Читать книгу Happy, Joyous & Free - Группа авторов - Страница 18

August 1978

To set the scene properly, I’ll have to confess that I am an inmate in a women’s prison. In the dormitory where I lived at first, there was a group of women, early risers, who would meet in the dayroom every morning and have a cup of coffee and a little idle chatter before going to work.

After several months of incarceration, I began noticeably losing the weight I had gained the year I was free on bond, and I was beginning to look much better. Also, I was becoming more adjusted to my surroundings and was less tense. These little coffee gatherings were usually pleasant, and we were usually generous with compliments to each other, if only to bolster morale.

Then, suddenly, I began receiving insults instead of compliments. After I had lost twenty-five pounds, one woman began making little remarks such as “You’re not gaining weight, are you?” At first, I let the remarks roll off my back, but then she zeroed in and began criticizing the fact that I put on makeup. Then she would say, “Gee, since you've been in here, you’ve aged ten years.” After a couple of weeks of persistent early-morning insults, I decided to drink my morning coffee in my room. Prison life is discouraging enough.

The insults had taken their toll, though, and I became concerned that perhaps I had, indeed, lost my looks. I watched for new wrinkles in the mirror, and I made a daily figure inventory in the full-length mirror to make sure I wasn't gaining weight. I was still losing—probably from worrying. My ego was in a slow healing process, after being severely devastated, and any kind of slight had an effect way beyond proportion. One snide remark would ruin my whole day.

Then, one Sunday, some visitors from the free world—two women and two men—came to visit our AA group. They made a big fuss over me, because they had heard that I had written an article for the Grapevine, and it had been accepted (“My Name Is Helen,” July 1977). Before the meeting started, I sat with these visitors and had a delightful conversation. I must admit that being singled out really made me feel pretty good.

When the meeting was called to order, I took a seat in the front row with the other inmates. I was facing the table where the guests were. One of the men—I'll call him Joe—kept smiling and looking at me. The other three visitors spoke, and all the while they spoke, Joe kept smiling and watching me. I began thinking that maybe I didn’t look so bad after all, and I would flash him my prettiest smile when our eyes met. I began to feel pretty darn good—made sure my blouse was buttoned, though, and made sure my skirt was properly tucked in. I began to feel color rising in my cheeks as this man continued staring at me.

At last, it was Joe’s turn to speak. It was pretty obvious that he picked me out of the crowd to talk to, and he kept his gaze on me, kept smiling. I nodded when he said something heavy. I laughed merrily when he said something funny. All the time, in the back of my mind, I was tickled pink because my tormentor was there, and Joe clearly thought I was attractive, whether she did or not.

Joe began wrapping up his talk, still watching me, still smiling, while I basked in his attention and felt all puffed up. Then he related the incident that had cost him his eyesight some years ago. Joe was totally blind.

It was all I could do to keep from bursting out laughing at myself. That meeting brought things back into perspective for me.

H. P.

Florida