I took classes in anatomy and physiology, in pharmacology and principles of nursing, but I planned my schedule so that I was always home for dinner, to tell my mama about my day. It didn’t matter that my commute to and from the city was two hours each way. I knew that if Mama hadn’t spent thirty years scrubbing the floors at Ms. Mina’s house, I wouldn’t be on that train at all.
“Tell me everything,” Mama would say, spooning whatever she’d cooked onto my plate. I passed along the remarkable things I learned—that half the population carries the MRSA germs in their nose; that nitroglycerin can cause you to have a bowel movement if it makes contact with your skin; that you are taller in the morning than the evening, by nearly a half inch, because of the fluid between your spinal discs. But there were things I didn’t tell her, too.
Though I may have been at one of the finest nursing schools in the country, that mattered only on campus. At Yale, other nursing students asked to see my meticulous notes or to have me join their study group. During clinical rotations at the hospital, teachers praised my expertise. But when the day was over, I’d walk into a convenience store to buy a Coke and the owner would follow me around to make sure I didn’t shoplift. I’d sit on the train as elderly white women walked by without making eye contact, even though there was an empty seat beside me.
A month into my tenure at nursing school, I bought a Yale travel mug. My mother assumed it was because I had to leave before dawn in order to catch the train to New Haven every day, and she’d get up and make me a fresh cup of coffee each morning to fill it. But it wasn’t caffeine I needed; it was a ticket into a different world. I would settle the mug on my lap every time I got on the train, with the word YALE purposefully turned so other passengers could read it as they boarded. It was a flag, a sign saying: I’m one of you.
—
THE WOMEN’S PRISON, it turns out, is a good hour’s drive from New Haven. After we arrive, Liza and I are shuttled into a holding cell that looks exactly the same as the one I was in at the courthouse, only more crowded. There are fifteen other women already inside. There are no seats, so I slide down a wall and sit on the floor between two women. One has her hands laced in front of her and is praying under her breath in Spanish. The other is biting her cuticles.
Liza leans against the bars and begins to weave her long hair into a fishtail braid. “Excuse me,” I say quietly. “Do you know if they’ll let me make a phone call?”
She glances up at me. “Oh, now you wanna talk to me.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I…I’m new to all of this.”
She snaps a rubber band at the end of her braid. “Sure, you get a phone call. Right after they serve you your caviar and give you a nice massage.”
I am shocked by this. Isn’t a phone call a basic right for prisoners? “That’s not what it’s like in the movies,” I murmur.
Liza places her hands under her breasts and plumps them. “Don’t believe everything you see.”
A female guard opens the door to the cell. The praying woman gets up, her eyes full of hope, but the officer motions to Liza instead. “Good God, Liza. You back again?”
“Don’t you know nothing about economics? It’s all supply and demand. I ain’t in this business by myself, Officer. If there weren’t such a demand for my services, the supply would just dry up.”
The guard laughs. “Now there’s an image,” she says, and she takes Liza by the arm to lead her out.
One by one we are plucked from the cell. No one who leaves comes back. To distract myself I start making lists of what I must remember to tell Adisa one day when I can look back on this and laugh: that the food we are given, during our multihour wait, is so unidentifiable that I can’t tell if it’s a vegetable or a meat; that the inmate who was mopping the floor when we were marched inside looked exactly like my second-grade teacher; that although I am embarrassed by my nightgown, there is a woman in the holding cell with me who is wearing the kind of mascot costume you see at high school football games. Then finally the same officer who took Liza away opens the door and calls my name.
I smile at her, trying to be as obedient as possible. I read her name tag: GATES. “Officer Gates,” I say, when we are out of earshot of the other women in the cell, “I know you’re just doing your job, but I’m actually being released on bail. The thing is, I need to get in touch with my son—”
“Save it for your counselor, inmate.” She takes another mug shot of me, and rolls my fingerprints again. She fills out a form that asks everything from my name and address and gender to my HIV status and substance abuse history. Then she leads me into a room slightly bigger than a closet that has nothing inside but a chair.
“Strip,” she announces. “Put your clothes on the chair.”
I stare at her.
“Strip,” she repeats.