Coffee for Three

A story that ties together the intimidation, the emotions, and the perspective from visiting an inmate.

Coffee for Three

There is something about visiting an inmate. I can’t write a story about what it’s like to be locked up because I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to have my rights or freedom taken away from me.

But I can tell you the chairs are uncomfortable, the stares are cold, and everything is lined up just so. The tables are screwed into the floor and the inmates all wear green with their name tag on a yellow lanyard. The vending machines have run out of Kit-Kats and Mountain Dew.

As I look around I see each inmate in a chair with their brown boots and legs crossed underneath their seat. Their elbows are stationed on the table and their hands are gently folded together in fists, pressed against their chin – as if they were all told to sit like this.

Looking around, it’s intimidating.

To my left I see a little girl sitting in a chair at a table with her family. She is sitting on her hands; her legs are swaying back and forth. They don’t touch the ground.

I see a couple playing a game of Sorry. Tears are streaming down her face as she leans over to pick up their newborn up from the carrier. He doesn’t seem too sorry as he looks at another woman when she rises from her chair.

I walk in wearing my baseball cap backwards and I am told by a guard to turn it around or take it off.

“We don’t do that here.”

I am told if I wear leggings again I can’t come back, it’s too promiscuous and flip-flops are hazardous. Bras with underwire set off the metal detectors and are considered a weapon. You only have three chances to make it through until you are asked to leave.

I chose to stop wearing a bra. This way they can’t make me feel uncomfortable when I have to take it off in a small beige room next to the guard’s desk.

I follow the yellow brick road, but am forced to stop every 10 feet so the gates can open.

Now it’s my turn to be studied. I sit in my chair, take a look around – the guards sit up at the front of the room like they are the judges of this courtroom. We are to all be silenced when the gavel hits the sound block.

You have your two hours to visit and you only get two hugs, make them count but don’t hug for too long. As we walk away, you are to go into a room where I can still see you. You wave and gently smile at your daughter. She doesn’t know, but I do. How genuine that gentle smile is but how hard it is to do so, but you still manage because you want her to think you are okay.

You’re not.

Do you want to know how I know? Because your daughter thinks this is your home.

How does that make you feel?

She didn’t watch you grow up in a house – she watched you grow up in a prison and she thought it was your home.

I know you’re sad when we walk away. Mom is too.

Today we spent $7 on coffee for three, fruit snacks, and some popcorn. We will be back next weekend.

And if you just keep your chin up your time will come. You will come home and you won’t have to wear a badge, your name won’t be a number and you won’t have a label. There won’t be the sound of a gavel or the cold stares from inmates in another cell. The judges will only appear in court, not at lunch time, and you can wear any color you choose but most importantly:

There will be your daughter, waiting for you to come into her home and I know she can’t wait to show you her dollhouse and Legos.

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