I had never before given myself the official "Wiccan" label until I came to prison, but only for a short while. To try it out. Then I took it back, and went back to just being me, an "Other". Although, as it turns out, that particular ideology did best define what has been my lifelong belief when it comes to spirituality. I had grown accustomed to my mostly unbranded solitary practice in the privacy of my own home (or the occasional cemetery) - experimenting with my candles, music, rituals and potions.  Pretty much keeping this nocturnal practice to myself, except for my family and close friends who joined me every now and then for "some fun". These meditative rituals are what bring me peace, quietude, and tranquility in an otherwise chaotic world.

It was never fun to hear the non-boyfriend say that I "scare him," but that he finds my witchy ways fascinating... "just don't do any witchcraft on ME." Ha! Too late!! Sucker!!! What do you think that is going on at my bedside table? Do you think that candle burns 24/7 because I like the way it Smells? Or because it's PRETTY?

"Of course not, love! Why would I even THINK to do something like that? Don't worry ... that there has nothing to do with you." In truth - it DIDN'T have anything to do with him. That bedside candle burned steadily for the real love of my life living a few states away.  But he didn't need to know all those silly details.

In all actuality, with this particular man glued to my ass, I didn't need to do any special rituals or magick to keep him around. He did that all on his own. It was pretty hard trying to get rid of him, in fact. "Hey love, don't  you have anywhere to be? Don't you need to go to Work any time soon?" I'd ask, as I fed him another Flaming Hot Cheeto. His only "cheat" treat after six hours of pumping iron at the gym, followed by another four at my house. I tried to keep him eating "clean", but, hey...a man has to indulge every once in a while. He supplied the Cheetos, anyway. I didn't even have to do that. So, it was a classic win-win situation.

"No. But thank you for asking."  He'd always reply.  UGH!!! The residual magick making its way to him didn't hurt any, though. Eh...I like to think that it "enhanced" his enchantment of me.  It was either that, or the Viagra.

There really was no need to put him under any spell to keep him worshipping at my feet. It was quite endearing for a stretch - until it just wasn't anymore.

All of my life I had aligned myself with the "Other" category when it came to religious preference - prison was no exception. I hadn't had real world exposure to many other women who were like me in that respect until I got here. The type of women who worshipped the way they wanted to, in a way that felt natural to them, and that didn't care what other people thought about them or their beliefs. It was no wonder then on how quickly I made my association with this group of women who are confident, self-assured, and at one with nature.

There is a fair amount of religious tolerance in prison, probably not because the officials want it necessarily, but because religious freedom is protected under the Constitution, as well as the Prisoner's Bill of Rights. If you are going to prison, or know of someone who is in prison - get to know the rights afforded under that Bill. But keep in mind that where rights are afforded, there are also personal responsibilities to maintain.

Because prison allows for a variety of religious practice, this is a good place to explore which practice resonates with your own personal beliefs. If you are still unsure of who you are, or what you stand for, take the time to explore the spiritual side of you while you are in prison. Although every prison I have been to is skewed more toward Christianity, there are plenty of allowances for those "Others" out there like myself.

Some of the things that I thought I was going to miss out on the most here in prison, were my incense, candles, oils, bath scrubs, and nightly rituals. But, as it turns out, prison is very accommodating to my spirituality. We are allowed (either by special order or through the prison chapel) almost all of the tools of our practice. We are provided with a beautiful outdoor worship area - an earthen circle in which to cast our sp...er...do our ritual "worship"; an equally beautiful meditation room with rugs and floor pillows; a Maypole with colorful ribbons; a bonfire pit centered within the circle for our lunar worship and practice; caldrons; an altar; essential oils; sage; candles; and even a special meal to celebrate Samhain in the Fall. By special order, we are allowed Tarot Cards, a pentagram necklace, and our own personal Book of Shadows.

Even though we are not allowed to cast "spells" in prison, all of these other wonderful things are available to us under the Freedom of Religion Act; however, it is up to each individual facility to make these accommodations available beyond just the basics necessary to comply with the rule of law.  At the facility I am currently at, we are extremely fortunate to have a caring Chaplain and administration which makes these allowances for us, without us having to forcefully exert our rights through the courts. 

Find out if the facility you are expecting to go to has an active and involved Chaplaincy. Do some research and seek out a facility that best suits your religious needs - it will make all the difference in your new prison world.

Why Don't You Love Me?

This is the loaded question I've been asking the LOML (aka love of my life) for the past five years of knowing him. All because I had temporarily forgotten my true worth when it came to loving him. Now that I am over the self-pity I allowed myself to indulge in while in prison, I'm now asking myself why on earth did I ever love HIM?  He is extremely unavailable, inattentive, and aloof. Beyonce had it right when she said "There's nothing not to love about me. Maybe you're not the one. Or maybe you're just plain Dumb!"

You Don't Even Care to Care

The last few weeks I've spent cleaning out my prison approved contacts list - deleting a lot of my old contacts/friends/Plan B's, C's and D's. Getting ready for my new life just around the corner. I even deleted the LOML from the list. Twice. In the last week.  Only to end up adding him back in after much consideration. I wasn't just quite ready to delete him for good yet. Until today. After one last desperate failed attempt at making him love me.

I should have known it was never gonna happen from the moment he said to me that his career would always come first. I had never had a man tell me that before, so I didn't quite believe him when he said it. Neither did I know exactly how to process that bit of information. All the while I'm thinking, "Fine. No problem. Go work so you won't be up my butt 24/7."   I didn't ever stop to think that he MEANT it literally. I mean, it's not as if when I considered painting him green and calling him Benjamin so I would find him more exciting - I actually meant it in a LITERAL sense. Don't we all sometimes say things we don't mean from time to time?

Check My Credentials


His being a workaholic didn't bother me in the least bit.  I needed a man with his own life's ambitions, so that I could be free to pursue my own. So this is a quality that I actually placed on the "pro" side of the list on my assessment of him.  Not too many women I know look forward to their significant others spending more time at work than at home.  But for me, the less time I needed to spend entertaining him, the better. So, yeah...work is good. His living four states away? Even better!

It's not as if I was ever going to fit into anyone's happy homemaker role in this lifetime.  And that's when I finally realized that it's not him that's maybe not the one. Maybe I'M just not the one.  It's me that was trying so desperately to become the ideal woman I was picturing in my mind that he needed or wanted.  And then I realized that no matter how much I tried to change who I am, it was never going to work with this man, or any ordinary man, for that matter. I'm way too into doing my own thing, working into all hours of the night, doing whatever I want, whenever I want.  I have a trash mouth when I'm mad, a crass sense of humor, I get bored easily, I LIKE to be alone, travel alone, eat out alone - but I'm also a walking contradiction.  I like a man to dote on me, adore me, take care of me, buy me things, pay my bills, go places with me on long weekend getaways. But when I need him gone, he needs to know when to go. And when to come back without me having to ask. Is this too much for a woman to ask for? This is probably why I will be all alone for the rest of my life. At least it is according to my mother, my friends, my friends' mothers, and their mother's mothers.

I've Got Moves In Your Bedroom

Case in point... One of my Plan D's flew in to see me, and while out to dinner looking over the menu discussing this and trying to decide on what to order, he said, "Don't look at ME. I'm not on the menu!" And I just couldn't resist... out from my mouth came, "Well that's a good thing because I was thinking of just f*@#ing you, not marrying you." So NOT the right thing to say if you want a guy to ever call you again. Well, at the time, I thought it was pretty effing hilarious. Still laughing. I thought we were platonic! Sheesh!!! Guys can be so sensitive!

Or, this other Plan Z, who was annoying the heck out of me whining about me not wanting to go out with him on this particular evening. He said, "But I drove over 200 miles to come see you, Alexa." My response... "So! All my OTHER boyfriends cross the seven seas to come and see me!" Um... he never called me again either.  Did I mention he was Plan Z?  I thought that was a pretty clever comeback. Obviously, he didn't. Oh, well, that's why it's called "dating" and not "commitment." He can now save on his gas mileage for sure.  So, what is a girl like me to do?

Honey, You Better Sit Down and Look Around

I've been considering going for a nice Jewish guy. I met one once. Leaving a bagel shop in the Upper East Side a few years ago. He's a lawyer on Madison Avenue. I'm a lawyer, so immediately I thought "No WAY!!!". I know I'm reaching, but I've often wondered where my life would be now if I actually had called him instead of losing his business card somewhere in the bottom depths of my Gucci pocket book. Hmmmm....

Too bad we don't have Google/Facebook/Linkedin/Twitter/People Finder here in prison.  I'd be all over that by now.  Can you imagine a bored prison babe with too much free time on her hands having access to all these tools? Scary, isn't it?

Well, there's always M. Krause, the sexy German-Mexican guy I met once on holiday. He had offered to pay whatever it took for me to leave my old life and become his wife. I wonder how much he would pay for me NOW? Am I worth less for being locked away all these years, or am I worth MORE because of it? I think it all depends on who you ask.

Let's face it, I get to work out everyday to keep the booty right, and these lips haven't kissed a man who isn't my father, brother, uncle, cousin or nephew in the last couple of years. That's gotta be worth something on the single's market! I wonder if his Black AMEX card really comes without a limit... I will be saying "Si! Si! Si!" all the way to the Cartier storefront in Manhattan first stop out of here!

I Even Put Money in the Bank Account

Well, to give credit where it's due to the LOML, we did agree to date casually "until someone better came along." Five years, and countless Match.com dates later, no one better ever did come along, but I kept hoping.

So, why then, am I so obsessed with making this guy fall in love with me, when clearly it was never our intention for that to happen? I've said "no" a million times over to a million different men, and when I finally found someone I wanted to say "yes" to, this one was no longer asking.

Perhaps it's nothing more than the thrill of the chase? Mixed signals coming from his sweet kisses? The really wanting to, but being afraid of everything that comes heavily packed in my Louis Vuitton baggage?

It doesn't really matter now. I am this close to coming home and going right back to making my own way in this world - unattached and free to choose someone truly deserving of me.

And as Beyonce says.....

I've got Beauty.
I've got Class.
I've got Style, and
I've got A$$.

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.

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.