Momma's on a Mission

It’s been two years since a drunk driver killed my 17-year-old son, Freeman. Two years of anguish. Two years of meaningless existence trying to figure out where I belonged, what my purpose was. Today would be different.

I parked my car and walked toward the building. The heavy prison door closed behind me. I was in. Between the rush of air behind me and the force of the door pushing my back, it gave me no choice. Damn, these doors were heavy.

The institutional smell struck almost immediately. Concrete and iron. The distant sound of inmates calling out was unnerving. What was I doing here? Torturing myself? My hands were sweaty. My legs shook. I felt like a criminal myself as I approached the desk. The weary officer, with little patience, looked at me, waiting to hear why I was bothering him.

Signs everywhere said, “Take a number,” but I kept wondering, does that apply to me? My heartbeat quickened.

I hesitantly walked up to the counter, my breath shallow.

“Hi. Um, I’m Sophia. I’m here for the Day of Responsibility.”

“What?” he scowled.

Let me try a different tactic. “I’m with the OVA, I mean the Office of Victim Advocate.” Rummaging through my papers, I looked for the name of the counselor I was supposed to meet.

“Take a seat,” he grumbled.

I glanced around the room, looking for a suitable location. I don’t want to make eye contact or talk to anyone. I’d also like a seat that looks minimally soiled, such a foolish thing to think about. I plopped down, already exhausted.

The waiting room was vast. My mind wandered as I looked at the other visitors. How easy it would have been for me to judge. The crowd wasn’t exactly the type of people I was used to. I had a feeling that would be the case.

Anger filled the room. Clenched jaws, stiff posture, people scowling as they looked out the window. I sat there quietly with my poster board of pictures and precisely two sheets of paper (that’s all that was allowed). I waited for my name to be called.

At long last, the corrections counselor who was supposed to meet me showed up. “Sophia!”, he called out as he extended his hand. I guess I was the misfit in the lobby and he picked me out easily.

“Thank you for coming,” he said.

“Thank you for having me.”

“Have you been to many prisons?”

“Nope. This is my first one.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine. Speak as little or as much as you want.”

I continued down the corridor, head down, lost in my thoughts. Mentally, I chided myself for not being more aware of my surroundings. Look up, Sophia. I told myself. You’re in a prison. You should pay attention. I raised my head and tried to walk with confidence.

Everything looked old. I could feel the walls crumbling. The inmates who walked freely down the hall all had the same strut, an air of privilege, as if they wanted everyone who passed to realize they had permission to walk freely within restricted areas. Other inmates were carrying on with everyday duties. Industrial-strength cleaner clung to my nose as I walked past someone mopping the floor. It made me feel a little lightheaded, or was that my anxiety taking over? I could hear the buzzing of doors being locked and unlocked to allow people to get where they needed to go. So much was going on.

As we headed towards the auditorium/chapel/giant room for big events, I was told there would be about 100 inmates in attendance. 100 people! That’s a lot for my first endeavor. Can I really do this? Will the room feel crowded? Will I pick up germs? My thoughts were a jumble. When we arrived, the room reminded me of my high school gymnasium, complete with a stage to use for performances. The floors were super glossy, probably from 50 layers of wax, and it smelled like sweat.

Once seated at the table reserved for speakers, I stole a glance at the entrance doors. As the inmates trickled in, I tallied the number of officers in the room. The ratio did not seem very good. I spotted only 2 guards. I could feel my heart beating in my ears as I spotted a giant man with a “don’t mess with me face” walk in. My pulse continued to quicken. I’m gonna die, I thought.

There were several speakers for today’s program. Each talking about the impact of a different type of crime. It felt heavy knowing I was going to have to hear their stories. I knew my heart would break for them. I realized early on after losing Freeman that there is no comfort in hearing that someone else has experienced a horrible loss like my own. One reason why group therapy was never an option for me.

As I sat waiting for the program to begin, I resolved to provide hope by telling my story or Freeman’s story, rather. This would not be about laying on a guilt trip. This was going to be about being the best version of yourself. I would tell them, “You are not a prisoner of your past mistakes. In the words of Maya Angelou, ‘When you know better, do better.’”

My turn came. I walked up to the microphone and paused. My mouth felt so dry. How do I begin? Obviously, I had this all planned out, but suddenly my speech felt too mechanical, too rehearsed. I abandoned my notes and jumped right in. “Thank you for having me here today. I am here to talk about my son, Freeman, and the day I lost my best friend, my cheerleader, my raison d’être - my reason for being.”

And so it began. My journey. My new resolve: to tell Freeman’s story until my dying breath or until I have no one else to listen.

Silently, I sent him a message: “Your story will be told. Momma’s on a mission.”