A Knock at Midnight(53)

I had established GEM as a nonprofit in law school, assembling a diverse group of incredible women for the board of directors. To get it off the ground I searched the websites of universities for social workers and criminologists—much as I had done to find Christa Brown-Sanford—and sent random emails to strangers who agreed to hear out my vision for GEM. With no grant money, I invested money from my Winstead salary to kick us off. I started where I was, with what I had, and walked forward. My mom couldn’t wait to help out.

    But we couldn’t run GEM without the full cooperation of a prison. Although we planned from the beginning to support the girls in their outside lives as well, structured and enhanced visits between mothers and daughters inside the prison were at the very heart of our vision. I sent emails and called wardens at both the state and federal levels, hoping to find a location for our pilot program. One of my most enthusiastic responses was from Chaplain Robert Danage, a kind, devoted, and sincere man—who just happened to serve as head chaplain at Carswell. He organized a meeting for me and GEM board member Dr. Jaya Davis, a criminology professor at the University of Texas at Arlington, to meet various staff at Carswell to discuss the possibility of monthly visits for a small group of incarcerated mothers and their daughters.

I liked Chaplain Danage immediately. Round-cheeked and jovial, he had the enduring positivity required of a job as emotionally taxing as prison chaplain. He believed in redemption and sought every opportunity to aid the women in his care. He supported our vision wholeheartedly, and thanks to his enthusiasm, our meeting with Carswell staff went well. I was elated and excited for next steps. But then, as we were getting ready to leave, Chaplain Danage kindly offered to give Dr. Davis and me a tour of the prison grounds. This presented a problem for me: I hadn’t told him or anyone else at the prison about my advocacy for Sharanda, or my visits. It wasn’t the chaplain himself that concerned me; Chaplain Danage was the polar opposite of some of the cruel, power-hungry guards I encountered when I came to the prison as a visitor. His face lit up when he talked about the programs they offered, and the changes he’d implemented since coming on board. But I knew my relationship with Sharanda might count against the program with prison officials rather than speak to its need. Nervously, I agreed to the tour, saying nothing to Chaplain Danage and hoping I wouldn’t run into Sharanda.

I’d been to Carswell so many times at that point, passed through the razor wire, stood in line with families outside the visiting room, been brusquely patted down by the guards, endured the humiliations of the security procedures with a mind to the far greater ones Sharanda was subject to on the other side of the steel doors. I went through metal detectors and got a patdown, but for every visit she was forced to strip naked in a line of other women in front of several guards, bend over, spread her legs and buttocks, lift her breasts, cough as many times as ordered to ensure she’d hidden nothing on her person, and passively endure whatever verbal abuse or taunts were thrown her way by the guards or risk being sent back to her cell. She blanked it out, she said, and anyway it was worth it for the pleasure of an outside visit, the hours we spent catching up and laughing, in our own little world—away, for a few hours at least, from Carswell. Visits were the incarcerated women’s greatest nourishment, a balm to the wounds inflicted by the daily indignities of prison existence, the promise of light that made the darkest moments bearable. My understanding of this had led me to found GEM in the first place. Now Chaplain Danage politely pointed out corners of the prison whose inner workings I already knew about in great detail from Sharanda.

    For the most part, the Carswell women were allowed to move freely. After the years visiting my mom in state penitentiaries, where she and the other women walked single file along a yellow line painted on the ground, hands behind their backs, it was odd to see the women walking casually or sitting on benches in groups after a long day at their various jobs. I knew the horrors Carswell held, but at this hour the women seemed almost relaxed, talking freely, greeting Chaplain Danage as we strolled by. He called many women by name, pausing in his description of the history of the prison, which had once been a military hospital, the cells hospital rooms.

“We have to stop by the multipurpose building,” he said. “The women there are hard at work on their Easter production. You can meet some of them.” I was totally unprepared for the scene that I encountered when Chaplain Danage opened the door to the building. A hurricane of activity filled the room. In one corner, artists bent over cardboard and banner paper, drawing and painting elaborate scenes from the Bible. Across the room a pair of women intently discussed how to best stabilize three huge wooden crosses so that they could stand on their own.

    Then, a loud clap.

“Quiet!”

When I turned, I saw a regal-looking woman with perfect posture, her hands still raised. With total command, she had brought the entire room to attention. Next to her, a timid-looking white woman was standing as if frozen to her spot. “I don’t think I can do this,” she said. “Maybe you should give my part to someone else.”

The face of the woman who had clapped quickly softened, and she began to speak encouragingly to the actor. “Yes, you can. This is your part. I know you can do it. Come on, shake it off and show them what you showed me at your audition.”

Not a thing about this buzzing, industrious, and professional-looking production indicated that it was taking place in a prison—except the women’s khaki and gray uniforms, and the guards leaning against the walls, paying scant attention to the bustle of activity around them.