misty (correctional facility) blues: finding comfort, covering, and community
by cece. p.
my mama would drive us, multiple times a week, ass crack of dawn, down long, mainly country VA roads to powhatan correctional facility. and we loved it. my little sister and i didn’t put up a fuss about being tired or it being too early--we were going to see some of our favorite people.
she’d load us up in the lil tiny car; we had to idle for a while so it could warm up, clearing white frost from the windshield while the exhaust shot smoke of the same color into the frigid air. not for too long, though, ’cause there were hours of road ahead. sometimes my sister & i would share a blanket on the backseat. once the leather's chill was gone, it wasn’t that bad. mama always played the oldies. i knew i was gon’ hear something by denise lasalle or zz hill or another bluesy juke joint singer as we approached richmond. depending on the day & time, i got hopeful that the hum of the car’s engine would change. even with my eyes closed, just listening & feeling the familiar path of the ride, i anticipated her turning off to exit so we could go to creighton court to our play cousins’ house.
sometimes she did, but most times not. i never got too upset because even when she didn’t, chances were i see them when we arrived anyway. just like the soundtrack, the same people were always there, every week. we were going to see my mama’s boyfriend. as were most of the other people coming — the girlfriends and sometimes kids of the other inmates. despite the early mornings & long drives & searches & waits-for-your-person-to-finally-come-out-after it-seems-like-everybody-else’s-has, it was our favorite place to be.
mom’s boyfriend was cool, we loved him, but for us, it was more the community itself. inside that room, we were free — within reason — to roam. you knew your boundary: which ladies mama was cool with & which guys looked out for you. you had time at your family 4-square table, but you also got to go sit at ms. b’s table with her kids — your “cousins” — for a while so mama & him could talk or take pictures or whatever.
some of the families also knew each other outside of the facility. that’s how we knew where to go and the invisible lines and spaces we shouldn't cross. i’m pretty sure our parents were much more aware of the armed guards on the perimeter and the explicit rules that must be adhered to, but my mama, the woman who’d jack you up for being 5 ft too far away, let us walk to commissary (the line for food & snacks) without her, and sometimes *with a man* — which she did NOT play about. there was a level of trust and security within that space that i had never felt before and have never since.
we were embraced and looked after. the families looked out for each other. watched each other’s kids. allowed time for the partners to have private conversations and maintain connections. they built community.
there was a tuesday night tutoring session, too. the inmates were allowed to visit with family and assist the kids with homework. for me it was just another opportunity to see our folks. my mama really pressed me out to be sure i was aware of all it entailed. she knew i didn’t need the help — if anything i was helping everyone else — and that i hated getting up in the morning. we would be at the facility until about 9pm after having gone to school all day, then taking that long ass ride to be there in the evening and back, and still have to be up the next day at 6am for school. i was adamant, though, so every other week we made the additional weekday trips. i preferred these visits.
the weekends weren’t so bad, but security was tighter and it was less intimate--more families and people you didn’t know, and lots more guards. longer lines. more invasive searches. sometimes we’d stay the weekend in creighton court at ms b's. and sometimes the mommas dropped us kids at the house so they could go see the guys alone, adults only. a lot of my life's pre-incident/post-incident moments happened during those kids-regulating-themselves times, leaving long-lasting marks in their wake. while i've many internal and invisible to the eye, one physical keepsake of that period is a scar from a 3rd degree iron burn on one of my limbs. i’ve now had it longer than i lived life not having it, many times over. but the ugly scars — visible or not — don’t mar my appreciation for the entirety of the experience.
in a time when i feel so unprotected — and we can list ad infinitum the harms abounding at this moment — when i examine what feeling protected actually *feels* like for me, my mind immediately conjures the same warmth-generating scenes:
a long, dark country road and dorothy moore singing misty blue, driving to see mama’s boyfriend. folks being happy to see you. playing with other kids. taking pictures. getting snacks from all your “parents’” friends without mama’s normal pushback.
i felt a freedom and trust with (practically, let’s be real) strangers that was not even afforded people we actually knew. my mama never let me have a sleepover at my best friend’s house and our families have known each other for generations. mama was beyond strict. and yet she relaxed the eyesight that we knew to stay within during those visits. at ms. b’s house we kids were regularly left to our own devices despite mama always saying she didn’t need to stay in richmond too long. it was a bubble, a safe space.
i can’t blame her ’cause to this day, in my mind, it is for me, too.
i’ve asked myself often what it means that i’ve felt the most covered in my life within a community shaped by the commonality of Black men in a correctional facility. the most i’ve ever felt loved and protected by Black men was by some who couldn’t, realistically, even protect themselves in that space. i love them/it/the overall experience for it. it was a good fucking time. the regular visits; the tutoring nights; the gifts & trinkets everyone gave & received; the relationships that spilled over into non-correctional facility life.
we had stuff like field day. once a year, every summer, one (fenced in) area (maybe a field or something) was turned into a fair or carnival of sorts. though still caged and surveilled, we weren’t constricted by walls and furniture; we were outside. freely hugging. running around. playing. eating. everybody looked forward to it.
and at tutoring, one of the men baked really well. he had a crush on my gma. she only came one time, but he always asked about her after that. he was a little older than the rest of the guys. super kind. and he made the best shortbread cookies. i can still taste them right now thought i haven’t had them sense. evidently mama, & even gma before she passed, remember them, too.
the first person to have a serious convo with me about african history and culture was mr. c — another of the guys in there. he made me a certificate once. said he’d looked up the meaning of my name and it translated to “african princess” (...as did so many other Black girl names in the 90s, evidently, but i digress). i bet my mama still has it somewhere. mr. c was extremely supportive of the kids and planted seeds about our african heritage in each of us. i will forever appreciate him for that.
there were so many characters, so many different hobbies, and strengths, and personalities. even if you didn’t remember their names, there was something you could reference & folks would know who you’re talking about.
from one of the most surveilled — literally, figuratively, spiritually, you name it — demographics, this group sprouted and thrived. there were people literally feet away from us ready and willing to take us out at any moment but baby… i felt free.
covered.
protected.
good.
safe.
and i can’t say that of any other period of time or group of people in my life.
ever.
the only other absolute, deep down in my bones, you-can’t-make-me-doubt-it thing i know is the love of my gma.
they made me feel safety and protection and my gma made me feel love.
mama and the other women sacrificed time and money and gas and years and patience and love. i've never spoken to any of the men regarding the modicum of freedom and opportunity they had to still be part of their families’ lives while in a box. i know parts of the stories that comprise this beloved space of mine. i also know the dark side of my own experience.
but in this present time, where chaos is reigning very hard and even the idea of safety and protection is on E, i can imagine what it feels like to get to that place again. i can close my eyes, feel the vibrations of my mama’s car on a dark VA road, and rock to dorothy’s aching vocals.
i can shape what it looks like to have that again. what needs to be done to feel covered & safe. what community can look like in an unsafe place.
it’s the flicker that keeps me hopeful
photo by writer