Hydebank Wood A collection of personal creative pieces written by Hydebank Wood women on their experiences of life, motherhood and imprisonment. Foreword This collection provides a unique look at the lives of women in prison, expressed through creative writing. The diversity and quality of experimental writing produced by inmates at HMP Hydebank Wood led to this publication. Individual pieces in this collection make vivid connections with past or future selves (the younger self walking through the childhood garden in “Monday Morning”, the woman growing up in South Africa described in “Culture” and the inmate imagining being “Out on Friday”). In “Screaming”, a woman describes listening to another in pain in an adjacent cell and the desperately powerless feeling of being unable to connect - to help, to hug. This poem seems to me particularly impressive for managing to express that terrible experience. Putting pen to paper may also provide a means of negotiating difficult connections, voicing conflicts and contrasts, as in the “Child Me / Adult Me” pieces and the seemingly balanced poem, “Contradictions”. I like the Group Poems for their combination of personal elements from different women like a dish cooked together, as we talk about our bodies and the stories they tell (in “Hole in the Heart”) and our epic, strange dilemmas (in “My Heroine”). Meditating on simple household objects that I brought into the prison might have been a wholly light-hearted, funny exercise, but the context in which we were writing meant that deep, often unsettling, feelings also emerged: “a mixture of emotions almost like a cake batter…” as one writer says in “Gingerbread Man Cookie Cutter”. As a single mum who enjoys writing and from my professional viewpoint as a practitioner committed to facilitating therapeutic writing, I believe that creative writing can be a good companion on our individual journeys of self-discovery and self-acceptance. That belief is certainly confirmed by the power of these pieces, and I hope all the women whose work features here will continue to pick up their biros from time to time; each one should have faith and pride in their creative writing. Finally, I suspect that none of the women whose work is published here will be in exactly the same place as they were when they wrote these pieces, regardless of whether they remain in HMP Hydebank Wood at present - as we were all writing “in the moment” - life is never static and the future remains to be written. Anna Morvern Facilitator, Biromums November 2014 Hole in my heart (Group Poem II) My first grey hairs are coming, I’m nearly forty. My mind is a kaleidoscope of emotions and images. I don’t really like my body. I’m too tall with no breasts. Sorry. Two of the mums in the mother-and-toddler group I went to five years ago have had breast cancer. My back hurts. I wish it would hurry up and get better. I don’t like to be “sick”. I have a hole in my heart since birth. Despite the abuse, I now think of my body as powerful because It has born healthy boys. My stretch-marks are my tiger stripes. I wear them with pride! I am proud of my C-section scar; Other scars tell sad stories. Gingerbread Man Cookie Cutter When I look at you, I see my kitchen. I don’t have any cookie cutters in my kitchen. I think I need to get some. Round cookies are boring. Life is too short to always eat round cookies! My kids would like you but I would have to get a girl cookie cutter for C. because she wouldn’t eat a boy cookie. Or maybe she would – just to bite off its head. Are there girl-shaped cookie cutters? Is there a Mrs Cookie Cutter? And baby cookie cutters? Now I feel I am going slightly mad talking to a cookie cutter in my mind like some weirdo. At least you can’t tell anyone about this. (How many conversations have you overheard?) I just ate two cookies and forgot about the diet I’m supposed to be starting today, so don’t tell anyone about it. Just realized you don’t actually have a mouth so I think I’m safe! I picked you because you remind me of baking with and for my children. I like your colour, but I think you should be bigger, two bites and the cookie would be gone! I feel a mixture of emotions, almost like a cake batter, all sorts of ingredients are swirling around in the bowl. I feel sad, I feel hopeful, I feel the togetherness with my family but at the same time I feel lonely, I feel flat and I feel lost. If I were a cake, I would be a rainbow cake, it’s my children’s favourite. Also rainbows are happy things, aren’t they? I always smile when I see a rainbow. Rainbows are proof that it has to stop raining sometime or that the rain has stopped. My rainbow will show up on my release date. Monday Morning Monday morning in Hydebank. I am glad to get off the landing, I wasn’t going to attend but when I saw which officer was on, I decided to pack the sack and hit the track! Anyway, there is so much infighting, bickering, bitching, that it is good to be out for a while. I always enjoy the walk through the garden as I feel I am walking to my own garden at home as a child. I love to see the stages the vegetables are at as I loved the anticipation of the freshness of them, not to mention pinching the peas, beans and the mouth-watering strawberries. God, how I miss my children now, and what I would give to be part of their world. My life revolved around my children since I was seventeen years old. I was pregnant when I got married, worried when my daughters were teenagers that they would fall pregnant and now grieve that they are in their thirties and that neither of the girls have babies. She’s in the next cell to me, She’s screaming but No-one can hear, She’s hurting bad inside But her arm hurts most, But nobody knows how To help her, She only feels pain, anger And hurt, I am a wall apart from Her, covering my ears With my hands, I wish that wall was Not between us so that I could give her a big Hug to stop her sobbing, I can’t, There is nothing I can do for her, I think to myself. We are brought into this Life made out of Pure love and innocence, Though we leave this life With so much Pain, anger and hurt. youngest brother came along when I was ten. I shared a room with my two sisters and our space was divided up by my sister who calculated to the last millimetre what was hers and what was ours. I remember rows about my My dad was a lorry driver and he worked all the hours God sent to support us. My mum was always at home for us though she did work some part-time jobs. I vaguely remember her working as a dinner supervisor in my primary school canteen. Cultural things being over the line. I came from a Catholic, working-class family. Connections I was one of four children until my I’m from a farming background, the middle one of five children. Money I grew up with nannies and garden boys, my was scarce and I was sent to live father was always building something or fixing with an Uncle and Aunt in Belfast, things. The hired help was always black and 50 miles from my home. My uncle although they were paid to work, we became was not very pleasant to me and I very close and fond of them, we would have to remember those five years away as we were leaving our most valuable from home as being a very possessions with them - our children unhappy part of my childhood. 24/7 (Group Poem I) I feel like being in prison has Taken my identity away from me, Everything seems so out of my Control. And prison tea tastes Like dog’s breath, although I guess I Should be grateful for it. There are twelve bars on the two small Windows in this room. I miss my family so much I think of them twenty-four-seven. I’ve learnt to appreciate small acts of Kindness in here, a Smile, a roll-up, a friendly word: makes it bearable. I can hear the staff talking outside the classroom: “Is he not on ‘til this afternoon?” (Male voice) Prison isn’t scary. Prison is depressing. It is soul-destroying And nobody leaves prison the same Person they were at arrival. I never want to smell lemon gel again, or Eat spaghetti hoops, or jam rings. I can hear a buzzer going off. Orange light flashing in the corridor now. Out on Friday Tired, anxious, could be getting out on Friday, scared I could have to come back in. Happy because I could be back home with my family who I have missed so very much. Tired, have not slept since I have been here, not a proper sleep so tired and weepy at times the slightest wee thing and I would start crying. I felt so proud when my daughter had her daughter. She went through so much pain and she didn’t moan and had such a beautiful child -that was the proudest day of my life that will always be with me ‘til the day I die. I think I have done well as a mum. I know my daughter misses me and can’t wait ‘til I get out and pick up and be a family again. I want to get back to the me everyone knows and loves and not this tired, weepy girl that has had four months taken from her that I will never get back again. My heroine (A modern fairy tale) What a long struggle to make her dreams come true! She has trouble speaking She is brave and honest, Spanish; she will be helped she has trouble thinking by the spirits of the ancient straightforward. She will be Warriors. She has trouble with helped by her guardian angel who a mad, bad temper. She will be has known her forever. She is helped by doctors and nurses. wearing gold earrings, she has In the end, she becomes herself trouble understanding again and realizes the true things that are out of her control. meaning to life. She will be helped by someone she trusts and believes in. She is dark-haired and beautiful, In the end, she ended up rosy cheeks and lips, speaking German! she has trouble with giant, man-eating frogs but She is my foster mum. She has she will be helped by trouble understanding me. She will her own thoughts be helped by a gorgeous, well- and common sense. built male; in the end the frogs In the end, she lives explode and disappear forever happily ever after but more! Teaspoon Spoon: Yuck, I’m covered in muck lying here buried under a kitchen cloth. Smelly nasty cloth that always rubs too hard to dry me! Don’t they know I have sensitive skin? I can see my mates all neat and clean in a cup. Help! Me: I need coffee. Where’s the spoon to stir it? Spoon: I’m here. Half buried under nasty cloth! I’m here! Me: Can’t find the spoon, it’s not in the cup... Spoon: I’M HERE! DO YOU NOT SPEAK SPOON?! I’m going to try telepathy. I’m under the smelly cloth. Me: Oh well, I guess I can stir my coffee with a fork. Hang on, maybe it’s on the counter somewhere? Spoon: Yes! It’s working! UNDER THE CLOTH!! People are stupid. I understand them but I have to resort to telepathy! Me: Oh, there you are, spoon. Under the cloth. Oh, this cloth needs washing. Spoon: You think? Try sleeping rough under it the whole night. Me: I can hear you! I must be mad, I’m talking to a spoon! Spoon: You, you, you...snap out of it woman and get this nasty, smelly thing off me! How could you abandon me like that last night? I’m calling the Spoon Protection Helpline! Me: I’m so sorry, spoon! Please forgive me! Let’s give you a wash! Me: You don’t have eyes! Spoon: Well, if I did, there would be soap in them. Me: Okay, I know you’re mad at me. I’ll never lose you again. Now let’s finish washing you. Spoon: NOT COLD WATER! Do you shower in cold water?! Me: Sorry, sorry...is that better, spoon? Spoon: Mr Spoon, to you. Me: Oh, stop it. Let’s get you dry. Spoon: Clean cloth! And softly please. You dry me like a piece of cheese in the grater. Me: Oh, do I? I’m sorry, I didn’t know. It’s good I talk spoon now, isn’t it? Spoon: Oh, that’s better. Could you rub around my neck a bit as well? It’s all stiff from sleeping on the street. Me: Fine. I guess you deserve it. Spoon: You can say that again Me: Listen, spoon. I really missed you last night. Funny how we don’t miss things til we lose them! Spoon: You missed me? Me: Yes, do you know what it’s like to eat your soup with a fork? I’ll never lose you again spoon. Spoon: I hope you won’t. I sort of missed you too. Contradictions I am a happy person, but Sometimes I can’t find my happy place. I am patient, yet My patience gets lost at times. I am friendly, but People can be demanding, causing My friendliness to disappear. I am kind, but kindness runs out When people take advantage of it. I am calm, but when I struggle to Get help I need Anger creeps in. I am a good mum, but He won’t let me be a mum Child Me Adult Me I was a carefree child, Afraid of nothing and soon Became someone afraid Of a lot of things. I was Young and adventurous and Things didn’t seem to Change. As I grew up, the Adventures I took Erased my freedom. I was shy now more open, Quiet on my own. I am now more expressive And happy in my zone. I felt unloved and Lonely and tried to end My life. I'm now a very Happy Mum and a kind and Caring wife. In my cell (Group Poem III) I’m anxious and stressed, The washing-up powder box is Nearly empty, I can be a bit Annoying and need to calm down; Control my bipolar and ADHD. Nutella chocolate does not melt. My in-laws are coming to visit. Life goes on as normal while You are incarcerated. It’s coming up to the Memorial of my son. I was very ambivalent to learn I could be leaving prison this week. Lying in bed I felt really grateful, I’ve learnt to stop isolating myself In my cell. I miss my kids and love them So much and being in here Helps their needs. I learnt that my daughter who is Two and a-half years old knows the Alphabet. My flowers look really destroyed. The choir girls looked beautiful in their T-shirts. Pieces published by Biromums Hydebank Wood 2014 Contributions from: Anna, Dawn, Geraldine, Janine, Joan, Josie, Katja, Linda, Mandy, Sherie ,Vicki and Ruth. Biromums would like to thank Geraldine Keenan and Carol Carser for their support. A special thank you also to Arran Ferguson and Anne Scullen for their help and suggestions with illustrating this publication. Anna Morvern- Course Facilitator Belfast Biro Mums http://biromums.wordpress.com/