Mags Gargan
Sr Lilianne Flavin OP writes about her work with women in prison in Louisiana
On Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons for more than 30 years, I’ve been visiting women in jail. I never take these visits for granted. I’m humbled and privileged. While the surroundings breathe a kind of toxicity, my encounters with the women are moments when the spirit is awakened, and the vulnerability, beauty and trust that I experience are rare outside the gates.
The crimes of which the women are accused (but not convicted) run the gamut: drug possession, possession with intent, prostitution, theft, assault, trespassing, conspiracy, armed robbery, murder and accessory to murder. They are mothers, grandmothers, teenagers. They leave a trail of sadness on the outside: children un-able to cope, family members overwhelmed as they take on extra responsibilities, financial burdens, loss, a great deal of confusion and (often) anger.
I’ve met women who live extraordinary lives of faith, a faith that gives them buoyancy to live above the insanity of their environment. I know women who are haunted by waiting months, even years.
Arrested
Melissa was arrested when she’d just turned 20; now she’s 25. There have been countless setbacks and delays. According to her lawyer, she will “walk” when she goes to court. What will five years of degradation and humiliation do to her lovely disposition?
I’ve met countless women who are suffering from the scars of physical and sexual abuse from an early age. Many are depressed and traumatised. Some turn to drugs to relieve the pain.
Some time ago, I sat with Betty in jail. She wanted me to contact her family, that’s all she wanted. After I asked her a few questions, she told me a story, her life story in broad strokes. The body in front of me is racked with pain and abuse. There’s sexual abuse at an early age, there’s drugs, prostitution, failed relationships. There are children she hasn’t seen for a long time.
In telling the story, wounds become exposed and they are cleansed of their ugliness. There are tears and a relief about her countenance that would only be of God.
When we finish our conversation, we hug amid globs of runny nose, tears and bad odour – a long hug. After talking with some of the other women, I get up to leave. Betty comes to me for one more hug. Someone else comes; she wants one of those hugs, too. And then another person, and another, and another.
Dehumanising place
The whole devastated, dehumanising place is filled with a lovely spirit, a spirit that comforts, includes and unites. The deputies in the watchtower smile, and I leave bearing gifts.
Sometimes I walk out of jail feeling like something very profound has happened. At other times I’m plagued with questions: what does it feel like to be targeted by the police? Is the women’s basic crime the fact that they are poor? Is it easier to put people in jail than to deal with systems that oppress? What does it feel like to be thought of as “the problem”, the cause of society’s ills? Do unmet basic needs lead to violence? Is a dehumanising place the best place to put a person who has suffered abuse?
* Sr Lilianne Flavin is an Irish Dominican Sister working in Hope House in New Orleans, Louisiana. This is a non-profit organisation founded to respond to the needs of its neighbours and to help create a society in which truth and justice abide.
