I was watching TV one night about four years ago when my friend Latrice bounced into the prison common area. She’d just gotten mail and found out her mom had finally saved enough money to bring her five kids to visit from Houston. She could barely contain her excitement. “I haven’t seen them all together in so long!” she exclaimed. Even though I didn’t have children, I understood the joy of visitation. My parents were also coming the same day, I told her. I hadn’t seen them in several months, as the almost four-hour drive from Kilgore to Gatesville was hard on them.
The next week, I walked into the strip room, where officers strip-searched us before visitation, elated to see my parents. Latrice was already there, in the process of removing her uniform for the officer on duty.
“It’s really sickening how you have all those kids and you choose to stay in here. Living wild with five children at home. How does that make you feel?” said the officer, an older woman, as she shook out Latrice’s shoes and threw them on the floor. (Latrice’s name has been changed to protect her privacy.)
