson, Jasmine, 125 The Journey of a Butterfly (Cole), 57 A Journey through Abandonment and Abuse to Acceptance (Jefferson), 56 Kitt, Shanard, 96 Kitt, Sylvia, 94 Kligman, Albert M., 6 Knight of freedom (Dunn), 113–​14 Lahiri, Jhumpa, 21–​2 Lamentations (Frazer), 32 Laveau, Marie, 51 legitimate scholarship, 7 Letter to My Father (Reagon), 125 letters, 51, 177 Lewis, Tony Jr., 171 loved vs. unloved, 25 marijuana, 64 The Masquerade Ball (Stevenson), 81, 83–​7 McKnight, Akiya, 80 meditation, 68 mental health, 176 Michael’s Daughter (Payton), 51–​2

210 Index

Michael’s Daughter Foundation, 52 middle school, 101–​2 military service, 41–​7 Moms (Alford), 126 mother imprisonment, 28–​31, 63–​6, 67–​70, 88–​92, 132–​9, 140–​1, 179–​81, 186–​8, 199–​201 Mother’s day, 132 Muhammad, Jaelah, 81, 116 Muhammad, Jian, 81, 116 multiple jobs, 121 My Healing Journey (Chaney), 56 My Reality and Your Ego (Dunn), 108 Myhere, William, 119 names, 21–3; reclamation, 25; relearning, 25–4 The Namesake (Lahiri), 21–​2 Narcotics anonymous (NA), 49 national call to action, 171–​201 New Orleans Center for Creative Arts (NOCCA), 50 “No More Shame” movement, 147 non-​parental relative imprisonment, 46–​7 Not Trying to Forget (Dunn), 110–​11 Now You See Him, Now You Don’t (Howard), 100 Olsson, Goran Hugo, 8 parent definition, 11 parenting, 123–​54 Parenting Your Parent (Johnson), 125 Payton, Ciera, 19 perceptions, unlearning of, 25, 27 personal goals, 22–​3 physical violence, 8 poetry, 32, 71, 100, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109–​14, 119 positive life outcomes, 3 post-​traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), 121–​2 prison visitation, 2 prison visiting, 83–​7 project buildings, 140 Project Iron Kids, 192 PTSD (post-​traumatic stress disorder), 121–​2 punishment, 132, 153–​4 The Purpose Driven Life, 165

questioning, 182–​185 racist models, 3 Reagan, Ronald, 129 Reagon, Tashawn, 125 reconciliation, 18–​53 relationship maintenance, 149 relative imprisonment: aunts, 164–6; brother, 196–8; father, 36–40, 59–62, 74–7, 93–9, 100–3, 120–2, 146–7, 149–51, 152–4, 175–8, 182–485; grandfather, 145–8; mother, 28–31, 63–6, 67–70, 88–92, 132–9, 140–1, 179–81, 186–8, 199–201; nonparental, 46–7; spouse, 142–4; uncle, 129–31, 166–8 relearning, 25–​7 religion, 76–​7, 90–​1 resentment, 29–​30 residue, 33–​4 resilience, 5–​6 respect, 202 restorative justice, 162–​3 Roger Rabbit (Dunn), 106 role-​paying, 159–​60 roots, 32–​3 Roots, Residue and Results (Frazer), 19 sacrifice, 29–​30 Seed of Hope (Drummond), 91f Self Love: A Silent Revolution (Raquelle), 77 self-​acceptance, 65 self-​care, 55–​6, 69 self-​control, 26 self-​expression, 79–​122 self-​reflective writing, 65–​6 Serve Your City, 70 sexual abuse, 75 single-​parent home, 184 slavery, 10, 104 social identity, 18–​19 social revolution, 8–​9, 10–​12, 203–​4 social violence, 8 solitary confinement, 199–​201 speaking truth definition, 9–​10 spousal imprisonment, 142–​4 Stevenson, Donald, 81 substance abuse, 36–​47, 64, 71–​3, 74–​5, 129–​31, 140–​1 success, 5–​6

Index  211

Taylor, Tonisha, 172 Teen Guide to Living with Incarcarated Parents (Young), 175 Telling Time (Dunn), 109–​10 Then and Now (Dunn), 107 therapy, 31, 56–​7, 59–​60 Therapy for Black Girls, 56 Therapy for Black Men, 56 13th Amendment to the Constitution, 105–​6 This Is Your Permission To Be Free (Taylor), 172 Till Death Do Us Par, I Vowed to You My Heart (Dunn), 106 Transatlantic Slave Trade, 10, 104 Transcendental Meditation, 69 trauma, 150–​1, 201 trust, 76 truth, 18–​53

unlearning, 25–​7 Upward Prayer (Kitt), 98f USA, oppression history, 1

uncle imprisonment, 129–​31, 166–​8 underestimation, 202–​3 Underwood, Ebony, 9–​10, 171 unemployment, 2 unfit mothers, 137

yoga, 67–​8 You Can Heal Your Life (Lay), 69 youth ambassadors, 192–​4 Youth of Incarcarated Parents United, 189–​91

value, 182 Victims in Society, 196 visual arts, 79–​122, 98f voice loss, 200–​1 War on Drugs, 129 #WeGotUsNow, 171 What Is a “Bad” Guest (Baron), 156 What’s in a Name (Bell), 19 Why My Mom®, 188 W.I.R.E. (Women Involved in Reentry Efforts), 70 A Woman on the Outside (Bush), 172 Women Involved in Reentry Efforts (W.I.R.E), 70