Living With A Son in Prison on Mother’s Day

A mother describes the shock, shame and guilt she feels living with a son in prison — and explains how she found support from other mothers in her situation.  

I am the mother of an incarcerated son. When Louie was arrested six years ago, I was stunned, scared and unprepared. It was a life-changing traumatic blow. I recognize my privilege in not having had many interactions with law enforcement before that fateful day; I mainly spoke to cops when pulled over in my car. But still, there was probably no way to be prepared for the experience of having eleven federal agents storm my apartment at 6:15 AM on Valentines Day looking for my son (who was over 1,000 miles away). It changed everything, not just in Louie’s life, but mine. I lost interest in my work. I withdrew from friends. I stepped down from serving as Executive Director of the national organization I founded.

By the time I caught my breath and found my maternal footing, a year had passed, and I began to wonder how other mothers were coping with their sons’ arrests and legal processes. Online research produced little information, so I supplemented my search with information gathered from Facebook groups, multiple interviews, and the two online support groups that I facilitate. I found that mothers living with a son in prison remain an unrecognized and underserved population.

Mothers have always been held to impossible standards of care and sacrifice. When one’s child is arrested and placed in prison, mothers carry the shame of the crime and also shoulder much of society’s blame. What didn’t we do right or well enough? How did we tolerate such behaviors in our sons? What deficits in their upbringing led to this current situation? No father? Too much leniency? Working too much and, therefore, not being home enough? It must be something! In my own case, I know I never took my eye off the ball but, in retrospect, I may have focused too much on the wrong ball.

Every mother I have met has had a period of self-doubt and recriminations following her son’s arrest. Some work through it and reach out to others for support, but others remain stuck here. Unfortunately, the emotional fallout from mothering an incarcerated son is exacerbated by isolation. Fearing rejection and disapproval, many mothers keep the information private, either avoiding questions or devising a pat answer, such as “He’s in Connecticut” or “He’s in the army.” Just when mothers need the most support, they often don’t feel safe seeking it, leaving them lonely and secluded.

For many of the roughly 1.8 million incarcerated men in this country, the relationship with their mothers is their most secure attachment. Friends tend to vanish post-conviction and most romantic relationships eventually fray under the strain of separation. Mothers are not immune to the frustrations, resentments and pain that others feel, but we stick around. We continue to show up with love, support, commissary money and, whenever possible, in-person visits.

We hate our sons’ crimes, but our attachment to them is far larger than the poor decisions and crimes they have committed. As Bryan Stevenson, the author of Just Mercy, put it, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.” Louie is still my son, and I love him. But, like all mothers, I have had to expand my understanding of who my son is to include the capacity to commit those crimes. Throughout the legal process, I learned more about Louie than I ever knew and, equally importantly, more than he ever wanted me to know about him.

We mothers serve as purveyors of hope and the belief in a second chance and a better future. And, while our sons remain inside, we serve as their bankers, counselors, and legal liaisons. When incarcerated sons are married with children, mothers often function as substitute husbands and fathers, doing tasks like finding summer camps for the kids and buying anniversary gifts for the wives. For me, all these tasks add up to a true part-time job, taking up several hours or more per week.

Supporting our sons emotionally and financially takes a real, if invisible, toll on mothers. This is then exacerbated by fearing blame and condemnation from others. The stress of living with a son in prison also leads to multiple health problems for mothers. The women in the support groups I lead have reported increased blood pressure, partial blindness, diabetes, lost eyesight and increased alcohol use. My own drinking escalated after Louie’s arrest until it became a serious problem, causing blackouts and falls. I had to stop completely.

Caring for an incarcerated son is also expensive. While legal assistance can be supplied for free by the courts, once our sons are in prison there is no subsidy available. Yes, prisons provide three meals per day, but they are neither filling nor nutritious. Nearly all inmates supplement the food with commissary, requiring funds that come from outside. Many mothers struggle to come up with the money to give their sons. In addition to more and better food, funds are required for necessities like soap, aspirin, shower shoes, etc. Phone calls cost extra. Some mothers have to constantly make the difficult decision between sending money and paying their own bills. On top of that, in-person visits may be prohibitively expensive, depending on the distance the family must travel to their son’s facility.

I have four more years to go in this role of mothering incarcerated-Louie. But I am determined not to go it alone. It’s hard enough to find the time, money, and emotional wherewithal. I try not to add to that burden with self-criticism and isolation, often pushing myself to tell others where Louie is living now. I need to bond with other mothers.

No one else is looking out for us.

The post Living With A Son in Prison on Mother’s Day first appeared on Prison Writers.