This was the final week of the twelve week long torture that was the Bikini Body workouts. It appears that I won't have to be doing the bathroom runway walk of shame after all.  It will definitely be the "eat your heart out, loser ex-boyfriend" sexiness strut.

It was a lot of huffing and puffing, bitching and moaning, and cursing out the trainer with her perfect Samoan Barbie doll body - the Bitch!!! She, and her, "Come on, girls...you can do a hundred more squats. I know you can! Come on!!! Ass to grass! Ass to grass!"



Ugh...f@#k you! and your rock-hard abs, and show-horse legs!

Okay, I just had to get that out of my system. Passive-aggressive, much? F#@k you, too, Self! And the old boyfriend - for good measure! Just... F#@K. Everybody. OKAY!?!

Anyway, I was out for a five mile run at the crack of dawn this morning. Because. I. Felt. Like. It. Who does that!?! And, what is wrong with me? I ruined a perfectly good day to just stay in bed and be lazy, by being motivated to go run? In the cold? Before sunrise? What?!?

So, I'm running and running, and actually enjoying it, when all of a sudden Adnan Sami and his call to prayer, the "Azaan," comes on my MP3. Totally transporting me to the first time I met the old boyfriend when the call to prayer unexpectedly rang on his alarm, which he had forgotten to reset.  He scrambled to shut it off, but it was too late. That beautifully haunting sound will forever stay with me, reminding me of him and all of our theological conversations about things we don't really understand. Why the Azaan popped up on my playlist at that moment - I really don't know.  I was in the zone, running to "Work It Out" with Pitbull and Lil Jon... "Go ahead, girl, work it out. So sexy, so fine, so fiesty." Yes, all of that and more! And then...needle scratching on vinyl...scrrreeeech...ugh! Complete hard-off!!! F#@k you, old boyfriend!!!

Why do we women do that to ourselves? Resurrect the past like we can make a future of it? Clearly things didn't work out with the ex. That's why he's an EX! Only, with this one, we never broke up. I just got sidetracked into prison. But, it's not as if he's been breaking down prison walls to come and see me. So, get over it, Alexa. A better man will come around. Must. Be. Patient.

OMG! Just as I punctuated that last sentence... you won't believe it, but the Azaan just came on...again! What the f#@k? I was just shaking my butt in my chair to Pitbull's "El Taxi," as I'm writing this. I can't explain this. Maybe there's a connection with Pitbull and God? I'm not even gonna try.

Okay, let's move on and talk about my banging body that I've been working so hard to attain.  I was getting so discouraged because I'm not long, sleek and skinny with no appetite. Just the opposite. I'm short, curvy, and I like to eat. More of a JLo type than a Jennifer Lawrence. Then I found myself watching the Univision Latino news report where the women all have bodies like mine, and they dress the way I like to dress - you know, dresses way too short and way too tight, full-on makeup, hair extended to the butt. Then I thought...hmmmm...I'm gonna be alright, after all.

Sometimes, being in prison, it's hard to remember just how beautiful and sexy we are. Our prison sanitation worker uniforms don't do much for our self-esteem. At least they're a deep green which match perfectly with the color of my eyes. That's the only good thing I can say about this outfit. Well, that, and our butts look great in these pants. Someone at design goofed with this one. I don't think they expected our butt cakes to look so yummy in these ugly green pants. Suckers!

I'm taking the next month to focus on diet and nutrition, then it's on to round two of the Bikini Body workouts, along with the Victoria's Secret leg workout. Then, after that, it will be time to bite the bullet and take some prison pictures so that I can have them uploaded on here. I had been trying to keep myself from doing it. I mean, who wants to remember prison, right?

Ah, well, yeah...maybe not. I don't particularly want to find my prison photos in the family album years down the line. I'll be like, "And this was your grandma, when she was in prison..." So, not cute. We'll leave that for the Teresa G's of the world. Perhaps, I'll dig up the old mug shots and post those instead. I can't help that those are out there. Freedom of Information Act and all, you know?

Ok, thank you for checking in. It's coffee time for me.

There is a huge disparity between going to state prison versus federal prison.  If you can avoid the state, I highly recommend it. Oftentimes, the state will pick up the charges on violation of state statute, and then the Feds will come in and piggyback on those same charges by changing the nature and scope of the alleged crime to fit nicely into a federal indictment as well.

Ask your state defense lawyer to request that your state charges be dropped in favor of the federal indictment. Most of the time, the state prosecutor will agree to do this, unless your case generates a ton of publicity and is considered a "high profile" case.  If that's the case (no pun intended), you are pretty much screwed, because...Congratulations! You've just provided the state prosecutor with a career enhancing notch on his or her belt.

But, in any event, let's talk prison - the first day, to be exact.

(This photo is not prison- just a light joke referencing "camp cupcake" aka federal prison)

Federal prison arrivals are a lot classier than state prison's. You will either arrive by private car (in the case of self-surrenders), passenger van (your ride from the airport or the local county jails - if there are but a few of you arriving on the same day), or the prison bus (which looks like a European private charter bus with bars on the windows that you can spot if you look closely behind the tinted glass windows... the U.S. government license plates are also an obvious giveaway). By now, it doesn't really matter how you get there. The point being that you've been sentenced to prison, and you've got to get there one way or another.

I had the pleasure of arriving by passenger van directly from the airport two hours away.  I managed to take in the sights during that long ride without having to force idle conversation with anyone.  I distinctly remember the hustle and bustle of big city life outside the airport, the heavy work-a-day traffic congestion, the outdoor shopping centers, car dealerships, chain restaurants, the Hindu Worship Temple, and one beautiful Mosque. 

I kind of got really excited when the Mosque came into view! I was hoping to spot my future husband through the back window of the van where I was seated in the last row cushioned quite comfortably between the warm, soft, and fluffy lady seated next to me, and the carpeted arm-rest to the right of me.  I was hoping to catch a glimpse of an extraordinarily handsome man so I could fantasize about our future together as I sat in prison for the next five years.  But, alas (and woe is me)... it didn't happen. I saw no one going in or out of any of those places along the way.  That was disappointing. Bleh!

We arrived at the prison camp sooner than I had wanted.  I was quite enjoying my temporary sojourn from prison. First a plane ride, then a land tour! Not too shabby for my last day "outside the fence."

We were transported wearing shackles, cuffs and chains, as usual - in case we tried for a daring escape before arriving at our loosely secured prison camp where anyone can freely walk out without much effort. But, Dont' Try It!!! It's rumored to cost you an "escape" charge, with a five year, day-for-day penalty added to your current sentence! So not worth it - unless you were dying tomorrow, then MAYBE it would be worth some further contemplation. But you better get that prognosis in writing straight from God first, because you just might live a little longer, and the Feds will make every minute of your extended life a living hell if you do live to see another day.

In other words, for those of you who are s-l-o-w to figure that I'M KIDDING...don't even THINK about it!!! You are not El Chapo, your tunnel has not been pre-dug for you, and when you do make your way to the shower area, it will only be to wash your ass - not your pathway to freedom!

Okay, now that we got those thoughts out of your head, and me out of further hot water with the Feds... let's talk some more about first day federal prison blues.

Federal prison camp has an intake process a little bit like the state's intake process, only much better.  Upon arrival, you are delivered to an administration area called R&D (Receiving and Discharge), where you are welcomed, given a place to sit, a hot meal, a prison issue uniform, shoes, underwear, a hygiene pack (same indigent pack - nothing fancy from Bath and Body works), and a bed roll - two cotton blankets, two sheets, a pillow case, and towels.  Here is where you are processed in, fingerprinted, mug-shotted (yes, I made that word up - like it?) and assigned to your housing unit.

After a few hours of processing, you are then escorted into the prison compound where your first reaction will most undoubtedly be ... What?!?! THIS is prison?!?!

Yes. It is.

Welcome to federal prison camp where the grass really does grow greener, the flowers bloom more fragrant, and the sweet smell of freedom wafts through the air conditioned air.

At your housing unit, you will be greeted by the Big Sisters - a welcoming committee that assigns a big sister to you by race or ethnic makeup. A little unlike a sorority's methods of assigning big sisters to new pledges, but the overall concept is very much the same.

Your big sister will walk you to your room (usually the temporary "Bus Stop" of about ten beds per room), provide you with much needed essentials (like coffee, good soap, and shower shoes), and give you a brief orientation on how to place a phone call and/or send email to let your family know that you are okay - you've made it through your first day of prison.  You both can breathe easier now.

The next few days will be filled with getting acquainted with the different programs offered (both leisure and educational), orientation, a campus tour, shopping and the issuing of uniforms.  There are no safety issues or concerns at federal prison camp. Here, you are safe and well taken care of. Tell momma not to worry.

Next week, we will talk about the state admission process to maximum security prison.

If you have any questions about prison, just submit them through the comments section down below, and I will do my best to answer them for you from my own personal experience and available resources.

Okay...talk to you then!

I couldn't tell you the time, date or location with any immediate certainty; however, what I could tell you is that we weren't in for much of a pleasant layover.  Our final stop yielded us as what we would later find out to be the Oklahoma Federal Transfer Center, in Oklahoma City.

By the time we arrived at the facility, almost all of the women had managed to find new boyfriends from among the male prisoners aboard the flight.  The long flight time also proved to be ample opportunity for consummation of these noncommittal relationships - lending a slightly different take to the traditional induction into the Mile High Club.

Ordinarily, the airplane would have made its taxi directly up to the gangway leading straight into the seemingly innocuous high-rise building in front of us.  Except, of course, on this particular frigid November day where we were made to deplane onto the runway and then marched single file up the tarmac, and onto a steep set of stairs leading straight into a new kind of Hell.

Once again, surreal is how I could best describe my surroundings.  We all made our way into the building at a snails pace - lots of shuffling and metal clanking - eyes darting nervously in every direction as we did our best to take in this new place that was unlike anything I could ever have imagined.

We stepped into a long and narrow corridor.  There, we found ourselves lined up shoulder to shoulder atop a long metal elevated runway where a small army of U.S. Marshals stripped us of our steel.  Everything in there was the color of prison. Grey. More grey. And then some charcoal - for added contrast.  This is where I last parted with my beloved shoes. It would be another long five years of missed fashion seasons, latest trends and fabulous footwear.  Five long years of khakis, chains, and combat boots. Five long years of my life all set to be gone.

The men and women were by now separated into two groups.  There were about thirty of us women, and approximately four times as many men.  We were taken into closed off dressing areas where we were stripped, inspected, and outfitted in khaki scrubs, a white t-shirt, blue cotton slip ons, socks and prison issue undergarments.  Some of us women were issued used panties smelling of antiseptic institutional detergent. 

From here, we boarded elevators - up or down - I couldn't tell you.  We discharged into a dungeon-like area whose walls were dark, damp, and lined with steel in a stamped diamond pattern similar to an auto mechanic's garage. The men went off to the right into a long narrow cell with large barred windows facing inward.  The women were led into a small and cramped cage of a room across the hall. It was already at capacity with women filling every inch of floor space.  They either stood, crouched or sat shoulder to shoulder, and heel to foot on the damp and filthy floor. The room smelled of body odor, urine, sweat and menstruation.

We all shared the one cold and discolored steel toilet that sat near the open glass window across from the men's holding cell.  Every time one of us had to go, we took turns forming a human curtain facing outward to give some privacy from the men's glares or from the occasional Marshal doing his rounds. We struggled to keep toilet paper supplied, and we could forget about asking for tampons or other hygiene products.  We were no longer women, we were now inmates. The scum of all society.  Not worthy of even a single sanitary pad.

Some of the women had been waiting there for days for word on their immigration status.  They hadn't bathed. They hadn't been given a bed to sleep on. They hadn't been afforded the same protections under the Constitution as the rest of us. No one had yet to explain to anyone of us where we were, or how long we were expected to be there.  I didn't know if this was a stop-over for the night, for a few weeks, or forever.

Many hours later, all the Con Air passengers were gathered and escorted up to another floor where we were processed in yet again.  It was not until we were photographed, fingerprinted, and DNA'd here that we were given information as to where we were, how long we were expected to remain, and where we would be headed to next.

This holding area was bright, clean and spacious in comparison to where we had just been.  A very welcoming contrast to the hell hole we left behind.  Here, we were able to relax a bit - we were American citizens, after all.  Armed now with a fresh set of clothes, new underwear, a hygiene pack, and clean bedding, we made our way to our new temporary sleeping quarters. The cells were very clean and comfortable. We even had thick comfy mattresses to sleep on.  Not your ordinary jailhouse cots. It was unfortunate that my roommate found it necessary to twiddle more than her thumbs all night long with her long bone-skinny arthritic fingers, while our neighbors played phone tag with the men located one floor above us.  The men would flush the toilets to drain them so that they could send down Ziploc baggies full of coffee, creamer and extra creamy goo for their enjoyment.  The women, in turn, would fish string their panties up to the men as a reward for the goodies passed on to them.  This went on every night for weeks.  I couldn't wait to get out of this crazy place!  Even maximum security state prison was tamer compared to this hot mess!

By the end of a few weeks, some of the women would find themselves impregnated by these faceless men.  Their children destined to know their fathers only by their inmate numbers for the first few years of their young lives. When I asked what would compel a woman to do this - the answer was always the same. It was their last chance at motherhood before being locked away during their best reproductive years. So, as it turns out, they were using the men as a means to a much desired end.  And the men ... well, the men, I'm sure, weren't thinking that far ahead.

Thank you for the coffee, cream and sugar, Sugar.  Please come again.

"Did you see Carmelita on the television news programa last night?"

"Si, Chica.  I couldn't believe it! I heard she shot that no good husband of hers finally!  Ya era tiempo...ese desgraciado, hijo de..."

"I know, right?  Did you see how pretty she looked-ed-it on the television?"

"Si, como no?  Her make-up looked so good, and that dress she had on made her look so skee-knee! I'm so proud of her.  She looked so pretty! Como una artista! Que belleza!"

"I know! I'm so jealous!!!"

In Latino American culture, it's not what you do, it's how good you look getting caught doing it that matters.  Most short-comings, or felonious conduct, for that matter, can be overlooked so long as you look beautiful, and you hold yourself together in front of the camera lens.

Latina women prize their beauty, and will go to great lengths to preserve what they've got, or to improve on their given lot.  We love everything that enhances both our beauty and femininity.  Most times, we won't leave out the door without our full make-up on, or "bien maquilladas", our beautiful form-fitting dresses, and our sky-high stilettos.  We also take great care to always smell really good so that when the chicos walk by, they instantly fall madly in love at our feet and begin to weep for our love and devotion.  That's how our mommas taught us, and that's exactly how we like it!

So, not unlike Carmelita, it's important to know the rules of scoring a fabulous mugshot before you head out to commit that felony.

First, know that you WILL get caught.  It might not be immediately after you commit the crime, but eventually you WILL be brought in to do the time.  So, always, and I do mean ALWAYS, be camera ready - even in the shower!  You just never know when the feds will be busting down your door.

The rule here is to always have your face full on and flawless. Even if it means adding on an extra layer or two of foundation and pressed powder.  If you use the good kind, you won't have to worry about clogging up your pores!

The next step is to apply your falsies with extra-strength, long wearing and WATERPROOF adhesive.  Or, better yet, go get them eyelashes professionally extended, chicas!!!  The application will last up to six weeks, and through several mugshots in the event you are transported from holding facility to holding facility.  Very well worth the small fortune.  (Just bill it to your ex who got you in this mess anyway.)

If you are a bit on the brave side, you might as well go for it all and get them eyebrows tattooed, as well as your lip and eye liner.  It will last for decades, and thus won't smear off at an inopportune time.  The tattoos might not be so appealing during your close-up, but they photograph spectacularly!  And having an attractive photo is what counts during the intake process, as this is the image that will define you throughout your incarceration. Just go to mugshots.com - you'll see what I mean.

When you're all done with hair and makeup, finish it all off with extra-hold aerosol hairspray to lock in your look.  Trust me, you'll end up with a beautifully shellacked mug that even those hot television camera spotlights won't be able to sweat off!

For some practical advice, always dab a thick coating of petroleum jelly right behind your ears so that you can reach for it to use on your lips right before the camera captures your image.  It will keep your lips from cracking, and will ensure a glossy lip and attractive smile at picture time.  This tip also works well for air travel on Con Air, especially being that the circulated cabin air has a very drying effect.

Now comes the hair... Ladies, if your hair is FRIZZY, go get yourself a weave, gurl!!!  Better yet, go get yourself some fusion micro-links so that they are more difficult to detect and you won't be made to ditch the wig when they process you in.  Fusion extensions are not easily detectable, and they can't be "detached" from your own hair without the proper chemicals.  So, chances are that you will be allowed to keep them on your head, even after you go through the "hair inspection" phase at intake.  Be warned, however, that there is a risk that your entire head of hair will be cut off where the extensions meet your real hair, leaving you with a very close crop. (Read... a man-ly cut... which is never good when your final destination is LA PINTA, and not LA QUINTA... in other words... MAXIMUM SECURITY PRISON!!!) 

Your best overall bet is voluntary- or self-surrender, if you can swing it with your judge at sentencing.  This will allow you to turn yourself in at your designated facility at a specific time and date for you to start serving your sentence.  This way, you can be prepared for the intake process and that dreaded mugshot!

There is no statutory provision for this practice of allowing you to turn yourself in at a later date and time, so be sure to discuss this option with your attorney so that your request can be presented to the judge at the time of your sentencing.  You may even get the opportunity to select at which facility to do your time in.

If allowed to self-surrender, your friends or family can drop you off at the front door of the facility (e.g. Prison).  You won't be in handcuffs, shackles or chains at your arrival. You'll avoid the weeks of travel between holding facilities and county jails en route to your final destination. Thus, you will look FRESH AND FABULOUS in your mugshot!  It will make your transition into prison life more bearable, and it will make your momma proud when her comadres (las chismosas) look you up online to find things about you to gossip about to everyone in the barrio.

Good luck, Chicas!!!

One of the highlights of prison life is what is known as Mail Call. Mail call occurs twice each evening - once at 6 p.m. and again at 9 p. m. Prison popularity is gauged in one respect by the amount and quality of mail a prisoner receives at mail call, or what is more commonly referred to as “male” call.

A recent prison arrival, or newbie, is almost always expected to receive the most mail during the first few weeks of incarceration. Those newest arrivals aren't factored in when determining who ranks highest in the hierarchy of mail call popularity. It is understood that a person new to prison still has most of their contacts from home intact, and they are sure to receive a large amount of mail from their friends and family at the beginning of their sentences. It is the long-timer who receives a steady stream of incoming mail from “the outside” who is most impressive, and thus, the most popular at mail call. During mail call, inmates gather at the common area (otherwise known as the day room) in front of the duty officer's desk. The ladies who gather for that first call take note of everyone whose name was called, the number of times called, the type of mail received, the size and color of the envelope, and the number of postage stamps on the face of the package. If an inmate receiving mail did not present for mail call, a compound-wide inmate alert is sent to notify that person that she has received mail, the number of pieces received, the size of the envelope or package, the title of the book or magazine received, or whether the mail piece was a letter, a package, a subscription renewal notice, a postcard, jail mail, or hate mail.

Jail mail is any piece of mail in the form of case status updates, notifications from staff, progress review forms, etc. generated from the prison staff to be forwarded to an inmate. It serves a purpose not unlike intradepartmental mail in a corporation. Jail mail is almost always welcome by an inmate, especially if it details news of a release date, travel plans or a sentence reduction.

Hate mail, on the other hand, is the most despised of all. Hate mail usually comes from the mail room staff alerting the inmate that her mail has been blocked, denied, or returned to sender for various reasons outlined in the hate mail form. One of the most common reasons mail is withheld or denied is because it was deemed to be three-way mail.

Three-way mail is communication that is censored, monitored or banned. Usually it is attempted communication between inmates at different prison facilities that has not been cleared (or approved) by prison staff. This type of mail usually passes through a "bounce house" where a friend or family member accepts mail from one prison inmate, and then repackages it and forwards it to another inmate at a different prison facility. This type of communication is the most dangerous. Severe penalties are handed to prisoners caught bouncing three-way mail. It presents a serious security breach because of the ability of inmates to gather or send information about a certain facility, its’ daily practices and procedures, its’ staff or other inmates and where they are housed. However, the most common use of bounce houses for three-way mail is to facilitate the exchange of mail from inmates at different facilities for friendship, romance and long-distance relationships. Typically an inmate's husband, boyfriend, or "co-defendant" who is also incarcerated will send a photo of himself and his “home boys" to his female prison contact. The “home boys" are usually those guys who are looking for a prison pen-pal. Their names, inmate numbers, and bounce house addresses are discreetly included in the letter containing the photo. The receiver's job is then to locate interested female inmates to exchange correspondence with one or all of the home boys.

Entertaining oneself with pen pals is a favorite inmate pastime, whether they are prison pen pals or otherwise. While most state prison systems allow direct communication with non-inmate pen pals through regular channels of communication such as the U.S. Postal Service, email, telephone, or in-person visitation, all states ban most inmate to inmate correspondence. Some states ban pen pal solicitation correspondence between business entities and inmates in what is known as the Pen Pal Solicitation Rule.

While this rule prohibits inmates from soliciting pen pals, it does not prohibit correspondence with non-inmate pen pals. The rule bans inmates in certain states from placing advertisements soliciting pen pals. Inmates found to be violating this rule, either by direct placement of ads, or through the assistance of third parties, face disciplinary action. The rule was enacted at the state level to prevent inmates from using pen pal solicitation services to defraud others. The one exception to this rule is Christian Pen Pals. This pen pal service is the only one allowed to solicit in certain states where this ban is in place, ostensibly because it limits solicitation to direct one to one matching, versus soliciting blindly en masse. The U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons does not adhere to this ruling and has no direct ban on communications with pen pals other than unauthorized inmate to inmate communication, and in-person visits which are subject to certain restrictions based on each individual facilities’ rules.

Some popular pen pal websites include Prison Pen Pals, Meet an Inmate, and Write a Prisoner.com. These services typically solicit pen pals for prisoners and non-prisoners alike, and the costs to subscribe range between twenty to forty dollars each per year.

In my experience, mail call evolved from my being the most popular girl in prison, to really wishing I had a pen pal, to finally getting one, and then becoming bored with him in less than a week's time.

The first go-round, when I was sentenced at the state level, my most ardent admirer would write to me religiously. He never failed to send to me at least one letter a day for months on end, along with large envelopes filled cards, love notes, poems, postage stamps, stationery, and news updates from home. And every quarter, as allowed, he would send me care packages with fresh contact lenses, clothes, shoes, intimate wear, and goodies to snack on. My commissary and telephone accounts were the constant recipients of his tokens of affection which afforded me to place up to twenty 15-minute phone calls to him each and every day, plus everything else a prison princess could ever want or need.

I truly was the envy of the compound when it came to male admiration. I felt so loved, protected and cherished until that one day when I went to make my usual phone call first thing in the morning, and there was no answer on the other end. Nor was there one at mid-day. Nor in the evening well past this particular physician's normal work hours. That was the first clue that something was amiss. When I then tried to call his momma, she declined my call. That was not only hurtful, but it also sent a very clear message that she no longer had the duty to make nice with me.

Finally the weekend visit didn't come as it usually did. This time there was an answer on the other end of the line. Only to inform me that his pet bunny had died that very morning, and funeral arrangements needed to be made. There would be no visit that day. I suggested putting the freakin bunny in the freezer until after his visit, but apparently the bunny was Muslim, and required a proper burial within 24 hours. The drive to see me was 7 1/2 hours each way, so the visit was a no-go.

 I stopped calling after that. I allowed myself two entire days to cry and get him out of my system. After that, I took all that extra time and energy and concentrated it on myself instead. I had no urge or impulse to pick up the phone to call him or to write to him as I was used to. I did, however, pick up the long-ignored fan mail received from random men who had followed my case in the media. I read it, and tossed it out in contempt - not realizing just how lonely my journey would become along the way, in the background still loomed the love of my life who I still held out hope for.

The fan mail quickly dissolved into a trickle. By then, I was released from state prison looking fit and beautiful. I emerged an emotionally stronger woman, and no longer felt needy when it came to having a man in my life. But still I held out for the one who barely paid me any attention, ignored me most of the time, and never came to see me.

In the interim, between state and federal prison sentences, I did try in vain to find a suitable replacement for both of these men. Although one was no longer a viable contender, the other still held my heart. I had eight solid weeks to replace him, so I did what any other single woman in her forties would do - I speed dated on Match.com. I accepted dates from only the most qualified of men to even remotely come close to replacing what I once had. I dated every type of physician, surgeon and specialist known to modern American medicine. I made a slew of new friends, but I didn't find someone who would steal my heart.

I came to federal prison still single as ever. Then the fan mail started up once again. And I ignored it as only I would do. Finally I decided to accept a pen pal request for friendship from a gentleman in the United Kingdom. After the fifth day of exchanging emails, I became bored beyond belief with him and his mundane life. I gracefully bowed out of that correspondence. From that singular experience, I realized that sometimes lonely is okay, and that what we might think we want isn't always the answer to what we need. I am still pining for that lost love, but I am also leaving myself open to meeting someone new, reminding myself that there are millions of men in this world - there's bound to be one out there that is perfect for me.

"Rabbit, Rabbit, Bird, Bird...
Rabbit, Rabbit, Bird, Bird...
Rabbit, Rabbit, Bird, Bird."

That's the sound of the cadence echoing throughout the open-berth prison dormitories at the beginning of each and every month, and at the start of the New Year. All that can be heard above the cadence is the stomping of hundreds of feet and hands clapping in unison; sticks clanking against the metal bunks; and the island girls laughing and winding to the rhythm of the beat late into the night.

It's pronounced "wine-ding", as opposed to "wind-ing". As in, "...dem island girls, they be wine-ding. So sexy dem women are."

I've had my share of winding lessons from my friend, "Jamaica Foxx", while we were doing our time together in state prison where we first met. There is a slow and exaggerated roll of the hips, a slinky movement of the arms brushing lazily against the thighs, fingers snapping, and subtle head movements from side to side in synch with the beat of the makeshift drums. It's a very sexy and controlled dance that the island girls use to seduce their men.

I so totally didn't get the movements down, even after months of diligent practice both in and out of the shower where no one else could see me make a fool of myself.

"Hey dere, little mami, yous got to move dem hips like yous be givin' it to ya mon. Like dis 'ere. Yous got to make 'im want dat. Come-n-get dat here. Ya 'ere?"

"But, Foxxy, I ain't got a man, remember?"

"Oh, yes, little mami. Wis all got a mon. Yous just ain't looking for 'im in dee right di-rection. Now wind it don dere like dis 'ere."

Exasperated, I'd give her a slight roll of the eyes, and I'd try again. And every month, it was the same torture of trying to teach this Type A to dance like a sexy island woman. It never did work, mon. Not dis 'ere.

The ritual was the same at every prison, county jail, and transfer facility that I have passed through on my way to federal prison. The only thing that changes along the way is the cultural backdrop.

In the Southeast, the island girls from Trinidad, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, and Jamaica steal the show with their all-night dancing to Reggaeton, Calypso, and Salsa. We spent many a first-of-the-month dancing, singing, laughing and talking about all the men we have loved in our lives. Sometimes, out of sheer boredom or desperation (or a little of both), we would even rate the male guards and discuss which ones were marriage material, and which ones we might just drunk-dial on a slow night. For the latter, it would have to be an extremely slow night with absolutely no other feasible options in sight.


In the Midwest, there are the country-girl grammas dropping it down low like they used to decades ago before hip-hop was ever invented. I had never before imagined an elderly person knowing who Two-Chainz, Nelly and Ludacris are, let alone what it means to "drop it low". Oh but they do know- and they like to hit the floor with it. Sometimes they quite can't make it back up without assistance, and sometimes they might even drop their dentures, but they keep on dancing because they can, and because they are having fun once again like when they were young.

And, finally, in the Southwest, the Latin beauties of the narco underworld ring in the new months with their sexy dances and the beauty of their spirit. Their joy and laughter would sometimes make me temporarily forget that we were in prison.

All in all, the journey to where I am today, and whom I have become because of it, has been filled with more good than bad. I treasure the memories of it all, along with the experience that no amount of education can give, or that money can buy. But as each new month settles in, I join in the routine of counting down the days, months, and years left until I, too, get to go home.

Rabbit, Rabbit, Bird, Bird - hurry dem days along.

When I was sentenced to prison for the first time over three years ago, I was scared, desperate, and beyond suicidal. It took me years of unconventional therapy, meditation, and self-discovery to get over a very public humiliation, the loss of a successful career in business and in law, and the general feeling of being both a fraud and failure in the eyes of my family, my peers, my clients, and the community in general.

It took a collective effort to get me out of the self-destructive mode that I was in. I am grateful first and foremost to God for giving me strength and fortitude to keep on living; to my family for supporting me, never doubting me or losing faith in me; and to my former boyfriend for allowing me to bombard his mailbox with endless letters from prison, and for his words of wisdom, advice and encouragement that helped to lift me out of depression that shrouded me for so long.

Months after I became adjusted to being in prison, I realized that I wasn’t alone in my feelings of depression, anxiety, and of low self-worth. There were literally thousands of incarcerated women going through the same experiences that I was going through at the time. Our circumstances and backgrounds were often worlds apart, but the general feelings of hopelessness and defeat were very similar. It seemed that we all went through, or were undergoing a grieving process for the loss of our former lives, our careers, or our freedom.

In prison, I met and befriended women from all walks of life. For the first time ever, I met, conversed with, and lived with strippers, prostitutes, drug dealers, junkies, murderers, pedophiles who were mostly doing time for “drug” or “street” crimes. I also shared this same living space with politicians, entertainers, lawyers, doctors and other professionals doing time for “white collar” or “financial” crimes. We were all forced to live together- we had the choice of either getting along or alienating ourselves from the rest. No one cared either way.

What I learned from this is that we are all the same underneath the layers of resistance that we have each built up around ourselves. We are all human beings that share in the same sorrows, fears, loneliness, happiness, and a multitude of other strong emotions. that go hand in hand with being a woman in prison. I also learned that everyone goes to prison- there is no discrimination- even nuns and soccer moms.

In a 2008 study conducted by the Pew Center on the States (www.pewcenteronthestates.org), statistics show that 1 in every 100 adults are currently in jail or in prison in the United States. At the start of 2008, there were 2,319,258 adults incarcerated in the U.S. One out of every 53 adults incarcerated today is in their 20’s, and one in every 837 is over the age of 55. Although men are thirteen times more likely that women to be incarcerated, there is an upward trend in the number of women being sent to jail or prison every year causing a shortage of bed space in women’s prison facilities throughout the United States.

In 2007, $49 billion dollars was spent on corrections, which is up from $11 billion dollars sent just two decades before. (These are the latest figures available at the time of publication.) It is estimated that over half of all offenders released from jail or prison will re-offend within three years of their release. These statistics show that the recidivism rate has been left virtually unchanged from 20 years ago despite the increased spending on corrections and rehabilitative services provided to inmates. The Pew Center study also shows that most of these incarcerated persons are low-level offenders that pose little or no risk to the community.

Fortunately for the prison community, positive changes are happening with reductions to the sentencing guidelines that will have many prisoners going home sooner that expected. But until we put a stop to this trend of sending everyone to prison, the high cost of incarceration and budget overruns will continue to be the norm here in the United Stated of America.