My mother raised me and my two sisters alone due to my father being incarcerated. It has been us four surviving all these years. I remember my mom having to move us across states from California to Cleveland, Ohio to St. Louis, Missouri. Though these were major and difficult changes in my life, I now know my mom made the best way out of no way, all as a means of survival. This is back when I had my first altercation with another student and my first bad encounter with a teacher. I had been in line with the rest of the students, new to the school never imagined being pushed by a teacher for not standing correctly or whatever the case may have been. This situation had given me a different outlook on teachers and school period. I was picked on for having a big nose and wearing glasses, as well as for being t tomboy and preferring to hang with the boys rather than the girls. I used to love getting good grades and being advanced at a young age. Changing schools so much had given me so many different experiences. Not only did my schools change, but I changed. I become a class clown, though still managing good grades. I’ve always felt too smart for school; would raise my hand only not to be called on, so I started to yell out answers getting myself into trouble.
Once we moved to Meadowbrook Apartments SanDiego, California in 2004 I was to attend O’Farrell Community Middle School where things changed dramatically. One day some students had an altercation and one boy talked about bringing a gun to school. The following day, in our physical education class, the student had begun to tell us all how he brought the gun and it was in his locker. Later on at lunch he was then showing it off and did the same the next day. By this time it had got around that the gun was at school. I was peer pressured into holding the gun in my backpack for about two class periods after lunch break. While walking to class, a few people ran up to me, hit my backpack, and told me the safety wasn’t on; anything could have happened. After two classes of hoping nothing bad would happen I met the student in the spot to give the gun back. I was then relieved and went home after school let out. A week later I saw police on campus. Then I saw the boy that brought the gun to school being led out in handcuffs. I thought I was in the clear because I didn’t have the gun at the time. Thinking that because I didn’t have gun at the time I was in the clear. Well, with all the talking that had gone on at school over the week, I was called into the office to be interrogated by cops. I sat there looking at a picture of a 9mm and the red bag it was in listening to questions,
“What is this? Have you seen this before? Have you ever held one of these?”, the officer asked.
My mind was racing. I couldn’t believe Ii was being questioned by cops about something I did a week ago and thought was over with then. I thought I was on my way to jail after the officer left me in the conference room to talk to the principal. Leaving a notepad on the desk I took a look and right there I saw notes from the cop’s questioning the same group of my “friends” that got me to hold the gun for them. They told him that I held it a week ago. This I couldn’t believe. Had they not given me the gun I really wouldn’t have been in this mess, and had they not told the cop that I held the gun one week ago—a whole week, I wouldn’t have been sitting in the office. Both the officer and principal walked back into room to explain that because I had great grades—and the principal vouched for me—I wasn’t going to jail, but the low tolerance policy meant I would be expelled.
I went from public school to a juvenile court and on to community school, which was a tiny one-room school that was in session only half a day. This gave me so much free time to do whatever: going up to others schools when they got out to watch fights and hang out…I had way too much time on my hands. As you can imagine I spent a lot of time in the streets smoking, drinking, stealing, fighting, and having run-ins with law enforcement. Having lost interest in school, I eventually dropped out after ditching most of my years and getting kicked out of multiple schools. It was clear I wanted to hang out more than handle business. Out of all the kids, I gave my mom the hardest time; I started running away from home. I didn’t want order; I didn’t want anyone telling me what to do; I was controlling and manipulative. I moved out before I turned 18, just so I could do my own thing. My family didn’t see me often unless I stopped by for a few days or my sister caught me at a party. I started to make friends and get more acquainted with the Blood set Skyline PIRU, Meadowbrook Posse, and Pretty Mackin. I believe Pops’ way of living rubbed off on me. He is “Tha Infamous” Mike Loc of the Notorious Neighborhood Rollin 40s Crips. People wonder how I became a Blood with Pops being a Crip. It’s a matter of location. We moved from East San Diego where most Crips reside to South East San Diego where the Bloods are. Running the streets, I earned my respect and I was treated like family. With Pops being who he is, I also had respect and love from the Crips. Though we got into plenty of trouble, banging is largely about love—the love for your set, your homies, your family—and respect—respect from your homies and your rivals as well.
The life catches up with those who choose to live it. Only thing you can get from the life of gangbanging is jail or a casket. I’ve suffered the loss of friends to the life of banging whether that was a result of attending a funeral, sending a letter off, or money for commissary. Not only does the person involved get those affects of being removed but their families and friends are forced to deal with it. Forced to hustle fundraising to put their love ones to rest, because of the choices they’ve made. They hadn’t chose the route to build the best foundation to prevent the hassle the families have to take on when they are removed from them. As it did with Pops, He’s been in and out of jail throughout most my life. When I was 4 years-old, he was arrested, charged, and convicted of bank robbery and was sentenced to 30 years in a federal penitentiary. Getting older I couldn’t fathom how a person could get 30 years for an unarmed bank robbery where no one was physically harmed, especially when I would see people on the streets after they had committed far worse crimes. My mom still made sure I grew up knowing and communicating with him whether that was through letters or visits. There came a point when I began to question God, “Why Pops?”; “Will he make it through thirty years alive?”; “Will I make it in this world without him?” I began questioning Pops about when he would get out, knowing his release date wasn’t until 2025. I was so frustrated with his sentence, that he was gone, that I couldn’t see him or hug him. I just wanted him to lift the burdens off a young girl who could only imagine what it was like to have the physical presence of her father just being there. Having mixed emotions about the absence of my father, I would find myself crying out of frustration. Then I would write to him, expressing that frustration by telling him hat we haven’t much to talk about or by asking him, again, when he was getting out.
In 2010, his absence became more painful, and my frustration turned to anger. On August 9, 2010, my friends and I were in a car accident. The driver of car I was in fell asleep behind the wheel and struck a car causing a multiple car collision. I woke up from a coma with tubes down my throat and nose, not able to breathe on my own, talk, nor move. I suffered a spinal cord injury from a broken neck also breaking my hip. Doctors said I’d be paralyzed from the neck down and never walk again. I was diagnosed with quadriplegia; paralyzed from the chest down with very little hand control and function in my arms. Spending three months hospitalized, I went from intensive care to rehab on my road to recovery. Battle after battle I fought mentally, physically, and emotionally being that I was new to a wheelchair nothing has ever been easy.
My mother was also injured, but not severely. For the past five years, she has been my caregiver, forgiving the hardships I put her through before the accident. As strong as she may carry herself, I know it all is eating her up. Not necessarily taking care of me, but the fact that I’m no longer able to do the things I once could. That’s draining in itself. There is no pain to a woman like the pain of her child being hurt, especially in critical condition and near death. My mom has carried me my whole life on her hip and continues to do so. Though there comes a time when a mother sets her child off into the world to figure it all out in hopes that what she’s taught her children will assist them and get them as far as they dream, my mother continues to be my legs, to walk me through the hard times, sacrificing so much to keep me healthy, physically, and emotionally every single day.
I swear I appreciate her more than I could ever express and wish I could do so much more to remove the pain she has experienced. Pops’s incarceration makes things even harder because he cannot be here to help, as I know he would and wants to be. Since the accident, my mom has yet to have time to herself. She used to write a lot prior to my accident, and she was working towards a Bachelor’s in criminology and psychology; nowadays her focus is on things that have to do with me and making sure that I can still visit my father while he’s incarcerated.
Pops’s incarceration makes things even harder because he cannot be here to help, as I know he would and wants to be. He’s been in prison 80-percent of my life, 20 years overall now served of his current charge. This has been a huge set back for my family, especially for my mom because she’s had to pick up the slack. I never could imagine what life would be had he been here all those years. Everything happens for a reason, so life has continued to move forward. His incarceration does not mean he has not been a father to me. He has been there for me mentally and emotionally and, despite the lack of his physical presence, he has provided for us regardless of circumstance.
In the federal prison system, prisoners are shuffled between correctional institutions across the country. We are from California and Pops has been in prisons as far away as Kentucky and Virginia. Distance has added even greater challenges to his incarceration for my family. With him being out of state, there was a fourteen year period that we were unable to see each other face to face. So for fourteen out of the 20 years of my father’s incarceration we did not have any physical contact. Our only communication was by phone and letter. When he was finally moved to United States Penitentiary (USP) Atwater in Northern California, 6 1/2 hours north from my family’s home in San Diego, things got a little better, but it is still a challenge to visit him.
With Pops back in California, mom works her magic so that we could visit him. It’s not an easy thing for us to visit him, but it is nevertheless worth it. Mom does the packing. After packing we usually leave San Diego on Friday morning and get to Atwater Friday night to visit with Pops on Saturday and Sunday. It takes about six hours to get there. I sit in the front seat, my wheelchair goes in the trunk with our bags. The cost of everything—gas for the way there and back, hotels, and food—normally comes to about $500-$600. The long drive takes a toll on us because we’re not getting our regular sleep. Mom drives the whole way and can’t sleep and it’s hard for me to sleep in a car. I actually feel myself fighting sleep; I guess that’s my own fear from the car accident. We usually arrive late at night, sometimes around midnight sometimes later. For a 9:30 AM visit, we have to wake around 7 AM, so that my mom can clean me up, dress me, brush my teeth and then get herself ready. If we’re late, we have to wait about another hour before the next group of visitors are allowed in because of count time (every prison counts inmates several times a day).
Let me tell you, the police switch up every time. Some days they can be fairly courteous and other days they seem to hate their jobs, and it shows in the way they interact with you. You can come all the way from the other side of the world and walk in there wearing something they don’t approve of and be denied visit. Your only option is to go to a local store and buy another outfit. Sometimes denial is purely discretionary. You could wear the same outfit you had on on a Saturday visit to a Sunday visit and be denied. They did this to my mom at our most recent visit; they said her jeans were too tight despite the fact they’ve let her pass through several times with those same pants. The real reason is they had a rookie at the front desk, so she was on her best behavior. We almost got turned down, but when the rookie spoke with someone in a higher position they just gave my mom a warning for the next time.
After moving through processing, signing papers, moving through metal detectors and drug detectors, and getting our hand stamped, we are all set for our visit. As soon as the door opens there’s this nasty smell of spoiled food and a filthy cafeteria. Every time I smell it I want to barf. They’re feeding the prisoners scraps and it smells like trash. The way Pops explains his meals confirms the smell. After going through the fourth steel sliding door, we are now ready to be seated and wait for him to be released into the visiting room. Once seated we head over to the vending machine with like twenty dollars in quarters to get a few snacks because usually we have not eaten due to trying to get ready and out the door on time. In the visit hall snacks can cost three times as much as you would pay for them on the streets. It’s crazy that we deal with everyday struggles on both sides of the penitentiary walls and we come hundreds of miles away to be ripped off by a vending machine. We can’t even leave with what we buy. If we don’t finish what we bought, we have to throw it away before visit is over. Realizing they are recycling what we’ve paid for and making money off that too. The system is—excuse my French, but I must—a damn bitch. After our vending machine shopping spree, we go back to our assigned seats. The chairs are hard plastic chairs and look highly uncomfortable. (good thing I come with my own chai) and the table that separates prisoners from their loved ones is no higher than the middle of your shins. Once the visitors are seated, the prisoners are allowed in; they wear a special uniform for visiting: a tan visiting jumpsuit.
Everything in prison is so dull from the prisoner’s clothing to the paint on the walls. I assume that’s to keep prisoners dull and not so much in an up mood, but more slow and calm. I wonder why they can’t brighten things up a little. A simple change in colors and a little brightness can bring joy, but that is something they don’t want the prisoners to have. When the prisoners come out they are allowed to hug and kiss their visitor(s), then there’s no more touching until the visit is over and you are allowed another short hug and kiss. Being paralyzed, I can’t hug my father, but he can hug me and I can feel his kisses on my cheek and forehead. Visiting hours are from 9am until 3pm, and we’re allowed to stay the whole time, but we usually leave early on the Saturday visit because we need to catch up on sleep from the long ride up. Sometimes I catch my self nodding off here and there. I normally have my own health issues while sitting up for long periods of time, which I can deal with, but once the police crank up the air conditioning, I lose all comfort. I swear they have so many ways to make people want to leave early or not want to come back for a while, just because their having a bad day or have something else they’d rather be doing than sitting for hours watching and guarding families that are reuniting with their loved ones. It’s all a joke, but not a funny one! With all that it takes to see my father, it is more than a blessing. I do not for a second take it for granted. He hates to see us go just as much as we hate to leave without him. We all are understanding and patiently wait, knowing that our time to be together as a family without the restrictions of prison is coming.
In the years since my accident, I’ve come to understand paralysis as being, in many ways, similar to incarceration. I am a prisoner of my own body. My physical freedom is limited, not by steel and cement, handcuffs and shackles, but by muscles and nerves. I can relate to being isolated by force rather than choice. I do not have the option to get up and go when and where I want. I have to depend on someone else’s schedule to do basic things like showering, dressing, eating and I have to depend on someone else to make sure I get proper medical care. Luckily I have a mother who helps me with everyday living and who makes sure I get to my doctor appointments. Unlike what happens in prison, my mother doesn’t punish me and definitely not by denying my basic needs. I have connections to the outside world, but just as it is for a prisoner, over time some of those connections have faded and people have become distant, their visits shorter. There are times I am glued to a bed, my thoughts in a box, unable to see or feel the sun. I think that’s how Pops must feel locked down in a windowless prison cell. Needless to say, I have had so much time to sit back and think. The same goes for prisoners who spend most of their time in thought. I know my father thinks a lot about me and my paralysis, just as I think about him and the bars and walls that keep him isolated, that keep us separated. People can actually become prisoners of their thoughts whether they are in prison or not. Thoughts can have you stuck, or you can use your thoughts to overcome and unlock doors, unless you want to stay victim. Especially in today’s world, people must look for the good in the bad. We must focus on the lessons learned from our experiences. Changing, so not only our situation changes, but everything around us change, never forgetting where you’ve come from. I have finally accepted what I have been through. With that acceptance I have enabled myself to change the way I think. Yes, the physical limitations remain, but my mind is no longer held hostage by my past and my current circumstances. I opened up to new opportunities the moment I let go of the victim mentality that held me back. Now that I’m open, I’ve done a lot of daydreaming, plotting, and reevaluating, of my life. I’ve came up with design Ridiculous Faith which to me means so much because before I had little to NO FAITH now that I’ve pushed through the HARDEST TIME OF MY LIFE nothing but FAITH to LEAN on at the end of every exhausting day dealing not only with everyday LIFE STRUGGLES but a DISABILITY as well, now FAITH is ALL I GOT, faith that God will do what He said He would long after It was said. I’m a BELIEVER . With this all I just want to SHARE MY STORY and maybe CHANGE A LIFE or two, eventually be able to start my own business and GIVE BACK to those who can RELATE to anything that I’ve been through also to our upcoming Generation.
I’m going back to school to get my high school diploma, something I was working on prior to my accident. After my diploma I want to go to college to work on degrees in psychology and motivational speaking. I’m working on my first book about how I made it through the hardest parts of my life and how my accident changed me, basically my growth. I feel like my life story can change lives of others. The same goes for Pops. Since he’s been serving time on his current charge, he’s been earning certificates in things like conflict resolution, non-profit organizing, and journalism. He’s also written several books in a series he titled Hoodstar. While being imprisoned has taken my father down a new path of mental, spiritual, and emotional strength and positivity, it is not because of the prison system, but rather in spite of it. When the system tried to break him down, as it does all prisoners, we, his family helped him to raise up by reminding him he’s loved, missed, and matters to us. From behind those bars and walls, despite the time and distance, he has done the same for me as I’ve fought to accept my paralysis rebuild my life, and build faith that I will someday walk again and be able to wrap my arms around him when those gates open and he walks out a free man.
