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Before driving the 90 minutes it’s taken me to get here, I dreaded the visit. I have been dreading it for months. A friend of mine looked at me with kind eyes before I left. “Enjoy it, have a good time,” he said. “You are going to see your son.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and decide that, no matter what, I will provide love and compassion to my son today. My job is no longer to kiss away tears, keep him safe, drive him to soccer practice or meet with teachers and chair the PTA. That was the past. Motherhood now is stripped down to the barest of bones.
I have never even walked by a jail, let alone set foot in one. I will spare you how I came to be here, outside the Saint John Regional Correctional Centre, but here I am, set to visit my 19-year-old son, who’s been held in remand since March 2 of this year. I don’t know what to expect. It feels like a jail should: austere brick building; razor wire over a metal fence; cold, unwelcoming.
I am early. I walk in and sit down on a metal bench. More coldness. Fifteen minutes later, other people arrive for their family visits. There is a very young mother with a baby, accompanied by another young lady; a woman about my age with two school-aged children in tow; and another with downcast eyes and a resigned hunch to her shoulders.
This is my sangha, my community, for today. We are all united in this strange ritual of visiting a loved one in prison. The young mother seems so thrilled and exuberant, she keeps saying to her baby girl – well, happily shouting really – “We’re gonna see Daddy and Uncle Billy!!" She seems genuinely pleased about this.
Eventually a buzzer goes off, the heavy door unlocks and a guard takes our IDs and has us sign in. The next room is where the visit is held. We file in. There are four tiny stools and four cubicle-style things, a Plexiglass window, and a phone. For some reason, I had expected a face-to-face visit without a barrier. After a few minutes, moments, I don’t know really, the prisoners file in.
He is wearing a grey tracksuit and looks better than I expected. I smile broadly and tell my son that I am just so happy to see him and that I love him. His eyes light up. He tells me that he loves me too. He is smiling and also crying a bit, wiping tears from his eyes, and I have a few precious moments of seeing my son as I remember him. I guess my friend was right. Deep breath in. Then the look passes. Hardness returns to his eyes, his face, his body language. I want to run away but I don’t. Love and compassion are my new job.
The woman beside me is there with her children. The phone between them doesn’t work. A piece of paper and pen materialize from somewhere and she writes love notes to her inmate. What is their story? They look at each other with love and longing as the kids wait in the next room. Why can’t she be offered another option? I consider handing her my place, but I can’t; my son has not had any visits yet.
My son tells me about his life as someone in remand – that is, not found guilty but awaiting trial. Remand is the no man’s land of our correctional system. You sleep all day, play poker and chess with a homemade game, he says. There are no books to speak of. He asks me if I can bring books next time. I say yes. There’s no counselling, no psychological help or assessment; no programs or anything useful to fill the days.
My son is worried about being there for months on end. Does this happen? Yes. He gets one hour a day in the yard, if he is up, I learn. No fresh air or sun most days. Breathe. Finally our hour is up and I promise to come back as soon as I can.
I ask the guard if I am allowed to mail books.
“NO.”
Why can’t they have any books? I don’t feel like I have the right to ask this question.
There is a Telmate machine in the entrance way. You can purchase credits for phone calls or the canteen or small necessities. A sign says I can pay with a credit card or cash. I try my card. The very last screen requires my zip code. I don’t have a zip code, I live in Canada. This transaction is impossible. Why is this American machine here? I put in cash, and am asked if I accept the taxes and fees. Out of $40 cash there is a credit of $32 and change. This is surreal to me. Is it a special tax for inmates’ families?
Last year, my son was in remand for two months before the charges against him were stayed. That summer, I had a phone bill for collect calls from him totalling over $800. “You had the choice to refuse the call,” I was told when I complained to the phone company. I did not realize that this “special rate” existed.
I want to write about my experience, to tell someone, but a voice in my head screams out loud and clear: “NOBODY CARES! Lock ’em up and throw away the key. Shouldn’t get nothing.”
I look at the others leaving. Some have no car, they called a taxi or got a ride with a friend. Deep breath in, and exhale. I look at these people, my community and silently wish them well.
We are now part of the punishment machine.
Lisette Surette lives in Fredericton.