by Donna Hylton
But I’m never going to see Helen again.
After her body is laid to rest, we hold a memorial for her at the prison. I play a cassette of Helen’s favorite song: the Stephanie Mills version of “Home,” from the original Broadway cast of the musical The Wiz:
When I think of home, I think of a place
Where there’s love overflowing…
I scan the faces among our group of women—several here who had once turned their backs on Helen. Now they stand for her, in tears. The realization breaks open within me that it is in the most difficult moments in life that humans realize how much we truly have in common with each other. Not one of us here hasn’t known the rejection, shame, and loneliness that Helen lived with every day of her life. There are moments during the memorial service for Helen when for the first time, I’m able to hold my shoulders high—not out of pride or righteousness, but out of certainty that I did the best I could for someone who needed me.
As we enter the nineties, Helen’s death and the deaths of so many other women at Bedford begin to have a true and transformative effect on some of us. I don’t want anything about my experience in prison to begin to feel comfortable, or even normal. In the days and weeks following Helen’s passing, what I’ve begun to learn from Judy and Kathy resonates in my mind: Helen proved to us that there’s real work to do. HIV and AIDS are happening. Even the toughest among us are scared. While there are women here suffering, the rest of us need to do something.
The prison superintendent, Elaine Lord, emerges as one of the very first female authority figures whom I can trust enough to respect when she notes the need for understanding in the prison about the illness. She allows Judy Clark, Kathy Boudin, a few others, and me to create what we call an AIDS Counseling and Education program, which we come to refer to as “ACE.” We receive training to provide peer counseling to other women in the prison who may be considering getting tested for HIV, as well as training to educate our fellow incarcerated women about the illness. We also make ourselves available to go along with them for testing so that they won’t be alone. Then we provide support while they wait for the results, which makes for a few weeks fraught with worry. Our motto is: “If you’re infected, we’re all affected.” No matter what any of the women have done or experienced, we’re by their side to provide comfort and information.
Superintendent Lord is a believer in tough love—she was one of the administrators who sentenced me to the Box for my conflict with Ursula—but in the wake of losing Helen, I’m beginning to see that she’s a true warrior for women. She might sit on the side of the law that deemed each of us “guilty,” but she actually sees the humanity in each of us. Superintendent Lord holds high standards for our behavior because she believes we can improve ourselves and our lives, and in a very personal way, she wants us to grow. After watching how I cared for Helen, it seems that Superintendent Lord has begun to see me with new eyes.
Or maybe, like me, she is beginning to see a different Donna.
The ACE program is well received at the prison, and over time, more and more women seek out our support services. Perhaps the most significant development occurs when Superintendent Lord allows for a hospice unit to be set up in the prison. Our group of women receives training to provide hospice care to our sisters who are now journeying through the stages of death. The role of those of us in the ACE program is to make them feel more comfortable—we rub cream on their feet, we freshen their mouths with a sip of water or ginger ale, we gently apply ointment to their dry lips and call for medical help whenever they’re in pain.
Also, if they want us to, we pray with them. Women of so many different backgrounds, ethnicities, and religions inhabit this prison, but especially among the dying, all we need to share is a collective faith in something greater than us. One of the most powerful insights of my life is what a blessing it is to be at someone’s side as they’re preparing to exit this life. I’ll never forget what it was like to hold Adrienne as she took her first breaths and met the world with wide eyes. Getting to witness the completion of the cycle of life makes me feel as though I’ve been chosen among a blessed few as we stand by the prison chaplain, Rev. Maria Lopez, when she anoints the dying woman and offers a prayer for her peace and comfort.
Within a year of ACE’s launch, I earn certification to be an HIV counselor and am placed on regular work detail in the prison coordinating HIV discussion groups, setting up counseling for grieving women in the process of losing a dear friend, and training caregivers. I earn an hourly wage of twenty-five cents, which is enough to buy stamps to write letters to Adrienne, Dalida, and some of my friends outside, and to buy treats like ice cream, potato chips, peanut butter, and jelly. The small, everyday items I can purchase from the commissary are a luxury, but far more satisfying than these is the emergence of this new sense of self. Every single day I arrive for my shift, I’m astonished that I can help others in this way. I’m gaining clarity that my heart and mind contain a positive purpose. When I lie in my cell at night, it brings tears to my eyes to think of how my work makes me feel. I am so much more than a body for other people to treat in any way they want. For the first time, someone needs and appreciates me.
I feel worthy.
For women who are infected with HIV and for so many of us others, this groundbreaking AIDS program is transformative inside the prison. However, on a state level, there are challenges brewing. As the ACE program becomes established and begins to grow, state politicians in Albany question Superintendent Lord on whether the program is the most effective way for state money to be spent at the prison. Each time she makes the trip to fight on our behalf, she provides us with updates. There’s an increasing appreciation throughout the prison that the superintendent isn’t just here to punish us. She’s on our side, and she refuses to give up. “You’re women,” she tells our central group of change-makers. “Who else could tell us what you need?”
Her will and the progress we’re all making together motivates a core group of us to create more programs at Bedford that will support the wellness and self-esteem of individuals here and empower the most marginalized among us. A dozen of us band together and dub ourselves “the Agents of Change,” and true to their style, Judy and Kathy pick a folksy, hippie song to serve as our anthem. Together, we sing “Sister” by Cris Williamson:
Believe on me, I am your friend…
I will fold you in my arms like a white-winged dove…
My life is officially no longer about survival or doing what I have to do just to get by. As one of these women, I’m now part of something larger, something more important. You’re different than the others. There’s not a day I don’t hear Mr. V’s words in my head. However, my goodness and my courage no longer leave me alone on my own island. Now I’m part of a shared mission to make this place better.
When Helen died, I said farewell not only to her but also to who I was before I knew her. I no longer need to stand by, to stay silent when something bad happens to me or to another woman. From this point, I’m my own person, focusing wholly on my goodness and my growth.
7
MOTHER MARY AND THE END OF VIOLENCE
As Superintendent Lord continues to affirm our efforts by standing up for us in Albany, I pay more attention to the discussions and decisions that happen in the state capitol and how they affect us as incarcerated women.
I learn that in 1985, one year before I arrived at Bedford, something happened in the State of New York that had never happened before: hearings took place in Albany in which incarcerated women from prisons around the state spoke before legislators to share their very personal stories about how they wound up in prison. In many cases, they were convicted for killing their abusers.
Following those hearings, Governor Mario Cuomo created the Governor’s Commission on Domestic Violence and appointed a woman named Charlotte Watson as its director. Some directors at Bedford then organized an internal program, working in collaboration with the governor’s special dep
artment to address the very real problems that are happening in the lives of women here at Bedford and even throughout New York State.
As I deepen my engagement with the Agents of Change, Sharon Smolick, who’s the director of this internal family violence program at Bedford, calls for me to visit her office. I approach and knock on her door unsurely, noting concern on her face as she invites me to take a seat. “I know about your crime, Donna,” she says.
In an instant, my face flushes hot with shame. I’ve been working to overcome all that, and the prison administrators see it. Why is she bringing this up right now?
“And I know that you’ve faced a lot of struggle in your life.”
I look up at her, still not sure where this conversation is headed. “How do you know that?” There are times when I hear that my voice is still shrouded in defensiveness.
“Because,” she tells me. “Pain recognizes pain.” Sharon goes on to reveal to me that she did time at a prison in Florida because of hurt and brokenness in her own past. She asks me to open up about my upbringing, and I feel myself relax. A trust and closeness with Sharon begins to emerge, as she says she’s seen how involved I’ve become with causes around here. Then she does the truly unexpected when she asks me, “Donna, would you like to participate in our Domestic Family Violence Program?”
I’ve heard about this program, which is the first of its kind in the nation. Sharon runs it with a popular figure around the prison: Sr. Mary Nerney, a nun and psychologist who volunteers her expertise to the group a few times each month. Sr. Mary was a key player in the 1985 women’s hearings in Albany which successfully resulted in the creation of the governor’s department for domestic violence. Since the 1970s, Sr. Mary has gone before political decision-makers to demonstrate how there are often personal narratives of having been battered among incarcerated women. Her argument is that in many cases, that violent past directly or indirectly led to the crimes for which a woman has been convicted.
With honor, I accept Sharon’s invitation to join the group and find that this group setting is a chance to gain a kind of perspective on my own past that will permanently change me. I have always felt so alone in my abuse, and because of my abuse. But here in the Domestic Family Violence Program, every single woman around me has suffered violence at the hands of a boyfriend or husband, a father or mother, a grandparent or stepparent, an uncle, a teacher, or others. As we share around the room, each story is as unfortunate as the one before it. Our turmoils are varied but vivid, and each of us is a woman who has had to resort to extreme circumstances to try to save her own life. One seventeen-year-old, whom we all know as Love, was abused by her mother, just like me and like several of us… but when Love was just eleven years old, her mother did something far worse: she introduced her daughter to heroin.
Needing love and approval and not knowing healthy guidance, Love became hooked on the drug. Hand in hand with her drug use came a need for money to buy it, and hand in hand with that came sexual violence. Young Love became involved with an older man, a thief who used her as bait in his robberies. That’s what led to her getting caught.
I begin to open up and share about my story, but as I listen to the stories of the other women, their pain becomes my pain. There are some women who experienced sexual abuse from the age of two, some from the age of five. I can see myself in their stories, and I can understand how they arrived here—not only in prison, but at such low points in their lives.
Back in my cell following that first meeting, I weep as I think more about Love’s story. So much of it was relatable for me: the abusive parent, the older man who promises a route to escape. There’s something about motherhood that softens the heart and helps a woman to see her child in every child she meets. There’s an innocence in Love’s face that reminds me of my daughter and makes it impossible for me to imagine how her mother could have done what she did. I stop myself just short of judging this woman I’ve never met, as I’m beginning to understand how abuse shapes our choices, as well as our perceptions of what it is to love and be loved.
As we go around the room, meeting after meeting, the reality is searing: every single woman among us has experienced abuse at some point in her life. The more stories I hear, the sicker I feel. This is wrong!
This is wrong.
For the first time, I stop asking, Why am I the only one?
Instead, I ask: Why am I NOT the only one?
The fact is undeniable: there’s a link between rates of brutal domestic violence and a prison full of wounded, broken, silenced, crying, desperate women. It’s also infuriating to learn that not a single one of us was allowed to share our personal histories in court to reveal how the series of brutal events in our lives might have led to our crimes.
Soon I’m so entrenched in the Family Domestic Violence program that I become one of its principal organizers. With the support of Superintendent Lord, and under the guidance of Sharon Smolick, a group of us works further to break out different categories of abuse and develop therapeutic groups for the women who have experienced each one. We establish a group for victims of sexual abuse, one for victims of incest, and one for victims of ritual abuse. There’s a place for victims of domestic violence, and even groups for women who have killed their child or their batterer, as well as a group for women who are pedophiles. We treat every single one of them as human—how else can they change? We want to offer a space for understanding to all of these women, and we want prison life to be honest and authentic.
We also hold larger group sessions, where everyone from the various groups comes together to share, explore, discuss… and perhaps even find solutions for ourselves or for women outside who may be at risk. No matter what each of us has done or experienced, our stories reveal the truth: there’s a pattern. For every female behind bars, there is a girl outside who will share the same future unless someone takes action now to help her.
The governor’s office works with us to hold a follow-up hearing to their conversations on domestic violence in Albany at Bedford. I volunteer to help set up the prison gymnasium for the hearing. This small act of service becomes the most pivotal moment in my entire life experience when I begin to grow personally familiar with Sr. Mary Nerney.
Everyone who knows her loves this broad Irish woman with a smile as big as her heart. As we prepare for the hearing, I walk alongside to assist her while she hangs T-shirts around the gym that feature phrases or stories from us women that represent our abuse or our hope for a better life. She uses bobby pins to link all the T-shirts together, symbolic of the way we women have bonded to create a bigger, better reality for ourselves and each other here in prison.
In this one-on-one exchange in the gymnasium, Sr. Mary begins to very gently invite me to open up about myself. Maybe it’s because of the way she takes charge and inspires all of us to cooperate so smoothly, or maybe it’s because she shows interest in me personally… but there’s something about Sr. Mary that I take to very naturally.
I expand a little on the stories I’ve shared in our Domestic Family Violence group, and I begin to ask her about her background, too. She reveals she’s from the Sisters of Notre Dame order of Catholic nuns, and she and her sisters minister specifically to women. Just as I’ve been experiencing in not getting to see Adrienne, Sr. Mary knows there’s usually more than one victim to every crime. “When you sentence a woman to jail,” she says, “you sentence the whole family.”
I pay close attention when Sr. Mary is formally introduced at the hearing in our gymnasium. She’s made a profound impact on many women, having founded STEPS to End Family Violence, a program that provides legal assistance and psychological counseling to battered women (including those imprisoned for killing their abusers), as well as battered men and other family members who witness domestic violence. In 1975, Sr. Mary also founded Greenhope Services for Women, which helps to reintegrate incarcerated women into society and teaches them the construction trades, and the Incarcerated Mothers Program, which keeps
the children of inmates out of the foster care system by placing them with family members. I grasp onto this information about Sr. Mary, finding further hope and comfort about the fact she’s done work with incarcerated women and their children.
From this point, Sr. Mary and I begin to grow closer. She turns to us women to brainstorm how to go about creating bills, awareness, and movements to get battered women out of prisons. “What can we do?” she asks us. We share our ideas with her, and she fights until the governor releases one battered woman from prison.
This shows me the need to get the legislation in place for this issue, and she and I discuss a bill she’s creating to give people a chance to get out of prison on good time if they prove that domestic violence was a significant factor throughout their lives that led to their crime. I don’t even know it yet, but Sr. Mary is beginning to involve me politically, as an activist.
With her at the helm, I become part of a group that creates a committee on the inside known as the Violence Against Women Committee. Sr. Mary uses our committee as a sounding board and a model for the work she’s doing on the outside. Inside-out, inside-out: this is our model. The work we do and the conversations we have here inside begin to influence and transform what’s happening outside—in government, in other prisons, and in other women’s lives outside of Bedford. This work has become my purpose in life, my passion… my thing. I begin to wonder whether there was a reason, a larger plan, behind why I experienced those impossibly painful first twenty-one years of my life. Inspiring and supporting women who need it has become my calling. It’s the reason I exist.
One day, Sr. Mary enters the prison holding a bag filled up with candy—her trademark. The security guards at the prison entrance always tease her at the routine bag check station. “Really, Sister?” they ask her. “You’re going to eat all these sweets today?”
“This is my lunch,” she tells them. They laugh, knowing she loves to bring us women candy every time she’s here.
