It's hot, y'all. I know it gets like this every summer but this is a long string of hot, humid days and that is hard to bear. Maybe it's because I'm getting older or more spoiled by air conditioning. Can you even imagine being without air conditioning anywhere these days?
Oh wait, I can. I was born in 1950. Summers were hot even back in the olden days and yes, all we had were fans, shade, and cool drinks. Is it worse now? I don't know. Depends on where and who you are.
There's one place I'm personally aware of that is ridiculously hot in these 95 -100 degree days. Women's prison in Raleigh, NC.
Oh, well, they're prisoners. What does that matter? They shouldn't be comfortable anyway. They're no worse off than our grandparents were. And it's supposed to be punishment for bad people.
I've written about my friend Joanna Madonna, here, here and here. She's in Women's Prison right now and has been for awhile. I talk to her frequently and between letters and phone calls, I get a lot of news about her experience in there.
It's hot, y'all. Really, really hot. A throwback to the 1950s hot. And there's no going to the mall or the movies to escape. There are cooling procedures in place for the 1,000 or so inmates --- large industrial fans in some places, smaller fans in others. You've stood in front of one of those huge fans before, haven't you? Remember how comforting that is?
And water. There are large containers of drinking water strategically placed. I know when I bring my glass of ice water outside these days the ice melts within a few minutes and the tepid water needs to be refreshed. I don't know how the water containers on the compound or in dorms are cooled. Some water, even if it's not cold, is better than no water at all. At least for hydration.
They're even authorized to take extra cooling showers when the temperatures are extreme, and I'm sure that feels good. For a few minutes. Unless the sweat is pouring off of you when you step into the shower and doesn't abate much when you get out.
Should inmates be treated like regular ol' human beings, like the rest of us? After all, aren't they the bad folks everybody is scared of? Aren't they the terrible predators, the irredeemable, the sinners? They get fed and housed, don't they? What more are they owed?
For a huge number of people, including policymakers, prisoners are a faceless horde. Theoretically, it's obvious that the person who stole from a store, stole a car, got caught with drugs, even committed a violent offense, is someone's mother, father, son, daughter or spouse. In this case, some are grandmothers, even great-grandmothers. Locked up and put away, they're all invisible and it's easy to dismiss the humanity of someone deemed a criminal.
What do we owe those among us who have been locked up? Not even going to questions of the justice system, and there are many, what standards of human compassion must we show to those who have been segregated from society?
It's hot. Give these women some air conditioning, for heaven's sake!
For more information about Joanna's case
Showing posts with label Joanna Madonna. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joanna Madonna. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Monday, September 14, 2015
They call my friend a murderer; Joanna Madonna
Today her trial begins. It's been two years and three months since he died. Two years and three months since she saved her own life, at the expense of his. Two years and three months in county jail, with no fresh air, no sunshine on her face, no smell of cut grass and earth.
Today the next phase begins.
I'm haunted by the word. Murder. It's familiar, all too familiar. It appears every day in news stories, in fiction, in tales of horror and on tv. It holds a special fascination, a sense of awful otherness. It could not apply to someone I know.
Murder is a concept, the killing of another human being within specifications defined by law. But that's not what the word brings up for most of us. It's not a matter of preconditions and legal parameters, the dry language of law books. It's fraught with midnight danger, the stranger in the bushes or under the bed, the nightmare of blood and lust and revenge or greed. And the murderer is the ultimate bad guy.
Joanna is an alleged murderer. That's her charge and there's the body of her husband to prove it. But she's not a murderer to me. She's not a threat that will rob you of sleep, or haunt the dark corners of midnight. She's my beloved friend.
She's the person with a ready laugh, a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on, a sheltering presence. She's the woman who looks for the bright side and resolutely seeks silver linings. The person I know is not unkind, not rageful, certainly not a murderer. And yet . . .
This morning at ten a.m. the judge will pound his gavel and the trial will begin. Her fate is unknown, though the death penalty was taken off the table six months after her arrest. The news cameras and reporters are at the ready. It's not your run-of-the-mill murder trial. It's high profile in this neck of the woods; she a former teacher, he a disabled veteran. The newly elected District Attorney is coming out of her bureaucratic office and prosecuting the case herself. It has all the trappings of good theater.
Joanna and I talk on the phone every week. We discuss, not the case, but what led her to this point, what could have been different, what will be different, no matter the outcome. She could be acquitted. She could get life in prison. Or it could be anything in between. It's not often that any of us comes to such a stark turning point in life.
I've learned many things while Joanna has been locked up. We've had as deep discussions as possible in ten minute monitored phone calls, occasional "visits" by video at the jailhouse, and rambling, speculative, thoughtful letters, also shared with anonymous strangers in the mailroom. We've explored the pitfalls of false pride, secrets, fear and codependence. We've shared strengths to be found in honest inquiry and sobriety, in faith and doubt. We talk about parenting our children and education and the challenges faced by her autistic daughter. We've each lost a beloved parent during her incarceration and been able to comfort each other through the following grief and helplessness that knows no boundaries of lock and key.
I will be there today, and all the subsequent days. The jury will hear testimony. Attorneys will present cases based on evidence. People at work and at home, with no stake in the case except opinion and emotion, will debate and defend and attack based on nothing more than 800-word news articles. I'll try not to read comments.
Her daughters, her family, her friends and acquaintances will all watch closely as the woman they know will have her life dissected in the public eye, entertainment for the 6 o'clock news, morality tale and horror story. Will truth come out? Will justice prevail? Is that even possible?
I guess we'll see.
Today the next phase begins.
I'm haunted by the word. Murder. It's familiar, all too familiar. It appears every day in news stories, in fiction, in tales of horror and on tv. It holds a special fascination, a sense of awful otherness. It could not apply to someone I know.
Murder is a concept, the killing of another human being within specifications defined by law. But that's not what the word brings up for most of us. It's not a matter of preconditions and legal parameters, the dry language of law books. It's fraught with midnight danger, the stranger in the bushes or under the bed, the nightmare of blood and lust and revenge or greed. And the murderer is the ultimate bad guy.
Joanna is an alleged murderer. That's her charge and there's the body of her husband to prove it. But she's not a murderer to me. She's not a threat that will rob you of sleep, or haunt the dark corners of midnight. She's my beloved friend.
She's the person with a ready laugh, a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on, a sheltering presence. She's the woman who looks for the bright side and resolutely seeks silver linings. The person I know is not unkind, not rageful, certainly not a murderer. And yet . . .
This morning at ten a.m. the judge will pound his gavel and the trial will begin. Her fate is unknown, though the death penalty was taken off the table six months after her arrest. The news cameras and reporters are at the ready. It's not your run-of-the-mill murder trial. It's high profile in this neck of the woods; she a former teacher, he a disabled veteran. The newly elected District Attorney is coming out of her bureaucratic office and prosecuting the case herself. It has all the trappings of good theater.
Joanna and I talk on the phone every week. We discuss, not the case, but what led her to this point, what could have been different, what will be different, no matter the outcome. She could be acquitted. She could get life in prison. Or it could be anything in between. It's not often that any of us comes to such a stark turning point in life.
I've learned many things while Joanna has been locked up. We've had as deep discussions as possible in ten minute monitored phone calls, occasional "visits" by video at the jailhouse, and rambling, speculative, thoughtful letters, also shared with anonymous strangers in the mailroom. We've explored the pitfalls of false pride, secrets, fear and codependence. We've shared strengths to be found in honest inquiry and sobriety, in faith and doubt. We talk about parenting our children and education and the challenges faced by her autistic daughter. We've each lost a beloved parent during her incarceration and been able to comfort each other through the following grief and helplessness that knows no boundaries of lock and key.
I will be there today, and all the subsequent days. The jury will hear testimony. Attorneys will present cases based on evidence. People at work and at home, with no stake in the case except opinion and emotion, will debate and defend and attack based on nothing more than 800-word news articles. I'll try not to read comments.
Her daughters, her family, her friends and acquaintances will all watch closely as the woman they know will have her life dissected in the public eye, entertainment for the 6 o'clock news, morality tale and horror story. Will truth come out? Will justice prevail? Is that even possible?
I guess we'll see.
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