Correspondance

Envelope Of Hope
By Sue Ellen A., Prisoner in Goodyear, Arizona

Do you remember when people used to write real letters on pretty paper with matching envelopes? Remember real cards you could actually hold instead of e-mail ones? Before e-mail, way back even before telephones, real letters were magical links between families and friends who poured out their emotion on paper. Getting a letter was a special occasion. We looked forward to real mail, not fists full of junk mail.

Mail is a precious thing in prison. We don’t get email or even junk mail. Every card and letter means something. Every day at 4:15 p.m., our mail is distributed. The CO [correctional officer] stands at the picnic table in front of our pod and, as the doors are opened by central control, we all come out into the sunshine, blinking at the brightness after the gloomy light in our cells. I’ve often thought it would make a great scene in a movie. The bright orange uniform is a striking contrast against the stark gray wall. Women lounge against the rails upstairs. Downstairs we lean against the walls all trying to look cool and disinterested, like this really isn’t very important, when all the while our hearts beat faster as we pray that our name is called.

Some names are called often, almost daily. They are the blessed ones with family and friends who care. Some names are never called. Because they have no one, they rarely leave their bunks for mail call. It’s just not worth the effort. Every day at 4:15, they are reminded that nobody cares.

That’s what a letter is in prison. It is an envelope of hope. It says that in the midst of the outside hustle and bustle, someone has taken a moment in his or her busy time to stop and acknowledge you as a person. It is a validation of you as a human being . . . courtesy of the U.S. Mail.

The End