The Books that Bind
As a volunteer with Companions Journeying Together, I helped carry out a literacy project with incarcerated mothers at Cook County Jail in Chicago. For my recent birthday, I posted a fundraiser on Facebook seeking donations for this small, but mighty nonprofit that operates in 17 jails in Illinois. Many of you have already donated, and I am very grateful for your contributions! If you read this blog post and are inspired to give, thanks in advance for your generosity. Since we are not visiting jails to record parents reading aloud during Covid, we are mailing letters and books to families to keep our mission alive during this difficult time. You can find out more about work or donate online to https://cjtinc.org/donate/ Thank you!
Women in midnight blue uniforms stamped with “DOC “in white occupy folding chairs in the dimly-lit hallway. Most are silent, clutching books with titles that take me back twenty-five years to bed time with my own kids. “I Love You Forever.” Good Night Moon.” “A Chair for your Mother.”
The women wait. Some thumb through the books they have painstakingly chosen to read aloud to their kids or grandkids or nieces or nephews. This is one of the few choices they get to make in this place. I see their lips moving; they practice reading aloud silently to make sure they know all the words. To get the cadence just right. Sometimes they pick a book because a little girl on the cover reminds them of their own daughter. Or the storybook has a message about trying hard, or recognizes heroes in the civil rights movement like Rosa Parks. Or laughs at the adventures of a big red dog named Clifford.
“Alice,” a petite woman with raven coils framing her face, is the first in line to read. She tells me she has never done this before, and admits she is anxious. I walk with her down the hall to an empty classroom with walls that are disquietingly empty. Someone has written “Amaryllis was here” on a chalkboard We sit opposite each other at a small table. I gently explain what will happen next, showing Alice the small recorder that will capture her voice and copy it on a disk that will be sent to her children so they can play the recording over and over.
Alice opens the chunky board book and stares. She stares so intently I think the words will jump off the page. “Five Little Monkeys.” I know the book. I used to read it to my own daughters and son when they wore zipper up sleepers with rubber feet.
“Do you need a minute?” I ask. I touch her hand, then remember we are not supposed to touch the “detainees” here. ( I refuse to call them detainees. ) Alice nods and tears flow down her cheeks. I go to the doorway and ask a guard to please get us some tissue. She brings a roll of toilet paper and I rip off some for Alice and me. She says that they used to have this book at home. She hopes that when her son and daughter hear her voice, they will remember the times they read this book together.
I don’t know if Alice is awaiting trial or transfer to facility a hundred miles away. I just know she misses her kids.
Chicago’s Cook County Jail holds about 1,500 women. Nationwide, three of every four incarcerated women are mothers, many jailed for a nonviolent drug offense or property crime. But I sometimes think that their real crime is that they cannot afford bail. So the mothers wait. And connect with their kids one Saturday a month when volunteers help them pick out a perfect book .