Chapter 18: A Room of One's Own — Jailbirds In Flight

Rachel and I will meditate anywhere around the dorm, but at any moment, a gaggle of women can come crowing and cawing or a CO might come in and say they need the space. We do our best to find a quieter spot away from where the ladies happen to be. When we find a spot, we sit in our usual position, backs straight, hands resting. TVs blare on different channels. Women shout out the windows to unseen men on other floors, or across the dorm to each other. The quiet makes us conspicuous as most manage the noise by joining it. Sometimes, as they pass, they’ll ask what we’re doing. “Meditating.” “Oh, I should try that,” they say, and keep walking.

Still, I feel their curiosity. One day, as I looked for where it may be a little less populated, I noticed the craft room. We walked that way before discovering why. There’s a CO here, Miss G, who’s a bit of an oddball, like me. Sensitive. I feel like I can tell by the way she listens to music. She also, along with another female officer and Santoro, buys cleaning supplies out of her own pockets. Their favorite is Fabuloso, a perfumed cleaning product that comes in two flavors: “green” and “purple.” They use it to fight off the Eau de Old Meat that’s baked into the dorm due to MDC deciding to go all natural when it comes to scent.

Never mind that there’s enough trash to qualify as a dump site, or that the aroma is so aggressive the birds outside practically fly backward. The presumption, as with most things here, is that your senses will eventually give up and flatline. For Rach and me, two women who spent decades training our sensing capacity, there isn’t much hope. “Sensory assault” doesn’t cover it. But when she’s overseeing the craft room, it’s like there’s an invisible gate around it. Women often complain she’s too protective of the space. I was apprehensive. I didn’t want to get into it with anyone. But what was I doing, withdrawing from a room perfectly suitable for meditation? We eased in. I could feel Miss G’s care in every part of the room: the purple Fabuloso, the affirmations on the wall, the plastic flowers.

I could feel her sussing us out, catlike. No clue as to her conclusion— just that prickly sense of being watched even when a head is down. Then she smiled. That smile felt like a small, private victory—not from reputation, not because she knew who I was. She was cautious, and in the face of that, without withdrawing and without asserting, I took my seat. Then the miracle: She started cracking jokes. “What the heck are you guys doing? You’re scaring the heck out of me!” I laughed. “It’s just meditation, I promise.” “That’s what you’re up to out there? You don’t look relaxed.” “Well—relaxed but ready. It’s not like going to sleep.” “Okay, so what do you do?” I showed her how I sit to keep the curve of the spine so the energy flows, and how I hold my hands in the Zen position.

She came over and tried it—eyes still on the room. The three of us sat there, the oddballs, A ROOM OF ONE’S OWN while the sounds of the dorm rippled around our little bubble of quiet. One minute. Two. She let out a long sigh and leaned back in her chair. “Okay. I’m here Monday through Friday. While I’m here, you use this room. Ten to two.” One of the better moments of my life. I’d bet my whole bank that in the craziness of prison—the personalities, the bumps, and bullies—if I keep my meditation, that will be how I make it through. You know those signs they sell at home stores—It’s humble, but it’s home? That’s how I would come to feel about the craft room turned makeshift meditation room.

It’s the exact opposite of a formal meditation hall— and yet, in spirit, it’s exactly the same. A true practice space is defined not by fancy cushions but by the steady care of the person who tends it. Back at the bunks, we recounted the story to Luciana. Morgan overheard from her bunk and joined in the conversation. “When you first got here, none of us thought you’d make it. I’ll be honest—when I saw you sitting like that, meditation? I was scared you were losing it or that you’d died or something. But you did it. You did it your way, and you made it in.” I could have danced through the dorm. That’s the hope and the promise—that I don’t have to change who I am to still be a part of.