Chapter 60 — Lyric | Jailbirds In Flight

The night before Lyric’s bail hearing, we all gathered to say goodbye. Nevaeh led a Loving Tree, an exercise from The Art of Soulmaking where one person receives love, in the form of reflections, from others. The women shared their experience of Lyric—her brightness, her laugh, her humor, her perseverance in carrying her baby through trial, through months in prison, and now hopefully to freedom. All the favorite prison dishes, from cakes to nachos, come out for the party. When one woman wins, every woman shares that win with her. But at 7 p.m. the next day, Lyric walked right back into the dorm. A cold wave of horror rippled through the dorm. She’s due in nine weeks. “You okay?” I ask as she passes. “No.

I’m fucked up,” she says, rare emotion cracking the mask. She crawls into bed and disappears under the blanket. The next day, she explains the situation. She was denied for home confinement but there’s still one last chance; she might get into a pregnant-women’s facility, but there may not be one near her family in New York. It may not even be possible until December, when the baby’s due. If she delivers inside, they’ll take the baby. There’s no way to show her how my heart breaks without making it worse. This isn’t a hugging place. I try to send what I can through my eyes, careful not to stare. “Oh, Lyric. I’m sorry,” I say. She hears me. “I don’t want to lose my baby,” she says, tears rising to her eyes. “It’s the system.

They’re trying to help—but this is messed up.” Her words tumble out, so I have her slow down and breathe. Here’s the clock, the way it actually runs: Lyric is twenty-nine weeks pregnant. Once she hits thirty-six weeks—November 5—transport is off the table. She gets sentenced on October 15 and then after her sentencing, the Bureau of Prisons’ designation center in Grand Prairie, TX, usually takes six to eight weeks to place you. She needs it done in three to four. There’s a program called MINT—Mothers and Infants Nurturing Together—that could keep mom and baby together, but only a few sites are operating, and she has to be designated and moved in time. If Grand Prairie doesn’t move quickly, she’ll deliver at a hospital and the baby will be taken.

Now I got it. This is what I call the impossible glitch: not bad people, just bad timing inside a rigid machine. The story that outsiders love is that officers are cold; what I see most days are people with their hands tied, trying to help through glass. For all of the “family values” we hold as a nation, the federal carceral system is still lacking. This woman is in prison for fraud, which is no small thing, but it is not violence. That this child might be born motherless breaks my heart to no end. “I’m trying to get someone at MINT to reach the BOP directly,” Lyric says, wringing her hands. “Sentencing guidelines say zero to thirty months.

I’ve already served six. I just want to be with my baby, Han.” I was there the day she chose the name—she wanted royalty and reverence in one breath: Han Christian D. Han, for an emperor. Christian, for faith. D for her family line. So this is my prayer, right here in the noise and too-bright light: Han Christian D, may it be that you spend every minute of your early life in your mother’s arms. May you know how loved and precious you are and the lengths that you, a child whose mother considers a miracle, were granted the miracle to be raised by her. That is my prayer. Until then, we hold Lyric steady. We walk the track.