Narrative 1 - The Visiting Room by Joyce Angela Jellison, Waltham Ma
Five buttons have pushed me to the edge of sanity.
That is it all it takes after two hours of trying on one dress after another; Trading one pair of dress pants for another identical pair that may or may not hug my hips a little too provocatively. The decision on what to wear should is not so difficult for me– but today it is. I have decided against my oldie but goodie “interview” black dress. The dress would be considered by most to be conservative and appropriate for just about any occasion – weddings, funerals, bat mitzvahs, you name it – but today, because of the five buttons trailing from the neckline to waist on the dress, it is not the right dress to wear to prison. I also decided against jeans and a printed t-shirt: the jeans are too tight and shirts with writing are not allowed. I don’t automatically know these rules – I am being educated by Joanna Marinova, Co-director of Press Pass Television who has arranged a meeting between me and a prison activist, Derrell Jones.
“I know this sounds silly but I have to tell you,” Marinova informs me over the phone. “But be sure to wear a bra, they wont let you in without underwear.”
Marinova and I have never met – but we are connected by a cause: The desire to “break the silence” in prisons. I initially began this journey alone – thinking I could enter the prisons as a writer teaching other women to document their narratives. I was wrong – after a year long battle with the administration at MCI-Framingham, I had just about given up. Now the project has been given new breath or it may be – at least this is what I gather from Marinova who tells me she knows of a person on the inside who is interested.
“It is a men’s prison,” she says knowing that my original intention was to work with women – but this was never written in stone and I am more than elated to have an opportunity to breathe new life in this project.
We agree that I will meet Marinova’s colleague, Cara Lisa Berg-Powers in Norfolk, Massachusetts. Cara meets me at the train station on a cold, blustery Thursday. I finally decided on khaki pants and a black turtleneck. I have been careful to pull my dreadlocks into a neat, non-threatening bun without using hairpins. I have been educated that hairpins are not allowed. Later I will learn neither are earrings, necklaces without religious symbols and any other jewelry except wedding rings.
This is not my first time visiting my prison. In fact, I have visited various prisons as a reporter in
“How the hell are we supposed to know what happens in there?” I ask as we approach a large foreboding building with a iron gate. Cara looks at me with sky blue eyes and smiles slightly – to this question, the answers do not come easily.
Once inside we join a line of women, some with children, who are eager to see their loved ones. They stand checking one another’s hair and outfits for appropriateness. The children are restless – everyone is anxious. These women discuss more than clothes – they speak to one another about isolation, justice and the conditions of prisons.
One woman with mournful eyes wearing a St. Christopher’s medallion tells me and Cara, “I have been coming for three years. It is like I am locked up with him.”
