Sobbing, trying to retain some kind of control over her emotions, she cried softly, “I love you, too. Please, if there’s anything I can do to help you, tell me!”
“I have to go, baby. Please take care of yourself! I just want you to believe me. I’m sorry. I just fell weak—again,” he cried, as he sped down the steps and into the darkness of Fourteenth Street.
Heartsick from the losses of both his freedom and their beginning love for each other, she immersed herself in work and study. One night while she was working on a new design, the phone rang. “This is AT&T with a collect call from…” The recording hesitated and she heard Nasir speak his name in its pause. “An inmate in the District of Columbia Department of Corrections. If you accept this call, dial one now.” She pressed one and waited. She heard his voice, tentative and unsure. “Hi, baby…”
“Where are you? I was so worried, I didn’t know what to do or who to call. I had no idea where you would be sent—”
“Baby, it’s okay. I’m right here in the D.C. jail. I have to wait until they decide what to do with me. I may be sent back to Lorton.”
“Lorton? Isn’t that somewhere in Virginia? How far away is it?”
Laughing at her rush of words, he cut in. “Slow down, baby. It’s not far, right outside D.C., and there are buses and vans that bring visitors, if you want to see me. I’ll write you and let you know what to do, because I don’t want to run up your phone bill. We only have ten minutes and I just want to tell you that I have never been happier than when I was with you. If I ever can, I promise I will make it up to both of us. Love you, baby. ’Bye.”
This is surely going to be an experience, she thought. Carrie was amazed at the number of people congregated between Eleventh and
Twelfth streets. I have no idea what to do and who to ask, but I’m about to find out.
Vans, cars, women, and children lined the street in front of Woodies, between F and G streets in downtown D.C. One of D.C.’s landmark department stores, it was also transportation central for wives, girlfriends, mothers, children, and other relatives of inmates at D.C.’s correctional facility in Lorton, VA. Some came dressed casually and comfortably while others dressed in a manner that expressed the importance of looking good for the men in their lives.
One young woman, resplendent in gold chains hung with charms, designer jeans, shoes, and a fresh hairdo, bragged to her girlfriend. “Yeah, girl, I just sent my baby two cards for our one-month anniversary and some Timberlands. When them guards turn they heads, I’m gonna give him one a these chains.”
“What the fuck you talkin’ ’bout?” her friend exploded. “He ain’t away at college. His ass in jail! What do he need wit’ all that shit anyhow? To show off for the rest of them jailbird assholes? So he can profile in jail? Y’all make me sick—acting like just ’cause they black and in jail they some kind of political prisoner! That muthafucka ain’t Nelson Mandela or Robin Hood—he a straight-up thug and yo’ ass know it. And on top of everything else, who was he robbin’, cheatin’, and stealin’ from—other black folks! Shit, if he want a gold chain, gold watch, or gold teeth, his ass ought to get a job like the rest of us. You know what—I’m tired of bringin’ your butt down here every week, but that shit gon’ stop! Catch the fuckin’ bus!” Still cussing as she reached into her purse for keys, she angrily looked back at her friend who was by then running to get a place in a van, oblivious to the sense behind her friend’s tirade.
“Excuse me…” Carrie approached a sister who looked less likely to explode and asked how the transportation system worked. She decided to ride in a van. Even though the cost for riding in a van was higher, it was less crowded with a more flexible schedule. Missing a van meant boarding the long bus that she referred to as the “stretch Metro” with its accordion-pleated center that literally bent around corners on its route through the city.
Paying her fare, Carrie boarded a van whose driver operated his vehicle like a conductor and talked nonstop.
“Yeah, I was in Lorton years ago, for child support. But now I got my own business and I’m doing well. Look at me, I’m sixty-five years old and I got me a forty-year-old girlfriend. I know what to do, y’all. She told me she can’t get enough….”
Oh, shit, Carrie thought. Come on, Dick Tiger, just drive your van and get us there. I hope he doesn’t have anymore “my ding-a-ling” stories. Dick Tiger was a Nigerian boxer who had won the world middleweight championship in the sixties. Although she had never seen him, the name was perfect for the image that came to mind whenever an older man boasted of his virility.
Just then, a woman took over the conversation, which swirled around one of the many rumors surrounding the jail and its prisoners, apparently always rampant. Today the story centered around a female corrections officer involved with an inmate, apparently a regular part of prison life. The sister spoke angrily about her own situation. She had recently married her longtime boyfriend at the prison, and was incensed.
“Every time I would come down for a visit, that bitch would grit on me. One day I got tired of that shit and I told her ‘That is my man! I know where you live and I will come to your house and beat your ass if I ever hear of you tryin’ to fuck with him.’ ”
Adding her two cents’ worth, another traveler spoke in dry amusement. “Some of them po-lice bitches ain’t thinking ’bout no co-rrection. They thinkin’ ’bout e-rection. Now don’t get me wrong—most of them sisters is cool. They let you slide on the pat-down and everybody need a job, but some of them took that job so they could wear them tight-ass pants around a bunch a dudes!”
Well, well, take me to school, Carrie thought. If I ain’t getting an education today…
The van wound its way through the entrance to the prison. The maximum facility, its first stop, loomed like a ruined medieval castle.
All it needs is a moat with some alligators and archers at the turrets, she thought in amazement.
The central facility, also known as Big Lorton, was where Nasir was housed. Men milled around dressed in blue pants, light blue shirts, and jackets, and were housed in dorms as if they belonged to Uncle Sam. In fact, the facility had been a military installation before being taken over as the District’s prison.
In the gym-like visitors’ room, she waited with anticipation, not knowing what to expect. Her heart stopped and started again when she saw him come through the door, his eyes never leaving her face. She stood as he beckoned her, and walked to meet him. Reaching for her hand, he found seats for them.
“I know you told me you would come, but I was afraid to believe it, even after they called my name, until I saw you when I came through that door.”
Facing each other in the seating arrangement mandated by the prison, they embraced and kissed deeply, sharing as much love as could be had under the watchful eyes of the corrections officers.
“I feel like I’m being chaperoned at a high school dance,” she remarked, as correctional officers stood around and sometimes walked up and down between the rows of couples.
“You’d be surprised at how creative some of these brothers and sisters can get.” He laughed as he pointed out an officer walking toward a pair who were about to get too close for his comfort.
That was the first of many visits for the two years that followed. She came for the religious celebration of Eid, which celebrates the end of the holy month of Ramadan. She traveled to the prison for family days, holidays, and most weekends. In spite of its limitations, prison was the forge that fired, molded, and shaped their relationship and strengthened rather than diminished the love that others dismissed as temporary and ill-advised. They grew stronger together, in spite of never-ending unwanted advice. “Girl, you got to get you some. You can do better than a man in prison. He’s just using you.”
Nasir and Carrie also discovered the whole of each other, not just the romantic ideal that existed at the beginning of their relationship. He had a volatile temper and she found him at times to be harsh and abrasive. To him, she was overly sensitive and too quick to “get all in her feelings” as he described her emotional reactions.