Lies of a Real Housewife: Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil

by Angela Stanton

  My baby’s crying tormented me every night. I kept hearing her tiny

  voice and that was pure torture in my head. I would caress my empty womb

  while milk oozed from my breast. It felt like I had just given birth to a stillborn child. I cried. Screaming, I hollered for my baby. I was locked up inside of a double prison. It felt like I was serving two sentences. I was inside four

  concrete walls and surrounded by the stockade of my own darkened mind.

  I had lost everything important to me. Freedom was no longer mine

  it had been taken away. My possessions and children were all gone. The devil immediately began playing tricks with my mind. Fortunately, I knew that losing my mind was not even an option. The more I prayed, the stronger my mind became. I made a promise to myself, and I was going to weather this

  storm. Once more I was determined to make it.

  Having given birth to my baby, the next thing to happen was getting

  shipped off to prison. I was impatient for that to happen because prison was much better than the jailhouse. Prison was more like an all female college campus. We all wore the same uniforms, but on this college campus we were surrounded by barbed wire fences, and under constant, strict surveillance. Freedom was not an option, but it was as close to a free living that a convict

  could ever experience.

  At the all female prisons, the biggest difference was contact visits. This meant no more looking at my mother through a glass window, and most of all, I would be able to hold, and smell my baby. I longed for her. I begged my mother to contact the parole board, and get me shipped to prison. She did. Two weeks after giving birth to Emani, I was packed up, and shipped to Metro State Prison.

  On the first day, the correction officers had a field day with me. The

  moment I stepped off the bus, the correction officers constantly called me a repeater, and a clown. Perhaps that was all true. They did the name-calling as loud as possible, making sure everyone knew that this was my second trip

  to prison.

  Little did they know that I wasn’t fazed one bit. I was completely

  aware of their routine. The way they would get all up in your face, yelling and screaming. Correction officers would do everything in their power to provoke inmates into an ass-whipping. I just laughed at them and it would

  piss them off.

  Finally, when they had enough of my contempt, they ordered me

  not to laugh. I stopped laughing, but kept that same sneer on my face. I wore the smirk just to let them know that I could care less about their nine-to-five. The fact was that I knew they were making pennies-a-day compared to what I had made.

  From the same rules, to the same guards, same counselors, and the

  same routine, hardly anything had changed about the prison system. Before I was allowed to have visitors, I had to undergo diagnostics tests. This meant it would be at least four weeks before I could see my baby. That was cool because life was a little easier now. Three times a day during yard call I was able to mingle, and move around a bit. I could find out who was who. I was able to determine if I had any partners in here from the streets, and figure out who was affiliated with what.

  I started networking to find out how I could immediately begin

  hustling, so that I could alleviate some of the stress from my mother. My first day on the compound, I ran into my home-girl, Gina. Her name was special. I always believed that my cousin, Gina, was my guardian Angel, always watching over me after she died. My cousin loved me so much I refused to

  believe that she ever left me.

  However this Gina was my home-girl, and she worked in the prison

  kitchen. Everybody in there knew my rep on the streets, and in prison. I wasn’t a crab, meaning nothing about me spelled selfish. I would give help to anyone who needed it. That meant even if it was my last dime. I never looked

  forward to being repaid. My blessings always came from above.

  Gina hooked me up with some of everything like onions, cheese,

  taco meat, and cucumbers. It crossed my mind a couple of times why the

  cucumbers were in such high demand. But hey, who was I to judge?

  Just in case you were wondering why I would be excited about those

  things. I would like to let you know that those items were hot commodities in prison. I could sell them to other inmates for commissary items. The taco meat was used to put inside of beef ramen noodles. The cheese was used for grilled cheese sandwiches. This was made by using a brown paper bag, and the dorm iron. Onions were used to add flavor to any food of choice. It would be a whole week before I could make commissary, but thanks to Gina, I was

  good.

  Gina was serving a life sentence for murdering her husband. We

  came to prison together on my last trip in, and Gina didn’t have a dime to her name. I looked out for her and whenever I ate, she ate. She had a lousy husband that beat her for twelve years, and Gina wore the scars as best she could. She wasn’t the prettiest thing to look at, and she did smell like onions sometimes, but I knew she was a person just like me. I wasn’t afraid of her, and I didn’t judge her. I couldn’t judge her. She committed a crime and I committed a crime, and both of us were together in the same, exact prison. That was why the saying, “Don’t burn your bridges…” proved to be true.

  Diagnostic testing was a procedure all inmates went through when

  they entered the prison system. They are tested mentally and physically. After all the tests are completed, they are shipped to the prison that best

  accommodates their needs.

  I remember standing in the long hallway with all the other females. Inmates after inmates were lined up against the wall, waiting to see the doctor. Prison was a male doctor’s paradise. Many of the girls actually enjoyed lying on the table, spreading their legs wide, and letting the doctor’s fingers play

  inside their exposed vaginas.

  This was Dr. Feel Good for the inmates, and he knew exactly what

  he was doing. Despite giving birth to four other children in the free world, I had never ever had an OB/GYN doctor touch me on the inside with his fingers, the way that prison doctor did during my medical examination. What the doctor did that day caused me to relive the molestation I suffered when I was five years old. There was absolutely no protection.

  When it was over, I jumped off the table and asked, “Did you enjoy

  it?” He nonchalantly smiled without saying a word. Pulling up my pants, I angrily stomped out. Before leaving the area, I silently made a note of how many girls were lined up waiting to see him. I observed that there were sixty-

  seven more vaginas for this pervert to violate.

  The situation caused me tremendous sadness and made me very

  angry. All the female prisoners knew it was an issue of discontent, but were well aware that there wasn’t a damn thing we could do to rectify it. Girls would gather around the yard during yard-call, and openly discuss the doctor’s actions. There were some prisoners who enjoyed it, but others,

  myself included, felt violated.

  The days were repetitive and time stopped for no one. I woke up

  every morning at five. I had my portion of the room cleaned, my bed made, and I would be standing by the side of my door at six for headcount. I passed all my tests with flying colors. I got word that I was on the list for Pulaski State Prison.

  All the girls wanted to go to Pulaski because there were two-man

  rooms versus four-man rooms. Also Pulaski had bathtubs. Most prisons are equipped with standing showers only. I hadn’t bathed in a tub in four months now. Pulaski was all right with me. I knew I would be going to Pulaski State Prison I just didn’t know when I was to be transferred. All my testing had been completed, and I had visitation the upcoming weekend. I could see my mother and all of my children. I was just so excited and anxious anticipating

  the upcoming weekend.

  I drew pictures for
my children and colored them in with M&M’s.

  We didn’t have crayons, so I improvised. I had a cherry sucker that I had gotten from one of my prior counseling sessions. I saved the piece of candy for Emani. I felt like I had to give my children something, anything to show

  them that I loved and appreciated them.

  Although incarcerated, I still felt the need to provide for them

  anyway I could. My motherly instincts didn’t just take flight along with my freedom. Through my childbirth experience with Emani, I had actually found

  a hidden well of love for my children. Thinking about them gave me pure joy.

  The weekend finally arrived, and I heard my name called over the

  loudspeaker for visitation. I looked in my plastic mirror, and fixed my hair as

  best as I could. That meant without curlers or a hot iron.

  I really could care less how my hair looked anyway. I just couldn’t

  stop smiling because I had waited with tremendous longing for this moment

  to arrive. I skipped all the way to the visitation hall. I wanted badly to run, but

  running wasn’t allowed on prison grounds.

  Once I made it to the door of the gymnasium, I could feel my tears

  beginning to flow. I was actually going to hold my baby. The baby I hadn’t seen since birth. I was burdened with thoughts of my daughter. Would she know me? Would she recognize me or the sound of my voice? Would she know I was her mother? She was almost two months now. Besides the fact

  that I was about to see her again, I wasn’t sure of anything else.

  My mother sat at the table smiling with Emani in her lap while my

  three boys, Lekwaun, Leontae, and Jayvien sat around the table smiling, and looking overjoyed. The wonderful joy of seeing their mother was overwhelming to all of us. They were just as excited about seeing their mother as I was about seeing my mother. Walking as fast as I could, I quickly reached

  the table and took my seat. I was so happy to see my children.

  You would think they were happier than me if you could have seen

  the looks on their faces. I hugged my boys, and played with them first so they wouldn’t feel neglected. The entire time I played with them I kept my eyes on Emani studying her up and down. My eyes were watching and I was feeling

  each breath she took. She was so pretty.

  Holding Emani gave me an incredible feeling. I felt the way Celie,

  from the Color Purple, did when she saw the white woman in the store with her daughter, Olivia. Silently, I kept thanking God for reuniting me with my baby, I was missing her. I only wished that I could watch every breath she took. I wanted her to know and understand that my love for her was strong, and I would fight for her until my dying day.

  Emani knew who I was. At least I believed she did. I couldn’t blink

  because she stared at me so intensely. No matter what I did she wouldn’t take her eyes off me. If she could speak, I was almost certain she would be asking, “Where in the world have you been?”

  Brimming with excitement, I was overcome with joy. My long

  awaited opportunity to change my daughter’s pamper had finally arrived. I knew she was in good hands, but I just needed to see my baby close-up. Holding my baby-girl close while examining her from head to toe, caused me to marvel at her perfection. She was so beautiful. I held her for what seemed like the entire visit, and I especially had her in my arms while I prayed, “Thank you God for reuniting me with my children, especially my baby.”

  My mother silently watched me interacting with my children. With

  an occasional smile on her face, she appeared to be happy on the surface. However, I knew my mother very well and I could tell something important was weighing heavy on her mind. Maybe she was just waiting for the right time to let it slip. After we had sat around for about thirty-five minutes, my

  mother let her thoughts known.

  “Angela, my money was low last week, and I called Phaedra to

  see if she would help me with pampers for the baby. You already know, I never heard back from her! And by the way, they got Shaheed!” My mother

  suddenly blurted.

  “Who got Shaheed?” I asked. I knew he was into so much, and tied

  to so many things that I wasn’t sure if he had gotten arrested or was it murder.

  “The police have him. He’s been charged with murder!” My mother

  answered wryly.

  I stared at her briefly then redirected my focus on my baby. This was

  surreal and I just didn’t know how to react to the news. Should I be laughing or crying? It was total confusion to say the least. I mean, what do I tell my

  baby?

  My baby was born in a prison, and both her parents were imprisoned. I felt like I had already failed her. It was as if I had already deprived her of her shot at a real life. She was only two months old, and already had strikes against her. Oh Lord, please don’t let her grow up to be like her mother, a victim of her own circumstances, I silently prayed. Needless to say that this new development stayed on my mind, and cast a dark cloud over the visit. The rays of light came from me seeing my children, and being with my

  mother.

  The fact that Phaedra ignored my mother didn’t surprise me

  whatsoever. Lately, she had been acting real sketchy anyway. I could tell she didn’t want to be bothered. I had been calling her collect as well, and she never accepted my calls. I had dialed her home number so much I thought I would never forget it. But eventually I did. When I stopped calling her, she would write, sending me letters and pictures of her and Bobby Brown in the

  courtroom.

  I would show her photos to my fellow-inmates. The celebrity

  snapshots brought me respect. All of a sudden other inmates wanted to be my friend because of my affiliation with a lawyer who represented all the stars. However, I would have preferred that Phaedra helped my mother out every once in a while. I really didn’t need her photos. I knew exactly how Phaedra looked on the inside.

  Chapter Eight

  A Sorrow Heaven Cannot Heal

  “Jesus wept.” John 11:35 (NIV)

  3 a.m., and I was awakened to the sound of the guard calling my

  name over the intercom.

  “STANTON, PACK IT UP,” he yelled.

  This meant that I was being shipped to my permanent housing unit

  at Pulaski State Prison. I would serve the rest of my time there. There was some reservation in leaving Metro State Prison. It was located in Atlanta, and this made it easier for me to have visits with my children. All my collect calls were local, and weren’t as bad on my mother’s phone bill. In retrospect, I was ready to go. Being transferred to another prison meant I was getting closer to finishing my time and returning home.

  Quietly, I jumped out of bed so I wouldn’t disturb my cellmates. It

  wasn’t that I was scared, but I did this out of respect. In prison, one wasn’t classified by the crime you committed. One could be sleeping next to a mass murderer and not be aware of it. The only way one would know, was if that person revealed the information to you. Sometimes this person’s crime could be shown on the news, or maybe people from their hometown told you about

  it.

  There were plenty of baby killers on the inside. I would stare at them

  just wondering how they could harm a precious and innocent human being. I would never let them catch me looking. If they could kill their own baby, I could only imagine what they would try to do to me. Don’t get me wrong, I would at anytime hold my own, but it was just always good to know what

  you were up against.

  I packed up all my belongings, including my bible, toothbrush, two

  uniforms, three white panties, three white bras and a couple photos. Everything was folded, placed neatly inside my pillowcase, and thrown over my shoulder. I walked to the front gate along with the other thirty-five women being shipped out with me
that day. Then we waited. I waited in the twilight of the early dawn as the morning dew fell and tickled my face. It sure felt

  good too. I hadn’t been out at that time of morning in what seemed like ages.

  We were all cuffed together by our wrists and ankles. One by one we

  were escorted onto the bus, walking carefully to avoid falling on our faces. That would have caused a domino effect. I tried not to watch as we left civilization, but something made me do it. Something made me watch as the life I knew faded away. I was uncertain of my future and not sure of what the near future had in store for me. I was leaving known territory to dwell in a dry, desolate place.

  The trip to Pulaski State took nearly three hours. I got tired of look-

  ing out the window, and grew sick of watching the free world pass me by. Cars with family drove alongside the bus and I wished it was me driving the car. There were children in the back seat laughing and playing. It made me think of my family, and I decided that just as long as my children were with me I would be good. It didn’t matter as long as we were a family, and we were together. Unfortunately, that wasn’t my life anymore. I wondered how old my

  baby would be when I had the chance to live life freely again.

  We had just arrived and I was homesick already. The air was dif-

  ferent. I mean you knew without a doubt that you were in prison. The yard had to be one of the biggest I had ever seen. It appeared to start at one end of the earth, and stretched to the other. Barbed wire fences surrounded us and Georgia red clay covered the land as far as you could see.

  There were so many girls passing by. Face after face, each and every