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I drive through the gate and see women in blue. They’re going about their morning, just like everyone else in the world – except they’re in prison. Every time I see them, I’m reminded of how I used to go about my day.
I’d wake to the sound of the morning bell, the voice over the intercom: “Wake up, wake up, it’s time to wake up.” Some officers would sing it, others would scream it – as if prison wasn’t already harsh enough. I’d get up, take the sheets down from my bed, fold them and have a shower.
From the shower, I’d step out cautiously, making sure no one was looking through my window as I got dressed. The blue. Always the blue. Socks and thongs. My favourite time of year was winter, when we could wear trackies. The elastic waistband means you’re never conscious of how unhealthy you’re becoming from all the sedentary days and bread. There are no mirrors either, so a quick brush of the hair into a high ponytail, and I’m ready for the day.
“Muster up! Muster up!” I’m brought back to reality by the guard’s voice. It’s time to muster for headcount. After a while, this bizarre ritual becomes normalised. But, really, we’ve all been locked in concrete cells with 100 kilogram steel doors for the past 20 hours. No one can escape. We are all still here. And why are we calling it muster, like we’re cattle out on a farm?
As I drive into the prison today, I’m reminded of the work women do to keep the place running. I see them going about their duties like it’s normal – mowing lawns, taking out rubbish, packing other women’s buy-up bags, raking leaves. The colour they wear will always be what connects us.
As I enter, I see the dog squad running over the top of women’s lifelines – the mail.
Mail is such a critical connection to the outside world. While we in the community rarely think about sending a letter – we don’t even know what it costs – women in prison trade their most prized possessions for an envelope. There’s something disrespectful about the way officers let dogs walk over kids’ drawings, lovers’ notes, lawyers’ letters telling the women when they might get free.
I’m given a duress alarm. It’s mandatory for all visitors to a correctional facility, except during personal visits. It must be worn and visible, to protect you in case a woman attacks. I hate these alarms. To me, it’s a silent signal to the women that they can’t be trusted. That they’re dangerous. That I don’t feel safe. Which isn’t true.
I move through the airlock. The sound of the lock dragging into the heavy steel. It takes your full body weight to push the door open. I’m finally inside the compound.
Morning chatter. The jingle of officers’ keys. Occasional loud noises. I can’t quite tell if it’s a woman yelling with anger or joy. Words are muffled against the concrete buildings and wire fences. The concrete is only broken up by stunning murals painted by the women themselves. Acts of creativity. Culture. Storytelling. Hope in a place with so little. Dreams painted on walls as expressions of self.
These murals remind me that, although prison walls steal identity, the women still find ways to reclaim it.
I head to education to sit with 10 women and help plan for their release. When I get there, I’m met with confused looks. “We’re in lockdown today,” the education officers say.
I drive through the gate and see women in blue. They’re going about their morning, just like everyone else in the world – except they’re in prison. Every time I see them, I’m reminded of how I used to go about my day.
I’d wake to the sound of the morning bell, the voice over the intercom: “Wake up, wake up, it’s time to wake up.” Some officers would sing it, others would scream it – as if prison wasn’t already harsh enough. I’d get up, take the sheets down from my bed, fold them and have a shower.
From the shower, I’d step out cautiously, making sure no one was looking through my window as I got dressed. The blue. Always the blue. Socks and thongs. My favourite time of year was winter, when we could wear trackies. The elastic waistband means you’re never conscious of how unhealthy you’re becoming from all the sedentary days and bread. There are no mirrors either, so a quick brush of the hair into a high ponytail, and I’m ready for the day.
“Muster up! Muster up!” I’m brought back to reality by the guard’s voice. It’s time to muster for headcount. After a while, this bizarre ritual becomes normalised. But, really, we’ve all been locked in concrete cells with 100 kilogram steel doors for the past 20 hours. No one can escape. We are all still here. And why are we calling it muster, like we’re cattle out on a farm?
As I drive into the prison today, I’m reminded of the work women do to keep the place running. I see them going about their duties like it’s normal – mowing lawns, taking out rubbish, packing other women’s buy-up bags, raking leaves. The colour they wear will always be what connects us.
As I enter, I see the dog squad running over the top of women’s lifelines – the mail.
Mail is such a critical connection to the outside world. While we in the community rarely think about sending a letter – we don’t even know what it costs – women in prison trade their most prized possessions for an envelope. There’s something disrespectful about the way officers let dogs walk over kids’ drawings, lovers’ notes, lawyers’ letters telling the women when they might get free.
I’m given a duress alarm. It’s mandatory for all visitors to a correctional facility, except during personal visits. It must be worn and visible, to protect you in case a woman attacks. I hate these alarms. To me, it’s a silent signal to the women that they can’t be trusted. That they’re dangerous. That I don’t feel safe. Which isn’t true.
I move through the airlock. The sound of the lock dragging into the heavy steel. It takes your full body weight to push the door open. I’m finally inside the compound.
Morning chatter. The jingle of officers’ keys. Occasional loud noises. I can’t quite tell if it’s a woman yelling with anger or joy. Words are muffled against the concrete buildings and wire fences. The concrete is only broken up by stunning murals painted by the women themselves. Acts of creativity. Culture. Storytelling. Hope in a place with so little. Dreams painted on walls as expressions of self.
These murals remind me that, although prison walls steal identity, the women still find ways to reclaim it.
I head to education to sit with 10 women and help plan for their release. When I get there, I’m met with confused looks. “We’re in lockdown today,” the education officers say.
I can feel the rage boil up, like two-minute noodles in the microwave. I think, “Are you for real? I drove two hours to get here to provide this service.”
Then I remember lockdown days. The women would have been looking forward to getting out today. They’d be pissed to find out they’re stuck – 12 women in a unit built for six. Tensions run high.
I curse myself for being so self-absorbed. So what if it inconveniences me? Imagine being the one locked in.
I think back to that time before, when I was in blue. It’s frightening how quickly the drug scene became my entire identity. In my mind, everything I was and had was because of the gear. I never saw a life without it and never thought there could be a way out. Seven years ago, I was in the thick of it. I was smoking the most gear I had ever been smoking. I was dosing myself with frank every day. I was driving stolen cars, getting robbed and being an absolute menace to the community. Inside, I was scared and traumatised – imprisonment looming.
I’ve often been asked how I changed my life so dramatically: from being in blue to coming and going from prison as a service provider. All I can say is that it wasn’t one thing that changed it all for me. It took so much time and continued focus to get to this point, but it started by deciding that I wasn’t going to be coming back to this place – no matter the cost.
That meant letting go of everything I held true in my life and my identity. It meant humbling myself, realising I didn’t know it all and I couldn’t do it all without help. It meant letting go of all connection to that world and starting fresh. Letting go of debts owed, everything I owned, all my relationships.
Most of all, I just did the next thing. I just kept looking forward and with every setback I found a way around it, never losing sight of what I wanted: to stay the fuck out of prison and to stay off the gear. It was never easy, but, for my life now, it was all worth it. Through it all, a couple of people believed in me, even when I didn’t think I was worthy of much. That’s why I started Project:HerSELF, because I’m not special.
We are all worthy – every single one of us – of living our lives in the ways we want, even if all we know is what we don’t want.
I can feel the rage boil up, like two-minute noodles in the microwave. I think, “Are you for real? I drove two hours to get here to provide this service.”
Then I remember lockdown days. The women would have been looking forward to getting out today. They’d be pissed to find out they’re stuck – 12 women in a unit built for six. Tensions run high.
I curse myself for being so self-absorbed. So what if it inconveniences me? Imagine being the one locked in.
I think back to that time before, when I was in blue. It’s frightening how quickly the drug scene became my entire identity. In my mind, everything I was and had was because of the gear. I never saw a life without it and never thought there could be a way out. Seven years ago, I was in the thick of it. I was smoking the most gear I had ever been smoking. I was dosing myself with frank every day. I was driving stolen cars, getting robbed and being an absolute menace to the community. Inside, I was scared and traumatised – imprisonment looming.
I’ve often been asked how I changed my life so dramatically: from being in blue to coming and going from prison as a service provider. All I can say is that it wasn’t one thing that changed it all for me. It took so much time and continued focus to get to this point, but it started by deciding that I wasn’t going to be coming back to this place – no matter the cost.
That meant letting go of everything I held true in my life and my identity. It meant humbling myself, realising I didn’t know it all and I couldn’t do it all without help. It meant letting go of all connection to that world and starting fresh. Letting go of debts owed, everything I owned, all my relationships.
Most of all, I just did the next thing. I just kept looking forward and with every setback I found a way around it, never losing sight of what I wanted: to stay the fuck out of prison and to stay off the gear. It was never easy, but, for my life now, it was all worth it. Through it all, a couple of people believed in me, even when I didn’t think I was worthy of much. That’s why I started Project:HerSELF, because I’m not special.
We are all worthy – every single one of us – of living our lives in the ways we want, even if all we know is what we don’t want.
Project:HerSELF are looking for women who have been incarcerated to share their vision of justice, what needs to change and how lived experiences can drive meaningful changes in our systems and our communities.
Elections never bring anything good for people engaged in the system.
The thought of spending any time in close contact with Jonny sets my heart racing – and not in a good way.
Each court attendance made me feel sick to my stomach with nervousness as rich strangers decided my husband’s fate – and our future.
Education is not regarded as the most significant risk factor for reoffending but there is an undeniable link between a lack of education and crime.
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Help us get About Time off the ground. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
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