The Only Door I Can Open:

There was a time when my bed was the only place that made me feel safe. My bed was the antidote to the madness that surrounded me. I could go to bed and dream my way out of the chaos. I could go wherever I wanted. I could lie in bed and feel secure, watch TV, read or just be in my "assigned" space.

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All of that changed in 2020 when the COVID-19 pandemic took over the world. It was the rudest awakening of the illusion I had created. The pandemic made me realize that my bed was never really my space. I was moved from room to room, never allowed to truly social distance or shelter in place. Despair took over, and the reality set in that I had no control over my own safety or wellbeing. My bed was no longer safe; it had belonged to the state all along. 

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Through pencil work, I express the dullness of prison during my twenty-eight years of incarceration. In contrast, the brightness and beauty I see through my soul is expressed with the use of watercolor and glitter—releasing the heavy weight off my mind and spirit.

Shuffling in and out of groups called Cage Your Rage, Grief Share; scripting your life.
I can scream you into the direction of a fire to have you burn with me;
Or I can whisper above a wind’s breath and share my experiences—help you navigate
a womens’ prison like a man navigates his barbershop.

Barely private—mostly exposed, a lot of both-isms sharing one space.

Cinder blocks juxtaposed with gardens observed from bars that have windows.

The number of years served etched into the bricks with blood, tears, and grimaces.

Loud silence, passive aggressive bullies, teenagers and silver foxes; immaturity-arrested development.

Innocent, guilty, wrongfully convicted, and the cold cases that caught up.

Bricked up minds finding solace going to beaches, their children’s eyes, a grandmother’s bosom where they
are not broken, but returning to the reality of, bunkies fighting with inmates over happy cards laced with fentanyl.

Angry words flying, fists exchanging, leaking faces from brown colored cudgel cups, teeth knocked out, 

hands broken, an ear bitten off and flushed down the toilet.

But the sun rises again, the geese flock on the yard chasing inmates and table-food.
Drunk hummingbirds sip long at the nectar. A smile that says “God bless you” walking by.

Hooch wafting in the air; lingering stench of homelessness.

Laughter at jokes without no punchlines, artists prevailing words with affirmation on stubborn walls and aged sidewalks. 

Beds with shackles, padlocks, and chains.

Hearts interwoven in a common goal—shuffling in and out of buses that send us back to prison,

or home forever.

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I created this piece to reflect how my bunk bed is my antidote to this dismal environment. There is no safer place in prison to release tears of grief built through the years, reflecting on all the missed time with my precious daughter and family. This is where I can lay my head safely and dream fond memories of chasing waves with my daughter at the beach filled with her laughter and joy.

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The bunk bed posts are depicted as trees with roots grounding me in my safe space. The roots surround the drawers below our bunks. My favorite Japanese cherry blossoms create a canopy above with a starry night sky, because — no matter how many stone walls or barbed-wire and miles separate me from my daughter — we see the same stars at night.

Since the COVID-19 pandemic, I have lived in fear of being moved around because the prison might need the bed or because I have to quarantine. This separates me from the people I have bonded with, yet I have the freedom to dream my way out of the borrowed bed. 

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In my artwork, prison is black, white, gray and dull. My dreams and soul see in color, bright and beautiful—even after twenty-eight years of incarceration.

Auh moment so impossible, yet a space so tropical

When mi eyes close until mi

eyes awake truth be told

Auh flash of reality

When there’s a downfall

Yuh con count pon mi

As yuh swiftly take mi breath

Away only if yuh knew Mi cell is mi

Antidote Escape...

No space is needed

it’s there day and

Night mi seek it

at Mi highest even

At mi weakest

One cut too many the blades Mi most needed

Loyalty over love damn

Mi feel undefeated

Like a nightmare

dressed like a day

Dream. Sah take it easy pon mi.

In mi antidote

Mi feel completed

Heart chill like

A sunday heart of

Glass emotions built like Stone

Such poison yet

Mi Awoll

Tuh Mi Antidote is

Mi space of privacy

Tender love And

cure. Impossible turned

Possible Mi Antidote

is Mi Tropical

As mi awake

Mi bunk is mi safe

Place, mi privacy

Mi eyes open tuh

Mi reality mi face

Mi antidote

Yes mi...

Escape!

This piece was inspired by the physical comfort I feel once my body hits my bed, and the peace that comes from my place of rest. Peek into my transformed world, a safety zone I’ve created to give myself a small reprieve from my severe environment.

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This is the space where I’m able to mentally shift gears and take my mind off of prison politics, with its constant barriers and stressors. This is the only space in prison I’m able to call my own. Our beds are not always a safe place in prison, but when you’ve finally found that safe place, you hold onto it for as long as you can.

The woman symbolizes a future me, looking out into the paradise I will one day attain. Now I strive to live in congruence with my internal freedom. Although I may be physically imprisoned, my mind and soul are free to evolve, learn, grow and exist outside of these walls.

The bed mi bed provides illusion of privacy. 

Where no eye’s pry pon mi

mi clip a sheet like a curtain so no one

can see mi escape.

Mi daily reality the officer see suh x-ray into the cells through the cut holes in the showers pon our face to our feet! Throughout the prison cameras watch mi!

Mi bunk tented up is mi only privacy no move mi make is ever unseen! by any means necessary the unthinkable to mi antidote yet x-ray yes

Mi privacy.....

When thinking about the prompt, "How is your bed your antidote?", I was lost; because honestly, it's not. I am only in my bed to sleep, and — by the time I lay there — I'm so worn out that it only takes a few minutes to fall asleep. Being in bed is a gateway to depression for me — in fact, it’s a symptom of being depressed. I do anything to avoid the thoughts, the flood of emotions, the worries, guilt, loneliness, and regret that laying still in that hard prison bed brings. For someone like me, the bed is a strong, dangerous river with a vicious undercurrent that constantly threatens to drag me under. 

The thing that brings me peace in this bed is looking out my window, especially at the sunset and the sky. My optimistic mind tells me that the one thing they cannot take is the sky. When I look up, I'm free. The sun rises and sets here the same as every other place. And in the moments when I'm looking up, I can't see barbed wire, or the ugly dry grass and dirt — only the sky, and the beauty and freedom that comes with it. This can also be bittersweet, yet that is rare for me. I painted the window pane exactly how it looks in Chowchilla.

I’ve been giving it some thought about how the only door I can open in prison is an invisible one leading to my bunk bed. It calls me when it wants and needs me. Sometimes it betrays my insomnia giving me a few drips of sleep, even driving me crazy in my nightmares. Still can’t get enough of it like a toxic relationship providing for a tough ride where I confide my deepest secrets. The view of lazy muddled clouds barely making sense hovering over barren land and indentured people.

It's hard to block calls from the population no matter how high the perch of my top bunk. People forget my weaknesses get ironed out up here--where I work out my Salvation. It's my safe haven, a place I avoid danger, and don’t have to speak. I can daydream, meditate, and have visions. I look over and I’m happy at my reflection in the mirror. Sometimes I don’t want to come down, a new meaning of cold feet. Did I mention my blankets draw up? Obscure, balanced by a frame that keeps me stabilized, a mattress that aggravates my sciatic nerve, and a pillow that makes it hard to hide my neck pain. No matter the mistakes I make, my bed accepts me for who I am, it appreciates all I do. I can cry, moan, sulk, or engage in inside sports like pity party when my heart’s torn to pieces.

I can take off my clothes, drama, armor, problem’s and drop my responsibilities to focus. Unlocking my day, examining my circle, reflecting on my overtime work being all I can be. You can find me releasing regrets while maintaining good body language. God and I have late night conversations, intimate, but I can never get naked. So sleepy, can’t sleep, angst, and hyper vigilance, my bed makes time for it all. Chastity, no one has been here before, saving it for the man of God’s choosing. I count my blessings, pray for provision, keep sense of things, listen to God’s voice, hold myself in the rain, create and express myself to all and everything that loves me.

I painted a realistic representation of our bunk beds—how we dress them with sheets, blankets, and pillows. My theme for this bed is "bittersweet." I used chains and padlocks around the beds to represent our captivity. In my bed is where I feel the most imprisoned. The Japanese cherry blossoms are added to give a sense of something that should be calm, relaxing, and serene. But, I can never truly feel the flowers due to the chains. 

This is what the bed is to me: an oxymoron. A beautiful disaster. Cherry blossoms in chains.

My answer to the question "What’s my antidote in prison?" is “the sky.” My bed is nothing but the state's assigned spot for me. I can be moved at any time, and without advance notice. In contrast, I can look up and see the same sky and stars my family sees from home—that is my antidote. 

Thus, the sky is my inspiration for this self-portrait with my hair turning into bars and my body turning to stone (brick). There are four stars and a crescent moon in my eyes. The moon represents my mother, and the stars are for each of my children. The longer I spend here, the more I feel that I’ve become one with the brick and bars that hold me captive; however, I can always look up at the sky and see my family in my mind's eye.

This drawing is fully symbolic. The hourglass has a woman trapped inside, in time and in sorrow, as though she is incarcerated. Everything about this woman is transforming. Her tears and hair turn to sand as she loses her old self and blossoms into something new. The sand falls to the bottom half of the hour glass and leaks out of the glass. As the sand leaks out, it transforms into a new and colorful butterfly. The woman’s time in prison transforms her inner self to a new and improved existence.

An old, homemade wooden shelf

in the backyard under the mango tree 

next to the chicken coop

grandma grabs the jar again

in it, a single fruit

a noni, it floats in juice

as long as I can remember

It’s been there

never changing

my grandma’s face

never aging

Not wrinkled with time

but from a grimace

when she takes one sip

and puts it back on that wooden shelf 

under the mango tree

and as I sip from the jar

atop my locker

jalapeños, they float in juice

I wonder

Will I be never aging someday, too?

This artwork is about a human being trying to free herself from her current living constraints and create a better world for herself and her progeny. The bed in prison allows me to contemplate where I've come from and where I'm going. I think of my mother’s struggle while running across a desolate desert, pregnant with me, and how she wanted to provide me with a better future — despite all odds. Her journey gives me hope that no matter what, there is always space to dream. 

The image of a woman running towards a better tomorrow for herself and her child is one that resonates with many incarcerated women. We dream of the day that we can run to our families, who are waiting for us outside these walls. From our beds, all we can do is dream and try to imagine what that feels like.

I

Weighed down I made through

muddied water 

shame, sweat, and silence 

shackled to the floor

with bed, table, and chair

are all I have to mitigate

to mediate

the hell within my cell

with this hard, cold plastic

this raft I stay afloat

so I can wash upon my dreamscope shore 

where heaven within hell awoke

II

Tired and alone

I cling to this

hard, cold plastic

to keep my head above the water 

break the surface and go past it 

withheld, within, without 

though my body remains trapped 

My soul knows no bounds

This artwork is about a soul innocent enough to continue to dream. Being incarcerated can rob you of your dreams. No matter how bad my day has been, though, I can manage to escape to my bed and be in a place that my current living situation can't interfere with. This piece represents a place of safety that allows me to leave my confined space and be in a place I call peace. 

I tried to use shapes that are circular and without sharp edges to convey a sense of innocence. I chose a pastel background to give the impression of a child's bed. When trying to catch a respectable night's rest, you need a good place to retreat. This is how my bed is my antidote.

As I started reflecting on my culture, I could only think of what had the largest impact from generation to generation. Our ancestors were instructed to keep silent and put their heads down; this was a survival mechanism. They instilled this in us, too. Now I understand the significance of my voice and creative abilities. I will continue to sharpen my skills as a disruptive innovator, sketching my candid thoughts and feelings onto a blank canvas. I will use different techniques to be heard.

This gavel was sculpted from California Prison Industry Authority (CAL-PIA) soap, which is made by and for the population in California prisons. CAL-PIA bars turn to butter-like clay when soaked in hot water. Using multiple bars of soap soaked in a bucket of water, I shaped this gavel by hand.

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I started with the handle by using an unfolded paper clip to strengthen the core and left room to attach the head. I then left the gavel in direct sunlight to dry and harden while I sculpted the head. Finally, I attached the two pieces together, allowed it to dry and solidify around the paperclip, and finished it off with acrylic paint.

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I wanted to add a figurine of a woman being crushed under the gavel, but an institutionally-forced bed move broke the body into pieces and left me without time to remake her. However, the gavel survived and is on display as a symbol of America's injustice, which women are crushed beneath.

California Prison Industry Authority (CAL-PIA) sheets are made by prisoners for prisoners. Many will hang their sheet across the bunk, to create makeshift curtains and provide the illusion of privacy in their personal space. It's common practice to paint and decorate bedding. Some will pay heavily for artists to create designs.

I painted a letter to my bed on a new CAL-PIA sheet. I used a paperclip end for fine lines, and a tiny paint brush for larger lines. A hair dryer was used to "heat set" the paint so that the sheet can be washed without bleeding or fading. I painted the sun and moon using Zentangle art to symbolize how I use my sheet for both sleeping at night and privacy in the day. The tree with few leaves shows how this place can destroy us, and those who are well grounded with good roots can survive.

‍Dear Bed

The sun hasn’t risen yet and I already want to thank you

before placing my feet on the cold stone ground.

I slept well through the night, all things considered.

For nothing else in the world could bring me such peace & solitude in this ominous place. At home I used to take prayer showers in peace,

though now eyes pry on me through the open spaces in the shower door.

I can’t even piss in peace ‘cus they see my face and feet through that door too.

Pardon my language, but it’s stressful knowing eyes are on me 24/7!

I am utmost grateful for the illusion of privacy that you provide

when I hang my sheet across your line.

You have been my only resource for healing the abundance of scars within and without. It is only here where I can close my eyes and be the mother I was meant to be.

Where I can hold her again, laugh and play with my family.

I can release all the tears, built from grief through the years.

Time has no meaning, other than knowing

the world outside, continues without me.