Slowly my eyes blink open to the sound of my alarm. Because it’s my day off, I shouldn’t even be getting up, especially since I just went to sleep a few hours ago. I was so excited last night that it was hard for me to fall asleep. You see, today is my first visit with my seven-year-old son since I was first incarcerated three years ago.
My mother and son flew to Texas from Utah just to see me. I’ve been waiting for this for so long just so I could hug my son. The day has finally arrived. I spend the next two hours getting ready. A hot shower and plenty of baby powder later, I’m smelling sweet. I painstakingly apply just the right amount of make-up and curl my hair. I want to look extra special when they arrive. Each time the phone rings, I watch the guards’ eyes to see if they fall on me. And finally they do, and she calls my name for a visit.
I jump up, dressed in crisp, creased state-issued whites, with my black state boots shining like new money. My heart is racing 90 miles an hour as I walk the 100 feet to the visitation room.
The door opens and I see this beautiful set of green eyes that look so much like the child I left three years before, yet he is so tall, and all his baby fat is gone. His face lights up, but not as bright as mine, and we embrace in a hug strong enough to bend steel. I see my mother, and hug her too. This is the moment I’ve waited so long for.
My eyes float over to the guard and I recognize a glimmer of the hatred that fills so many in her position. Angry prison guards who feel their only mission in life is to make us feel less than human. I notice only one other visit in progress, and they smile our way. They too realize how special a visit is to a prisoner.
As the visit goes on and I get reacquainted with my son, I comment to my mother that she’s doing a wonderful job with him. He’s polite, quiet, well-mannered, and very well-behaved. I can’t help but notice the guard continually spewing hatred with her eyes.
My son gets up to get some children’s books that are there for children on visits. The guard points her index finger at my son and motions for him to come to her. He hangs his head, and very shyly walks over to her. In a rough voice she spits, “You need to stay in your seat, or I will end your visit. Do you understand?” He replies, “Yes ma’am” and sulks back to our table. I am shocked that this guard spoke so harshly to my child, and all he was doing was getting a book to read. Humiliation creeps over me as I realize I can do nothing about it. If I caused a scene then my visit would be canceled. Yet my hurt is strong. I decide to wait until after my visit, and then speak to a ranking officer.
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