Lies of a Real Housewife

by Angela Stanton

  Death was cold! It ALWAYS showed up uninvited, and at the wrong

  time. It never comes in a peaceful manner. Death always leaves you with a feeling of emptiness. Nothing seemed worse than death. It was the one thing I knew you couldn’t bounce back from.

  During the whole ride back, I couldn’t help but think of my mother. I thought of every word that she had ever spoken to me. Everything she tried to teach me. Every time she yelled at me for not listening when I should’ve. All the walks through hell that I had made her take. She had tried endlessly to help me wake up and smell the coffee. Slowly but surely, it finally dawned on me what the angel meant. It was time for me to wake up. She was telling

  me to wake up mentally and spiritually, not physically.

  In my dream, my mother was leaving me with her last words. She

  was giving me her key tips for survival. She came back to me in a spiritual realm and no one could tell me it wasn’t real. I know because I experienced it.

  You can’t tell me I was so depressed that somewhere in my mind I believed. Oh no! I was not crazy. Save that. I knew exactly what was going on.

  Arriving at Gwinnett County Jail was one of the worst things that

  could have ever happened to me. I would like to give you this straight. I stepped out of the back of the patrol car. A six-foot tall woman, wearing a size twelve boots, and tan jumpsuit. ‘State Prisoner’ was emblazoned across the back of my jumpsuit in big bold black letters. I must have appeared threatening. The female guards were acting as if they were very much intimidated by my presence. For all they knew, I could have been a mass murderer. That was exactly how I was treated. It was like I had killed a whole lot of people. I was slung up against the wall like an old mat. Then I was patted down for

  any weapons.

  “Do you have any bobby pins in your hair?” A female guard sternly

  asked.

  “Yes.” I responded. “But, I need these for my mother’s funeral in

  the morning.”

  The bobby-pins in my hair were purchased from the inmates’ store

  list in prison. I guess the word ‘but’ was considered my refusal to take out the bobby-pins. Although she never asked me to take them out, she just asked if I had any in my head.

  Before I knew it, I was slammed on the floor, and the knees of three

  officers were in my back. I was firmly pinned between the officers and the concrete floor. I tried to understand why this was happening to me? Why the

  female guard yelled for back up?

  When she dug her fingernails into my arm, I snatched my arm away

  from her and that was considered an assault. I didn’t even consciously realize that I snatched my arm away from her. I was snatching my arm away from the pain her nails caused when they dug into my flesh.

  They hog-tied me and left me face down in a pool of my own urine. I stayed in this position in a holding cell for the remainder of the night. The next morning I was untied, given a clean uniform, and told to clean up myself

  before the chief arrived.

  When the chief came in, he asked me what happened. So I told him

  my version. He chose not to believe my story. I told him that I didn’t even have the strength to fight. The only thing I wanted to do was to tell my mother

  goodbye. I was pleading my case to him.

  The chief instructed the officers to place me in the back of the car

  so that we could head out. I tried fixing my hair back together after the guard had ripped out all of the bobby pins. I fixed my uniform, tucked my shirt in, and folded the bottom of my pants. I was visibly dehydrated and weak, but

  just wanted to get this behind me.

  Two mean-faced, redneck officers placed me in the back of their

  vehicle, and we headed toward the expressway. I had no idea where my moth-

  er’s funeral was being held, I just knew it was somewhere in Atlanta.

  Watching every exit the officers drove by, I noticed that they weren’t

  stopping. They transported me straight back to prison. When we pulled up, and I saw the prison gates, I was so angry. It was enough to push me over the edge and make me go crazy. What had happened was so ironic. It was such a simple misunderstanding that could’ve been easily corrected. But I knew

  then that it just wasn’t meant for me to be there.

  Seeing my mother dead, I wouldn’t have been able to handle that. To

  watch my children mourn, not be able to hold them, and then return to prison would be unbearable. God knew best. It would’ve just been too overwhelm-

  ing for me.

  God knew that the look of death on my mother’s face would have

  been enough to drive me insane. I couldn’t cry anymore. My feelings were numb, and I just kept pinching myself, trying to wake up from the nightmare. At that very moment, I chose to believe that my mother was still alive some-

  where, waiting for me to return.

  Three days later, I received a sympathy card from Phaedra. She in-

  formed me that she had to stand in place for me at my mother’s funeral. She told me how beautiful my mother looked, and the unexpected high turnout. She elaborated, explaining how there were people lined up outside the church, waiting to pay their respects. The outpouring was tremendous. Phaedra had even given some of my grief-stricken family members a ride from

  the church to the gravesite.

  “Be strong and everything will be great when you come home. God

  bless! Phaedra.”

  I read the letter a couple more times, and smiled in satisfaction. I knew my life was completely different now. My mother was laid to rest, and no longer dwelled amongst the living. Only thing was, I felt dead too. Riddled with guilt and buried in a bottomless pit of depression. I looked just

  like my mother.

  The simple task of looking at my reflection, proved difficult. I went

  two months without ever looking in the mirror. I hated what I saw looking back at me from behind the glass. I hated what I had become. Three months after her passing, I finally mustered the strength to look in the mirror. I sat there staring, looking at the person in the mirror, and trying to figure out ex-

  actly who she was.

  I wanted to know what, and why things happened the way they did. No person as a child have said, “When I grow up, I want to go to prison.” What went wrong? Somewhere in my mind I figured that if I could get these answers, then maybe I could get to the root of the problem, and fix myself.

  Replaying every event in my life that had a dramatic effect on me, I

  began a self analyzing journey. I saw the five-year-old girl who died that day

  when a much older cousin molested her.

  Anthony was someone my family trusted. He was my mother’s

  nephew. There were all those times I ran away from so much pain, not knowing I wouldn’t be able to totally escape. This was an inexplicable kind of pain

  that existed deep inside. A silent hurting which traveled everywhere with me!

  I relived the moments in time when my mother chose her husband

  over me. I saw the time going by when my father couldn’t be my father anymore. I crossed paths with everyone who hated me, mistreated me, and spoke so many foul things of me. Those instances were the ones that turned me to the streets. I was out there in the cold world, searching for some type of ac-

  ceptance. I had never felt needed or wanted by anyone.

  The needs were still there, but in order to address them, I had to

  figure out my life. There was some soul-searching to be done. I had no sense of my true identity. I really needed to do something about what and who I had

  become. I refused to die after living the life of nobody.

  Knowing everything I had gone through must be for a reason, I never

  regretted being born into this world an innocent child. I had just as much of a shot at living as anybody else. The one thing my mot
her always tried to point

  out to me was to never give up. She always told me that quitters never win.

  All the pain I was going through, and all the suffering I did, had to

  be for some cause. But what? It seemed like the enemy was constantly playing tricks on my mind. There was so much separation between mother and

  child that it left me detached from reality. First my mother and her child were separated. Then it was my baby and her mother. I had experienced it on both

  ends, and it wasn’t a good feeling.

  Only the strong survived, was what I kept hearing inside me. I knew

  that was a fact, and it was time for me to rise above my circumstances. I had to make it home to my five children, Aleea, Lekwaun, Leontae, Jayvien and Emani. They were the five perfect reasons to live, and not die. Losing was not an option. No time to ball up into a shell and depart this life. It was time to

  live, time to deliver, and time to heal. It was time to set my mind free!

  I loved to write, and I found healing whenever I wrote about some-

  thing. It was my way of releasing built up emotions inside me. There was something cathartic about letting another person hear my story or reading about someone else’s misfortunes in life. This by some means made me

  grateful for the life I was living. I mean just the mere fact of knowing that you’re not the only one—it helped. I needed an outlet for my pain, something to keep my mind active and focused. I was already preparing for my future.

  So I decided to write a book while I was locked up.

  I knew that every woman inside the walls of this prison had a story. You didn’t just trip over a rock, and land in prison. It was a process that brought you there. You were tried and proven guilty. I knew that. Just like me, none of them had planned from childhood to end up living behind prison

  walls.

  We all wanted to be singers, actors, lawyers, or doctors, just like

  every other normal kid in the world. I really wanted to hear the stories. Not only did I want to hear them, but also I needed them documented. I had made up my mind that I was going to help young troubled girls. I too had once been

  labeled, ‘Troubled’.

  The one thing that I remembered from my childhood was all the

  counselors. Yes, they did all possess degrees in their fields, but they lacked real life experience. In my view, they weren’t survivors. So how could they tell me how to overcome childhood sexual abuse, if they were never abused sexually as a child? I couldn’t look up to them, and that was because I couldn’t

  bond with them.

  These girls nowadays need someone they can bond with, and look

  up to. If they look at me, and see I made it against all odds, surely they would

  believe and have faith that they too could make it through the darkest hours.

  

  Every single day I was walking around Pulaski State Prison armed

  with a pen and several pads. And every day it was my goal to document someone’s pain with as much fervor as I had when I walked around them luxury car lots, documenting information for Phaedra’s scheme. I used some of the same skills, and documented information for the world.

  This time my efforts were for the purpose of healing rather than

  causing harm. I was now doing more good than bad. In addition to that, I would be doing my part to help the world become a better place. As I interviewed my fellow prison mates, I never quite understood what it was about

  me that they trusted.

  What it was about me that got them to open up, and share things

  about them that they would have never told anyone. I was going to use their stories to help young girls. Of course, these would be the type of young girls following in their footsteps. Or should I say, following in my footsteps. I had experienced pain so severe that I never want ANYONE to ever go through

  what I had been through.

  Before I knew it, I had many stories. They were from so many dif-

  ferent women of all walks of life. These women were of different races, different religions, different ages, and had committed crimes as petty as theft to

  crimes as serious as capital murder.

  Hearing the story of how a fifteen year old girl was raped, and mo-

  lested by her father her entire life, until she grew tired of his abuse, and shot him dead, gave me strength. When I heard the story of the young woman who learned she was HIV positive after being tested in prison, I could not for one

  moment understand how it felt to walk in her shoes.

  It hurt me so much to hear their stories! I cried with them when I

  documented their truths. But I refused to let the pain I felt deter my efforts. I knew that someone somewhere needed to hear these stories. The first time a child tells me that I haven’t been through what she had been through, I could turn to a page in this book, and find the story amongst the pages. A story that was true, and actually relatable existed in my collection. These were stories that would make any child think twice. It was my impetus to being a beacon of light in the dark world. This was the sole purpose of my writing, and I

  dubbed it crime prevention.

  ‘Life Beyond These Walls’, was my first book. It was written and

  completed during my imprisonment. All I had to do was keep all my pages together. I could present the book to Phaedra Parks. She had connections in the entertainment industry and maybe could help me kick it off. I also figured she would be proud of my accomplishment, seeing as though I did something useful with my time. Her connections were within the reach of a button. I knew I was a great writer. As long as I cut Phaedra in on the money then we

  would be good, and everybody could win. At least, that was how I saw it.

  Being a convicted felon was hard enough. Let it not be forgotten that I was a single mom. With that in mind, I knew I had to become an entrepreneur. Not only would this book heal the masses, but it would also provide me with a way to financially care for my children.

  I was already connected. I just had to get the book to Phaedra. I

  couldn’t take the risk of sending it in the mail. She may never receive it. So I held onto it for dear life. I wanted to personally hand the written manuscript

  directly to her.

  The next series of months were somewhat like my hibernation pe-

  riod. My focus was on perfecting my book, and dreaming of the lives that it was going to touch, inspire and enrich. I began cleansing my soul. I began the process by forgiving myself, finding myself, and loving myself. Everything I

  had come to know was different.

  By now, it had been four months since the death of my mother. I

  wrote to my family, they never wrote back. I made collect calls that were never accepted, and I pleaded for someone, anyone to bring my children to see me. After about four months my cousins, Connie and Donna finally brought my children down for a visit. I also received a card from my cousin, Kate, and

  a letter from my cousin, Sylvia.

  My immediate family was very large. This fact was due to my ma-

  ternal grandmother who had given birth to ten children. I came from a family of about seventy aunts, uncles, and cousins. I guess a letter from two relatives out of seventy isn’t that bad. Hard times showed me who really cared for me. One relative who was always there was my dear, sweet Aunt San. She wrote me just about every two weeks without even knowing that she was saving

  my life.

  No matter how hard I fought, no matter how loud I screamed, and

  no matter how much I cried, there was nothing in this world that I could do to bring my dear mother back. This was when I learned that I had absolutely no control over my life. I had to let go, and let God take over. I stopped worrying. I stopped stressing and started praying. Then I found the true meaning of stepping out on faith. I could no longer talk about it. I had to be about it.

  Chapter Nine

 
My trail of tears

  The LORD said to Satan, “Very well, then, everything he has is in

  your power, but on the man himself do not lay a finger.” Job 1:12 (NIV)

  Three months into my sentence at Pulaski state prison, and I was

  called into the counselor’s office. They notified me that I was being shipped off to another prison. Lee Arrendale State Prison had just been converted into a coed prison, and I was included in the first shipment of women to ever reside there. This didn’t pose a problem or a threat to me. I felt I was moving

  into a different environment, and also moving closer to home.

  Lee Arrendale was the biggest prison I’d ever seen. I thought Pu-

  laski was big, but Lee Arrendale was much bigger. As a prisoner you walked everywhere you went. At this facility, the only car you had the luxury of riding in was the patrol car. It was with certainty that prisoners rode in the back seat. Walking was good though. I would be in great physical shape by the time of my release. My new home consisted of nothing more than hills and concrete. The staple diet was peanut butter and syrup sandwiches.

  Getting acclimated and blending into my new surroundings was now

  my focus. I was living with an entirely new group of women, and I was in the midst of a whole new flock. These women didn’t know me, and they didn’t know my character. I didn’t want them to get offended by my nonchalant attitude. Certainly I didn’t need anybody thinking that I was a snob because I didn’t play along with their games. There wasn’t much time for games in this

  new existence. I had my whole life ahead of me.

  I had only lived at Lee Arrendale State Prison for eight weeks before I was called in to see the chaplain. I thought, oh hell no, not again! But in my mind, I was hoping for the best, while preparing for the worst. I knew that

  someone had died. I just didn’t know who it was.

  Waiting for two hours outside the chaplain’s office, I was on the

  brink of insanity. I kept praying to God that nothing had happened to any of my children. When the chaplain finally walked in he brought coldness through the door with him. He sat down in his chair, kicked his feet up, and