• I'm Not Here

    Orange scrubs, mug shots, cold food. All that was missing were the bars; I was slightly disappointed by that. Instead, there was just a very thick heavy door that would lock every time it was shut. As I expected, the toilet was out in the open as well. I wasn’t a fan of popping a squat out in the open with absolutely no privacy. Then again, it was jail. Privacy is not allowed.
    It was all an out-of-body experience. I wished my whole self could take off and hide like my mind did the moment the police officer answered “yes” to my question: “Are you arresting me?” I clutched my car for support while my breathing picked up and my head spun. He escorted me to his vehicle and sat me in the back seat. I leaked tears as the metal cuffs were placed around my wrists. The drive to the jail was torture. I couldn’t stop my tears, and I kept repeating to myself: this isn’t happening. He pulled around to the back of the jail and opened the car door for me. Shaking, I got out.
    When I stepped inside, another police officer asked for my name. He couldn’t understand me through my tears, so the officer who brought me in answered for me. I was stripped of the handcuffs as well as my jewelry, my shoes, and my sweater. I was placed in the waiting room where Wheel of Fortune was playing. I curled up on a chair and let out several more cries of fear. Another girl came in to join me. She looked far calmer than I did, as though being in this situation was no big deal. Sitting there for what seemed like hours, I played with some strands of my hair. My crying finally stopped.
    The door to the waiting room opened. A female officer addressed me by my last name. She brought me to the showers. “Get out of your clothes and rinse down. You’ll have clothes out here when you are finished.” Her words were tough and stern. She turned sharply and left me to peel out of my clothing and step into the shower. The water was cold: not ice-cold, but not warm. I shoved my face under the faucet, wondering if I could drown this way. Shivering, I stepped out of the shower, my wet hair hanging in front of my face. My clothes were gone, replaced by the world-famous orange scrubs, along with a white undershirt, orange rubber sandals, socks, a sports bra, and granny-panties, all marked with St. Louis County Jail in permanent marker. Disgusted, repulsed, and cold, I had no choice but to put them on.
    I was placed in a chair at the front desk as another officer began asking me the basic questions: my birthday, where I lived, medical history, and the like. Then it was time for the mug-shot, the one thing that would surely mark me as “criminal.” My damp hair still hung in front of my face. I stood in front of the camera and clenched my jaws together as the picture was snapped. To follow were the fingerprints. Everything was digital, so that left the paper and ink out. The officer rolled my fingers across the screen, re-doing a few fingers to fix smudges. When that was finished, I was escorted in another room to talk with a counselor.
    According to my answers about my medical history, I have a past of depression, cutting, and suicidal tendencies. I was interviewed about the deep cuts that decorated my left arm that was applied only weeks before, the abuse in my parents’ household, and my over-dosing experiences. I gave short, un-thorough answers; I felt as if the interrogation was irrelevant to why I was here. The counselor didn’t know of my crime but asked me if there was someone I wanted to contact to let them know where I was. I was staying with my grandmother and uncle at the time, but there was no way in hell I’d tell them where I was; they weren’t the most understanding people when it comes to messed-up situations I got myself in. As unhappy and possibly scared as she’d be, calling Mom would be the easier, and more understanding, route. I gave the counselor the phone number to my parents’ house, and she stepped out of the room to make the phone call. Food was brought in for me to eat: a sandwich with mashed potatoes and a carton of milk. I was too distraught to eat. I kept still, with my arms folded over my chest, grinding my teeth together. The counselor returned to tell me she’d spoken with my mom. Tears fell down my face as I pictured my mother getting a phone call saying her daughter was headed to jail.
    Before I entered the jail unit, I was given a bed cover, a sheet, a pillowcase, a towel, a toothbrush, and a bar of soap. I was placed in another room to watch a video of the rules: it was full of useless information. I didn’t plan to pick a fight with the other inmates, so I wouldn’t have to be hauled away to a separate room for a time-out. My plan was to keep to myself, keep my mouth shut, and hope to God that I’d get out of this place with some sanity left.
    The officer brought me into the unit. To be honest, I was disappointed not to see jail bars. The officer stood over me as I made my bed. She showed me the bin that I could put my personal stuff in: the towel, soap, and toothbrush. She gave me a card with my cell ID so I could make outgoing phone calls. And then she left me alone.
    I walked back out to the unit, where there were about two dozen other women, wearing either orange or navy blue scrubs. None of them looked bothered about where they were. Several were watching television, others had a few games of cards going – and having a good laugh among themselves – and some were alone, writing or reading. The phones were occupied, so I had to wait to call Mom. I took a seat at an empty table, fighting back tears of fear, crossing my arms tighter against my chest. I tried to avoid eye-contact with everyone, so I kept my stare at the unit television, but I was nowhere near interested in the news.
    I must have stuck out because one lady sat next to me and told me I looked scared as hell. I nodded, biting down on my lip. She asked me if there was anyone I wanted to talk to. When I told her I wanted to call my mom, she walked with me over to the phones, which were now vacant. She helped me punch in the numbers to call out, but one number on my card was written funny; we couldn’t tell if it was a zero, a two, or a six. After a few frustrated attempts to figure out my ID number, she punched in her own ID number and had me dial my parents’ house number. The comforting voice of my mom set my tears flowing. “I’m sorry, Mom, I’m so sorry,” I kept repeating. She told me she wished she was there to hold and soothe me; that only made me cry harder. I explained to her what happened.
    “So how hard did you punch him?” Mom asked me.
    Smiling for the first time, I responded with a snicker, “Pretty hard.”
    “Good!” Mom laughed back.
    “My hand is swelled up from it.” I admired my enlarged knuckles.
    Before we hung up, I asked her to call Grandma and tell her I was sleeping over at a friend’s house and that my cell phone died. Our conversation ended when she told me she loved me. I put the phone back on the receiver, light tears still falling down my cheeks. I kept my back to the room to catch my breath before returning to sit down.
    I was called over to a table where a few ladies were chatting over a game of cards. I joined them.
    “What are you in for?” one of them asked me.
    “Fifth degree domestic battery and a hit and run,” I answered.
    “Are you serious? That’s nothing!” another lady with long hair and glasses said. Her front tooth was chipped. “I beat up a cop!” She looked pretty pleased with herself. I couldn’t help but smile.
    A dark-skinned girl, who didn’t look much older than me, introduced herself as my cellmate from Chicago. She was in for possession of drugs.
    I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil and doodled to myself as the other ladies continued with their card game. Keeping my mind and hands busy helped me become content; the fear I had earlier started to disappear. Every so often, I glanced around the unit. I spotted the girl who’d been in the waiting room with me; she was getting her hair braided by another inmate. Lucky her, she got out that night.
    Around ten o’clock, bedtime was announced by the guards. As several of the girls picked up the chairs and stacked them in a corner, I snuck off to my room. My cellmate followed. She climbed up to her bunk and got herself settled into bed. I sat, cross-legged, on mine.
    Unable to sleep, I drew. In the corner of the cell, a desk was nailed to the wall and there was a window narrower than my forearm. I drew the desk and window. My cellmate peeked down from the top bunk. “You should be drawing the comics for the newspaper,” she told me. I didn’t answer, but kept on drawing. She kept talking to herself, fast, using “********” and “s**t” with every other word, so I couldn’t understand anything she was saying. As the minutes slowly passed, her chatter died down. I shaded the walls of my drawing with my finger to add the finishing touches. I am not here, I titled the drawing. I placed the paper and pencil in the bin under my bed. I crawled under the thin sheet, laying my head down on the flat pillow, shivering. Taking in several deep breaths to keep myself calm, I shut my eyes and prepared to face a sleepless night.