In the city jail with the Metropolitan Police in charge!
These kind womyn Metropolitan Police officers tell us that it is those friendly Supreme Court police that have decided we should be kept in jail over nite and brought up before a judge tomorrow.
The womyn we are incarcerated with are mostly sleeping or quietly resting in the large, freezing cold rectangular gray cell, three sides cold painted grey stone walls, stone floor, and bars across the front. There is one stone 'bench' carved out along the length of the small side of the room.
Every womon in the cell is African American except one, who is Iranian American. Most of the womyn are incarcerated because they are accused of "domestic violence": i.e. defending themselves against the men that are battering them.
It is the only area of our society where men make sure they assert their claim to be not sexist! Whenever there is male violence happening, men make sure to loudly insist it could be a womon doing the violence. Every other area of our society, womyn are not considered equal - in smarts, in government, in business, in the home - but in violence, men love to deflect the truth of their violence by pretending to consider womyn as perpetrators.
A womon angrily screams, loudly rants, bangs, bursts into frequent raves from a cell opposite ours. She is in obvious distress - and ignored by everyone but us. We are told she has returned from the prison hospital and most likely her meds haven't kicked in yet.
The shift changes and a male officer comes on duty with a burst of fluorescent lights. He turns on all the overhead lights and finally answers our repeatedly asked question "will you please turn off the lights?": "NO", he exclaims " and to our why "because I said so!"
The 6 of us bond with each other, and with several of the other womyn. We trade stories, values, theories, life's lessons. Cold, damp seep thru the walls, the floor. Wafts of cold air swirl around us. We sing a little, snuggle together for warmth and comfort. And some of us even sleep.
We ask for water. The other womyn ask for juice and food. Yellowish dry bread with a slice of baloney wrapped in clear plastic is handed thru the bars to us. The 6 of us collect this 'food' mostly for the rest of the prisoners, womyn who have not yet been convicted and proven guilty of any crime. I am on a hunger strike - easy to do after getting a look at this supposed food.
The "juice" the women officers bring is red suspiciously syrupy liquid resembling medicine more than drink. The officers do give us lots of cold water, and bring more, urging everyone to drink and prevent dehydration.
Early in the morning, while it is still dark, the 6 of us are called out, handcuffed, and placed into another paddy wagon. We are going to holding cells at the courthouse.
The womyn we are incarcerated with are mostly sleeping or quietly resting in the large, freezing cold rectangular gray cell, three sides cold painted grey stone walls, stone floor, and bars across the front. There is one stone 'bench' carved out along the length of the small side of the room.
Every womon in the cell is African American except one, who is Iranian American. Most of the womyn are incarcerated because they are accused of "domestic violence": i.e. defending themselves against the men that are battering them.
It is the only area of our society where men make sure they assert their claim to be not sexist! Whenever there is male violence happening, men make sure to loudly insist it could be a womon doing the violence. Every other area of our society, womyn are not considered equal - in smarts, in government, in business, in the home - but in violence, men love to deflect the truth of their violence by pretending to consider womyn as perpetrators.
A womon angrily screams, loudly rants, bangs, bursts into frequent raves from a cell opposite ours. She is in obvious distress - and ignored by everyone but us. We are told she has returned from the prison hospital and most likely her meds haven't kicked in yet.
The shift changes and a male officer comes on duty with a burst of fluorescent lights. He turns on all the overhead lights and finally answers our repeatedly asked question "will you please turn off the lights?": "NO", he exclaims " and to our why "because I said so!"
The 6 of us bond with each other, and with several of the other womyn. We trade stories, values, theories, life's lessons. Cold, damp seep thru the walls, the floor. Wafts of cold air swirl around us. We sing a little, snuggle together for warmth and comfort. And some of us even sleep.
We ask for water. The other womyn ask for juice and food. Yellowish dry bread with a slice of baloney wrapped in clear plastic is handed thru the bars to us. The 6 of us collect this 'food' mostly for the rest of the prisoners, womyn who have not yet been convicted and proven guilty of any crime. I am on a hunger strike - easy to do after getting a look at this supposed food.
The "juice" the women officers bring is red suspiciously syrupy liquid resembling medicine more than drink. The officers do give us lots of cold water, and bring more, urging everyone to drink and prevent dehydration.
Early in the morning, while it is still dark, the 6 of us are called out, handcuffed, and placed into another paddy wagon. We are going to holding cells at the courthouse.
posted by Xan @ 8:52 AM
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