It has been my experience that because of institutional and individual racism

Chapter 34
My Greatest Loss
Every morning in CCR I woke up with the same thought: Will this be the
day? Will this be the day I lose my sanity and discipline? Will I start
screaming and never stop? Will I curl up into a ball and become a baby,
which was an early sign of going insane? Every day I pushed insanity away.
Every day I had to find that strength. I had to find within me the will and
determination not to break. I got those qualities from my mom.
The closest I ever came to breaking in prison was after my mom died, on
December 27, 1994. I used to tell myself, “If you can breathe you can get
through anything.” When my mom died my breath was snatched from me.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t catch my breath. I always thought if I
lived long enough, I’d win. But now she was gone and I could never have her
in my life again, no matter how long I lived. I wondered if, without my mom,
I would ever be able to breathe again.
Ruby Edwards was born May 9, 1929. When she was a teenager the
NAACP described Jim Crow to the 
Louisiana Weekly
as a “modernized,
streamlined slavery, that replaces shackles with ‘For White Only’ signs; that
replaces slave quarters with the slum ghetto; that replaces three meals a day
with the starvation wage of maids and porters; that replaces the master’s
bullwhip with the torch of the mob and the policeman’s club.” This was her
world, but my mom didn’t dwell on hardship. I can remember going to a
department store on Canal Street with her when I was little. Black people
weren’t allowed to walk in the front door of a department store in those days
and they couldn’t browse in the aisles. We were allowed to spend our money
at the store but not allowed the dignity of being seen in the store. We entered
through the back door behind the store. She brought a picture of a dress she
found in the newspaper and gave it to a white salesclerk. These young white
store clerks were always rude, impatient, and disrespectful. The clerk

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eventually brought a dress back to my mom to look at that looked like the
picture. My mom always believed life would get better though. When I was
born, she was determined to make a good life for us.
The parents of my biological father, small-business owners in New
Orleans, had other ideas. My father’s mother took my mom to court to get
custody of me, telling the judge my mom was unfit to raise me. My mother,
only 18 years old and unable to read the court documents against her, had the
strength and determination to prevail. She brought neighbors and family
members to court to back up her claim that she was a good mother. The judge
ruled in her favor, giving her sole custody of me. He ordered the hospital to
put my father’s name on my birth certificate and I became a Woodfox in
name only.
The last time I saw my mom was about a month before she died. Weeks
earlier, she had been in the hospital for a heart operation. Michael was
visiting her when she told him she had severe pain in her left side. The pain
got so bad she couldn’t stand it so he summoned the nurse; the nurse got the
doctor, who, upon examining her, rushed her into surgery. Her kidney had
burst and they removed it. About two or three weeks later they did the heart
operation, unclogging an artery. Then her toe was turning purple because
there was no circulation in her foot from the diabetes and she allowed them to
cut the toe off. At some point in time she told my brother, “You need to take
me to Angola to see Albert.”
I happened to be out of my cell on my hour and looking out the window
when I saw my brother pushing a wheelchair toward the visitors’ entrance. I
thought he was helping somebody. After I was taken down to the visiting
room they took off my restraints. When I turned and saw it was my mom in
the wheelchair I almost collapsed. She had lost so much weight. It took every
ounce of my strength and willpower to hide the shock and pain of seeing a
woman who had always represented the strength of our family in this
condition. I teased her and picked her up, which required no effort
whatsoever, and set her on my lap. She was virtually skin and bones. In spite
of her physical condition I could still see my mom in her eyes. I couldn’t say
anything. She told me she was tired. “Baby, these people want to cut my leg
off now, and I ain’t letting these white people cut on me no more,” she said.
“I’d rather die.” After about half an hour she nodded off, falling asleep with
her head on my chest. I made a sign to Michael that it was time for them to
go. I knew my mom had come to say good-bye.

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One of the cruelties of being in prison is that you are always the last to
know what’s going on in your own family. Herman learned of my mother’s
death before I did. His sister got word to him somehow. A trustee brought me
a letter of condolence from Herman. When I read the letter I said, “What the
fuck is this?” I later found out one of my brothers had called but prison
officials had failed to notify me. While the lieutenant was making his rounds
I showed him the letter from Herman and asked him why I hadn’t been
informed by someone that my mom had died. He said he didn’t know
anything about it but I could use the phone to call home. A guard came and
put restraints on me and took me to the bridge right outside the tier so I could
call my sister. She was crying. My brothers were there. I asked them
questions about Mama’s death and talked to them about what we had to do,
which they had already done. The next day when I woke up the ceiling of my
cell was an inch from my face. It was my worst episode of claustrophobia the
entire time I was in solitary confinement. I closed my eyes and told myself to
breathe. Just breathe. I did that for how long I don’t know. I was soaking wet
with sweat when I finally opened my eyes.
When everything in my cell was normal again I got up. I washed and
changed. The grief hit me hard. I was also enraged. I wanted to hurt
somebody. My emotions were all over the place. I wasn’t accustomed to
feeling out of control, so I didn’t go out of the cell on my hour that day. I
didn’t want to lash out at anyone. I knew it wouldn’t stop the pain and
emptiness. I sat down and wrote to the warden, John Whitley, asking him to
make arrangements for me to attend my mom’s funeral so that I could say
good-bye to her. At Angola, it was a custom at that time to allow prisoners to
attend funerals for close relatives. I was shocked and devastated when he
wrote back and told me I would not be allowed to attend my mom’s funeral.
He told me prisoners in solitary confinement weren’t allowed furloughs. It is
a very important custom in African American families to come together to
say your last good-byes. Because of the cruelty of prison officials and the
state of Louisiana I was once again forced to fight for sanity over insanity.
There will never be words to describe the pain of this loss.
Since then the month of December has always been difficult for me. It
manifests itself in different ways. I can be moody, depressed. I can feel
insecure or not whole. Once in a while I still get this tremendous ache for my
mom that feels like it’s never going away. Sometimes it lasts for hours,
sometimes days, sometimes weeks. Eventually it goes back inside.

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A year after my mom passed away I was sitting on my bunk trying to
figure something out when I heard my mom’s voice in my head. It was like
her voice echoed through the years to speak to me. In that moment, I sat on
my bed and wrote this poem as a tribute to the wisdom and strength of my
mom.
Echoes
Echoes of wisdom I often hear,
a mother’s strength softly in my ears.
Echoes of womanhood shining so bright,
echoes of a mother within darkest night.
Echoes of wisdoms on my mother’s lips, too young
to understand it was in a gentle kiss.
Echoes of love and echoes of fear
Arrogance of manhood wouldn’t let me hear,
Echoes of heartache I still hold close
As I mourn the loss of my one true hero.
Echoes from a mother’s womb,
heartbeats held so dear,
life begins with my first tears.
Echoes of footsteps taken in the past.
Echoes of manhood standing in a looking glass.
Echoes of motherhood gentle and near.
Echoes of a lost mother I will always hear.

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