by Kathy Kelly

“Two days an’ a wake-up, Ms. Kelly,” sings a prisoner as my out date approaches. In 90 days at Pekin Federal Prison Camp I’ve spun through a revolving door compared with realities experienced by most of the 2.1 million inmates currently housed in US prisons.

A friend sent me an inscription carved over the entrance of a Polish prison. “When you enter here,” it reads, “do not despair. When you leave here, do not rejoice.”

I shared this quote with my co-defendant, Cynthia Brinkman, whom the whole compound calls “My Nun.” (”Where’s my nun?” someone yells. “I need a prayer.” “She’s not your nun,” another argues. “She’s MY nun!”) Cynthia read the inscription, gave me a knowing look, and said, “You’re rejoicing.”

She’s right. I’m ready to leave, and perhaps I’ve had one foot out the door during much of my time here. But I’m also subdued by the realization that by any rational assessment I shouldn’t be the next one out the door � not when many mothers incarcerated with me haven’t seen their children in years. Lupe, for instance.