La Vie Boheme

Some different threads, laid out. Some connections in my head carry over to the page. Some might not:

I'm trying to think about last Thursday, but not much comes to mind. It seems already far away. I remember that our class was small. Some of the people inside, it seems, have been released, or moved to another facility, or something else. Who knows? It feels weird to think I probably won't see those gone ones again and after this semester, I probably won't see any of them again. How likely is it that we will run into each other on the street or in the grocery store like I do my old friends from high school? Our class was good, the topic interesting, the icebreaker goofy--what is the weirdest food you have ever eaten?--no one cried, no one yelled, all was smooth and routine. While we were waiting for people to arrive, we discussed with one woman the long process of waiting for trial. I'm perplexed about the process of waiting so long for trial. This woman has been inside for 16 months without a trial. I don't understand.

I'm thinking about Eva's Man. I don't understand. I mean I understand the words, but I can't comprehend the experience. I feel like my privilege--whiteness, economic stability, safety, healthy relationships--is a veil that masks my ability to understand Eva's experience and her silence. I feel distant, because I can't imagine that I would ever be in her position. Similarly, I see myself as separate from the people inside, not because I am better or smarter than they are, but because I know I will never know what it's like "to live the life" (as one ex-con referred to the experience of imprisonment in an article we read for our class inside). What do I know about the injustices of the system when I don't have to suffer them? And yet I am , just a much a part of it; the "justice" I am privileged with is just as much a part of the system as the "injustice" against marginalized bodies in this country. My "justice" is just as unjust as their "injustice." 

One time a cop pulled me over. I was driving in a neighborhood near my house and I had stopped at a stop sign, facing the policecar. I wondered why he didn't turn. I looked left and right and turned left. He followed and flashed his lights; no siren. I was confused. I pulled over to the side of the road. He told me that I had almost caused an accident; a car was coming when I turned left and the driver had to slam on the breaks. I gave him my license. He gave me a warning, but no ticket. I felt embarrassed about my carelessness and I didn't tell my parents what happened until a year later. They didn't really care. Everyone makes mistakes sometimes. No big deal. I wonder, though, if I just got off easy, because I am a young white girl. I did something careless, though not reckless, and didn't get in trouble. Black people get pulled over all the time just for DWB, "driving while black," and sometimes excessive violence is perpetrated against them. My "safety," my "innocence" is someone else's "danger" and "guilty." Police are nice to me. For a long time, the fire and police chief was my neighbor. I felt safe in the house next to him. I would laugh about the teenage boys down the street who did drugs. They're wealthy, white suburban identity kept them innocent and safe. But there are people inside who are there on drug charges.

"And tonight friends will ask about the jail, what it’s like, what you do there, and you’ll shrug, tell but not tell" (Cohen). How can I put into words all of the different threads of this tapestry? There are just so many strings next to each other. Nothing connects. Everything connects. Nothing makes sense. Everything makes sense. I can't even put it into words for the others who go inside or even for myself. Sometimes I say "prison" for attention, for conversation. People pay attention when they hear that word. They are intrigued: "that's so cool," they say. Yeah, but also it isn't really that cool, would the people inside say it's "cool?", I say to myself. This isn't supposed to be my weekly pat on the back, look how cool, how good I am. Look at me, the perfect citizen. Look at them, the non-citizens. Us. Them. Which one am I?

"To being an "us" for once instead of a "them." La Vie Boheme." I was listening to the Rent soundtrack today. I've heard people say, "everyone wants to feel like they belong," but to what? Sometimes I want to belong and sometimes I desperately want not to be anywhere part of something. Last week, the people inside shared different opinions on whether or not they wanted to belong to the prison community. When they didn't let me belong in grade school, I tried to distance myself from them, to be different, better, smarter. I did well in school, I thought so highly of myself. But I was selfish too and not always so nice. I want to belong to "us," but not to "them." La Vie Boheme.