Story of the Day
"A Lot of
Bread"
When I was first incarcerated in 1987, the hardest part of doing prison time was
being away from my children. This is common with most of the women in
prison, so often stories of our children are shared among each other.
Renee, a friend I
had met in prison, was doing seven years for drug charges. She had a
five-year-old son that her parents were raising. She and the grandparents
had told the five-year-old that Renee was away at school in order to protect him
from the fear and humiliation of his mother being incarcerated. Renee
would call her son often and promise him that it wouldn't be long before they'd
be reunited again.
One evening, after
talking to her son, Renee came to me with tears in her eyes. Her son had
asked if she would be home soon. Renee made the regular promise that it
wouldn't be too much longer now. The boy asked, "Can we go to the
duck pond when you get home?" She assured him that they would.
In the innocence of
a child, he had proudly announced that he was saving up the bread already.
Renee's heart wrenched imagining the huge pile of moldy bread that would be
piled up before she would be able to keep her promise to this trusting
five-year-old.
We cried together,
and she somehow made it through the crisis. I was shocked when only a few
weeks later she came to me seeking advice. She had just received her state
pay — twenty-five dollars for the month — and had the opportunity to buy a
half of a pill for twenty-five dollars. It would leave her broke for the
rest of the month, but Renee really wanted to buy the pill. It would be
dissolved and shot up for a high. She felt that she deserved the
"treat" because prison was so hard, she was so lonely and it was
almost her birthday. I'm sure Renee had other reasons, but my head was
still spinning from the fact that she could even consider it with a
five-year-old son waiting to share her life with him.
Since I don't do
drugs and never have, I couldn't imagine what kind of high could be greater than
spending time with your child. Before I realized what I was saying, I
blurted out, "You're grown, and you have to make your own decisions, but
think how much bread that twenty-five dollars could buy." The
statement was like throwing ice water in Renee's face. She caught her
breath, whirled around and walked away from me before I could take back my
statement. I felt terrible. It was cruel of me to have made such a
statement, I thought. Who was I to judge another person? I knew I
had ruined a good friendship.
I didn't see Renee
for several days, so I wasn't sure if she had used the state pay for the coveted
half-pill. I felt miserable. Finally, Renee joined me at a table in
the lobby, looking sheepish. I hugged her without asking about her
decision — it was none of my business. She volunteered the information,
anyway. Renee had not bought the pill.
She said, "You
were right, Lucy. It will buy a lot of bread." It's been ten
years since I've seen Renee, but she still writes and lets me know that she
still hasn't done drugs, although tempted. She always thinks about how
much bread the cost of the drugs will buy. Renee and her son now visit the
duck pond often. She continues to thank me for reminding her of what that
one moment of weakness almost cost her.