Lies of a Real Housewife (16 page)

in handcuffs. My big bell
y and all walked out of there. That was it!

I was startled by the fact that I was going to give birth to my baby

in prison. From that moment on, I made it my only concern to cherish every moment with my unborn child. I talked to her, and I read to her. I would sing to her while I rubbed my belly. I knew I would have to give her up at birth, but I wanted her to at least remember my voice. Five years sounded like a lot, but I knew I wouldn’t have to serve the full sentence of five years. I had committed a non-violent crime. In the case of non-violent crimes, every day you served earned you three days toward your sentence. That meant I would only serve eighteen months.

My mother did not know that. I can’t imagine how much she was

stressing about my five-year sentence. She was thinking that her baby was gone for one thousand eight hundred and twenty five days. It wasn’t the case and I couldn’t wait to get back to the housing unit so that I could call and

calm her nerves.

Unfortunately, the process would take at least six hours. Although

all prisoners were housed in the basement of the courthouse, we would not be transported back to the housing units until each and every prisoner saw the

judge that day.

My hips hurt, my back ached, and I was constantly in severe pain. The baby’s weight in addition to my own weight was all pressed up against a cold hard steel bench. This was just too much and proved to be unbearable. Jail was made to be uncomfortable and t
hey have definitely managed to pull

that one off without a hitch!

Lying down on my right side with my belly hanging over the bench,

I had a roll of tissue under my head serving as a pillow, and the uniform that I was wearing was my only cover. Cold air
was blowing from the vents. The four concrete walls connected to a steal door reminded me of being in a dungeon every time it was opened and closed. This was nothing short of

modern day slavery. It is what it is.

My meals consisted of two bologna sandwiches, one pack of

mustard, warm milk, and a hard sour orange. I had to force myself to eat in the same cell with the crack-head who had just got off of a thirty-day smoking spree. Keep in mind that everything was inside the cell, including the toilet. She
smelled like rotten flesh. Now she had all day to take a dump, but she decided to wait right good until I was about to eat to do so. My baby and I both nearly starved while I was incarcerated. I just couldn’t eat in there! I was always nauseated. I’d be absolutely sick to my stomach.

I began to mentally prepare myself for this latest journey I was

embarking upon. I had been to prison before so it wasn’t that bad for me. This time was way different however. I had never given birth while I was incarcerated. Here I was again, sitting on their metal benches, and lying on the thin mats. The conditions were trying enough, but I knew I could get past that. What I didn’t know was, how to get over the separation from my newborn baby. I had already been shopping for her before I was arrested. She had everything she needed. Shaheed was in contact with my mother as he awaited the birth of his child. If our daughter needed anything else, then he

would be there to provide for her.

I hadn’t seen Shaheed since I left that morning with E on the way

to Tennessee. We were due for a visit. Seeing him again was different and difficult. I didn’t feel the same about him anymore. My mind kept flashing back to the night my cousin Gina was mur
dered, the entire time we were having a conversation. My eyes stayed focus on his hands. I stared at them

wondering what lives they may have snuffed out.

That first visit with Shaheed was filled with mixed emotions. There

were questions which he refused
to answer. And it left no doubt in my mind that he was totally capable of all the allegations against him. I was so glad when I thought about the letter I had given to Phaedra a few months back.

About two months after I found out I was pregnant, I wrote
that if anything happened to me, Shaheed did it. I told Phaedra to put the letter in her safe, and

keep it. Just in case. She gave me her word.

When the visit with him ended, I was heading back to my cell, and

my water broke on the steps after leaving t
he visitation area. I could definitely attribute that to the high level of stress during that particular visit. I was taken

down to the medical unit in a wheel chair. Then from there, I rode to the hospital in the back of the ambulance. All the while I re
mained handcuffed. I was afraid of whatever would come next for me, but once again, I refused to be fearful. I had no choice but to face up. This was my reality, but conflict

reigned inside me.

May 31, 2004, rolled around. I would finally get to meet my baby

girl. It should be a happy moment, but I dreaded the day. I was apprehensive, but was also looking forward to the birth of my child at the same time. I knew I wouldn’t be able to care for my newborn. This occasion heralded my true calling from God. M
y right to raise my child was now being stripped away from me by man. I know we all have to be punished for our crimes. Lessons have to be taught, and we have to be reprimanded when we do wrong, but this was different. I felt I was experiencing something so wrong on all levels. But

these things I know for sure.

I didn’t kill anyone. I never molested anyone’s child. And what

made it all worse was I was the child who had been molested. How was I going to protect my baby girl? She can’t speak yet. How could
she tell me if someone had done her wrong? Think about this for a moment. It’s natural for animals like bears and dogs to go insane if you attempt to separate them from

their babies. How can man be so cruel?

Lying in the hospital bed on my back with one arm free, and the

other handcuffed to the hospital bed, I was in pain. I was trying to lie on my side, but it was very, and I do mean very, uncomfortable. Somehow I managed to get through a most difficult labor. My eyes were bloodshot and strained watching
the monitor, while listening to my baby’s heartbeat. I was busy praying to God, asking that my baby would be okay. I prayed that I

would be all right. I prayed that we would all eventually be okay.

Childbirth was supposed to be a joyous occasion, but this period

had proved to be not only the longest nine months of my life, but also a very thorny time. My mind was swamped with musings. What was my baby going to look like? What about the bonding period between mother and child? How the critical first six
weeks of me not being there would hurt my infant baby?

Yes, I had indeed been a street hustler, but I can tell you one thing,

and anyone who knew me will attest to the same thing… I LOVE MY CHILDREN! I lived for them. I fought for them. Just like any other good mother, animal or human, I would have given my life for my offspring. In my

present condition however, that was easier said than done.

Every other hour, the doctor checked my cervix to see how far I had

dilated. Meanwhile, I was thinking about my mother, and how she was going to handle taking care of my other children along with my newborn. I didn’t know how she was going to do it physically, and manage financially.
I just knew she would find a way to get it done. Finally, the sheriff allowed me to make that one phone call.

My mother answered on the first ring. Like always, she was most

encouraging. She told me to put it in Gods hand, and not to worry. She said, “Don’t worry about anything.” The soothin
g sound of her voice calmed my fears, and assured me that my baby would be okay. Everything would be just fine when I made it back home. Now all I had to do was make it through this

childbirth.

Delivering a child while handcuffed to a bed with a total stranger

was painfully uncomfortable. For the record, it wasn’t the doctor or midwife, but the sheriff who was there staring down at my vaginal area. His presence during such a private moment had to be one of the most difficult obstacles I had ever hurdled
in my lifetime. That moment was also the most degrading experience in my life. I felt that his presence there was meant to destroy my

humanity, kill my self-esteem, and murder my pride.

Turning her attention briefly to the sheriff, the midwife made a plea

for him to leave the room. She asked,
“Where is she going to run to? She has a seven-pound baby coming out of her butt!”
The mid-wife was pleading, on my behalf, for compassion, but this disrespectful sheriff ignored her, and firmly continued to stand guard. He watched the entire childbirth process.

As the authority figure stared at me, I felt like a slave girl from

the movie ‘Roots’. This must have been the feeling that my ancestors had experienced during slavery. Maybe this was something I had just seen on TV. I don’t know what it was, but it was a spirit that seemed all too real. The room was well lit, but still seemed so dark.

There was the midwife standing over me, instructing me
to push

harder. Realizing the delicate nature of the situation, she tried to be as comforting, and accommodating as she possibly could without jeopardizing her job. I wondered how she felt, and how many other times she assisted with the childbirth of some
other lost, pregnant, incarcerated woman. How many

times she had seen mother and baby separated.

“How much time will I have with her?” I asked.

“You get twenty-four hours, Ms. Stanton,” the stern sheriff gruffly

replied. 

Tears rolled down my face, a
nd I bawled like never before. I felt this

treatment was unwarranted. My behavior didn’t merit my baby being taken away from me. My baby didn’t deserve to have her mother taken away from

her. Why was this happening to me? Then my baby-girl came.

Seeing
her for the first time was amazing. I could only thank God for

my healthy, baby girl while looking in her big beautiful eyes. I kept praising God regardless of my circumstances. I still could not stop the tears of joy. This was mixed with plenty tears of
sadness. I thanked God for her perfect body, and her perfect health. Once she was all cleaned up, the sheriff removed