A moment that changed me: "A prison sentence for GBH felt like the end of my life - but it was also the start of a better one"
It all started in 2008, when I got involved in a fight at a club while trying to protect my sister, who had been assaulted by three women I thought were her friends. It was a fight or flight moment that would end with me handcuffed. I was 20 years old. I had never been in trouble with the police, but I was charged with intentional grievous bodily harm and spent about eight months on bail.
Being out on bail is like being in limbo. You start losing your identity, audience by audience, where people talk about you but you are never allowed to speak, besides confirming your name and date of birth. I spent the eight months on bail fearing what would happen to me in prison and being threatened by the women who attacked my sister.
I was sentenced in February 2009 to two and a half years in prison, aged 21, and transferred to HMP Holloway in north London. I wore an instant weave, which is a wig that you tie into your own hair. When I arrived in prison, a white policewoman asked me if the wig was mine and if it was sewn or glued. I was honest and told her she was pinned. head and zipped into a bag. What little identity I had left was stripped from me in an instant.
I quickly realized that anything you do or say in prison can get in trouble. For example, I was told by officers that the prison was not a hotel because I complained that a meal I requested was sold out. Then I was threatened with the "red pen", which means a bad file in your file. So I started to write myself little notes to help me manage my emotions or my future crises. It was a way to avoid getting into more trouble. Later, I showed the notes to friends, who told me that I was writing poetry. I do not believe it. I told them it was just my thoughts, nothing serious.
Behind the wall, you realize the reality of prison. I've met women who were inside for shoplifting. Some may have stolen because they couldn't afford to give their child something for Christmas. I have met drug-addicted women; many women on methadone. I met women who screamed all the time. What has surprised and shocked me the most is the number of people who enter and leave prison due to the difficulty of navigating their lives after being inside. I've spoken to women who said that upon release they had no address or medical records, so they were more likely to go out and buy drugs. If they went back to prison, at least they had a roof over their heads. I also met women who I didn't think should have been in prison: kind and caring women - mothers, grandmothers and sisters - who found themselves in a bad situation without them are responsible.
It all started in 2008, when I got involved in a fight at a club while trying to protect my sister, who had been assaulted by three women I thought were her friends. It was a fight or flight moment that would end with me handcuffed. I was 20 years old. I had never been in trouble with the police, but I was charged with intentional grievous bodily harm and spent about eight months on bail.
Being out on bail is like being in limbo. You start losing your identity, audience by audience, where people talk about you but you are never allowed to speak, besides confirming your name and date of birth. I spent the eight months on bail fearing what would happen to me in prison and being threatened by the women who attacked my sister.
I was sentenced in February 2009 to two and a half years in prison, aged 21, and transferred to HMP Holloway in north London. I wore an instant weave, which is a wig that you tie into your own hair. When I arrived in prison, a white policewoman asked me if the wig was mine and if it was sewn or glued. I was honest and told her she was pinned. head and zipped into a bag. What little identity I had left was stripped from me in an instant.
I quickly realized that anything you do or say in prison can get in trouble. For example, I was told by officers that the prison was not a hotel because I complained that a meal I requested was sold out. Then I was threatened with the "red pen", which means a bad file in your file. So I started to write myself little notes to help me manage my emotions or my future crises. It was a way to avoid getting into more trouble. Later, I showed the notes to friends, who told me that I was writing poetry. I do not believe it. I told them it was just my thoughts, nothing serious.
Behind the wall, you realize the reality of prison. I've met women who were inside for shoplifting. Some may have stolen because they couldn't afford to give their child something for Christmas. I have met drug-addicted women; many women on methadone. I met women who screamed all the time. What has surprised and shocked me the most is the number of people who enter and leave prison due to the difficulty of navigating their lives after being inside. I've spoken to women who said that upon release they had no address or medical records, so they were more likely to go out and buy drugs. If they went back to prison, at least they had a roof over their heads. I also met women who I didn't think should have been in prison: kind and caring women - mothers, grandmothers and sisters - who found themselves in a bad situation without them are responsible.
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