Ashland Tidings Interview by Tammy Asnicar

Ashland Tidings Interview by Tammy Asnicar

Ashland Tidings Interview by Tammy Asnicar

Published on July 25, 2021

Please click on the button below to read the full interview I gave to Tammy Asnicar  of the Ashland Tidings.

All my Best,
Karen

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If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  

All my Best,

Karen


Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

Podcast Version of Interview Aired May 24, 2021 on KBOO FM in Portland

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  

All my Best,
Karen

Prison Pipeline can be found on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/prisonpipeline/    Please feel free to connect with them with any questions, comments or suggestions at kbooppc@gmail.com

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  Prison Pipeline Interview with Karen Campbell

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  

All my Best,

Karen

If you missed the radio broadcast on KBOO, below is the link to listen to the Podcast version.
Emma Lugo, the interviewer, is a grand humanitarian. I did my best to keep up with her. Please give it a listen!  

All my Best,

Karen


One of our own has been freed: Lisa Roberts

One of our own has been freed: Lisa Roberts

One of Our Own has Been Freed: Lisa Roberts

A reason to celebrate!

One of our own has been freed, Lisa Roberts. Lisa and I served time together at Coffee Creek. Lisa was a stand-up gal in all areas of life on the inside. She revealed consistent strength of character no matter the circumstances. She will do well on the outside as she took her time seriously and applied herself first to take inventory and then to improve and grow. I am thrilled for her. This represents the possibility of a great shift in prison awareness that eventually could lead to prison reform. Thank you to Senator Kim Thatcher and godspeed Lisa!

 

With gratitude,

Karen Campbell

Please Read Lisa's Own Words on Oregon Live Magazine

Let's Celebrate!  Please Enjoy a 50% Discount
on the Kindle version of "Falling"
from May 9th to May 16th


A reason to celebrate!

One of our own has been freed, Lisa Roberts. Lisa and I served time together at Coffee Creek. Lisa was a stand-up gal in all areas of life on the inside. She revealed consistent strength of character no matter the circumstances. She will do well on the outside as she took her time seriously and applied herself first to take inventory and then to improve and grow. I am thrilled for her. This represents the possibility of a great shift in prison awareness that eventually could lead to prison reform. Thank you to Senator Kim Thatcher and godspeed Lisa!

A reason to celebrate!

One of our own has been freed, Lisa Roberts. Lisa and I served time together at Coffee Creek. Lisa was a stand-up gal in all areas of life on the inside. She revealed consistent strength of character no matter the circumstances. She will do well on the outside as she took her time seriously and applied herself first to take inventory and then to improve and grow. I am thrilled for her. This represents the possibility of a great shift in prison awareness that eventually could lead to prison reform. Thank you to Senator Kim Thatcher and godspeed Lisa!

A reason to celebrate!

One of our own has been freed, Lisa Roberts. Lisa and I served time together at Coffee Creek. Lisa was a stand-up gal in all areas of life on the inside. She revealed consistent strength of character no matter the circumstances. She will do well on the outside as she took her time seriously and applied herself first to take inventory and then to improve and grow. I am thrilled for her. This represents the possibility of a great shift in prison awareness that eventually could lead to prison reform. Thank you to Senator Kim Thatcher and godspeed Lisa!

A reason to celebrate!

One of our own has been freed, Lisa Roberts. Lisa and I served time together at Coffee Creek. Lisa was a stand-up gal in all areas of life on the inside. She revealed consistent strength of character no matter the circumstances. She will do well on the outside as she took her time seriously and applied herself first to take inventory and then to improve and grow. I am thrilled for her. This represents the possibility of a great shift in prison awareness that eventually could lead to prison reform. Thank you to Senator Kim Thatcher and godspeed Lisa!


The Journey to Mother Road

The Journey to Mother Road

The Journey to Mother Road

Sometimes I want to be done with writing about prison. Sometimes I am too tired to take a stand. My children want it done. But I read the stories of the women inmates and see their faces and mannerisms. I can remember their smell. I made a promise. When I am stuck, I  take a walk and sit back down at the desk. My deep secret is, I will not get it right.  And so, my journey to Mother Road.

Help came in the form of a talk at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival: The Journey to Mother Road, Octavio Solis ( www.octaviosolis.net ). I had seen his play, Mother Road, the night before, and I was transfixed. The play recreated the journey backward from California to Oklahoma, following the path of the Dust Bowl migration in John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. I felt a deep connection to his characters as they struggled for survival and acceptance. I recognized aspects of the women inmates in the characters: false bravado, rejection and crushing disappointment. If I could write like him, the women would be heard. I would do them justice.

So the next day I attended the talk like a pilgrim. I was not alone. People leaned forward, the woman next to me called out yes, over and over, like a gospel service. I caught myself sitting with hands clasped under my chin.

Solis described a journey along Route 66, interviewing the people connected to the history of the Dust Bowl. He was not sure if he would write a poem, a short story or a play. He met a Mexican-American man at a Migrant Center for Dust Bowl refugees who said, “I am Tom Joad. This story is about me. We, the people that live here, are the new Okies, and this novel is about my life.”

That’s it,” said Octavio Solis to the audience. “That was the play.” He was a keeper of the words, just like me.

Mother Road

At the end of the talk, Octavio Solis signed books and copies of plays. Theatre goers and  hungry actors sparkled around the table, praising his work. I hung back composing myself. This was my chance to ask for help from someone who understood.

 

Retablos, Stories from a Life Lived Along the Boarder

The Journey to Mother Road
Retablos, Stories from a Life Lived Along the Border

I bought his book Retablos, Stories from a Life Lived Along the Border, opened it to the title page and stepped forward. He greeted me warmly. I asked for him to sign the book to me. He looked up amused. “Make it to Karen,”  I said. “Please give me the advice to honor the voices I am writing for.” I explained it was the voices of incarcerated women. “I hold the pages of their stories. May I find the words.”

“Ah!” He shook his head yes, understanding. He paused and rubbed his chin. “I know just what to write.” He took his time, corrected letters, reread it and smiled. He looked up and stared at me. It would be a masterpiece, just for me. I thought I’d break into tears. I stammered a thank you and scuttled to the exit. I held the book to my chest and walked through the historical district and up the hill, I clutched the book all the way home. I placed the book on my desk and waited until my husband was home. These words would be from the depths and I did not want to be alone. My husband placed his sturdy paw around my shoulders, I cried a moment, then opened the book to the title page:

To Karen-

The secrets are rolled up and slipped into the flutes of your bones!

Salud!

O.S. 7-19-19

The Best Stories are Already Written

 

“I think that the best stories are already written and are already inside of us, and we just have to listen to them,” Octavio Solis

So I sat back down at my desk and listened.

“I felt that I was onto something,” Solis said. “I felt that I was saying something in line with Mr. Steinbeck about my culture, about who I was and who I am, who we are and what we’re going through today. I felt that there was an utterly contemporary message that still resonated with the themes and ideas and story of ‘The Grapes of Wrath.

“More than ever I feel incumbent to take a stand,” Solis said. “I never thought of myself as a political writer. My intent is to tell a good story and present universal stories, but I guess politics are in there. This time I feel like I need to take a stand. These are times that you can’t be neutral, because we’re being nullified, demonized and treated like animals, and we have to take a stand. We have to say something about it.” Fowlkes, Caitlin, Mother Road, the road of flight, Ashland Tidings July 2, 2019

 

 

 

The Journey to Mother Road
Octavio Solis

The Journey to Mother Road

The Journey to Mother Road


Do I still have a home in their hearts

Hard and Fast Graduation from Childhood

Hard and Fast Graduation from Childhood

What have I done? My children Nik  and Haley were 16 and 13 years old at the time of the accident. A fierce kind of wisdom was forced upon them that day, and they would never be the same. I had more to teach my girls. I wasn’t done yet. Who else was going to explain about heartbreak, or how to use silverware from the outside to the inside of the plate, or how to walk in New York? Me, their mother. They needed me.

Hard and Fast Graduation from Childhood
Central Park

After the accident, awaiting sentencing, I decided to take my daughters to New York as a graduation from childhood. As Frank Sinatra sings, If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere… I went through their wardrobe and selected solid clothing, mostly black, and bought them cross strap purses. I laid out a map of Manhattan.

“It’s easy, it’s a long thin island.” I pointed to Central Park, “Uptown, I pointed to the tip, Downtown.” I marched them up and down the hallway of my apartment complex, giving terse instructions on how to walk in New York: quick pace, eyes straight ahead, never up at the buildings or a down at a map. Jaywalk.

They were good students. The girls ate up the city with their long legs. We let ourselves have the time of our lives. We had to, there wasn’t a day to waste. Nearing the end of our trip, we were coming up out of a Midtown subway. Haley emerged first and took off like a native New Yorker. She turned her head backward toward Nikki and me, “Uptown.” She turned back around and strutted away. She was confident that we would follow her anywhere. Nikki and I were stunned. The baby? She can’t possibly… without stopping, Haley looked back and saw us trying to peek at the map in the top of our pockets. “GA, Uptown!” We shoved the corner of our maps back in our pocket and followed. That’s it. I can go in now.

Hard and Fast Graduation from Childhood

Because prison was certain, I had to send my younger daughter, Haley, to California to live with her father. She moved after her freshman year in high school so she could settle in with her dad, be ready for a new school and try out for the volleyball team by fall. It was the only thing to do, the best thing, we thought, for Haley. She told me years later, that it broke her heart that she had no friends to celebrate her 15th birthday. Before she left, to console us both, I wrapped her in a blanket on the couch. I cuddled next to her and stroked her glossy brown hair and held her feet, the same way I did when she was a baby. 

When the time came, I packed Haley’s life into duffles, childhood toys and teenage make-up all jammed together. It all had to go or get thrown out, there would be no family home in Oregon. Nikki had gone on to her Freshman year at college. Her best friend, her best friend’s mother and I took her to the airport. We walked her as far as security allowed, and said goodbye. Helpless, we watched her pass through scanners, leaving behind her house, her sister, her friends, her left outside hitter position on the volleyball team, and her mother. We watched as she turned and waved, walked down the concourse, turned and waved again. She turned a third time and stood there, crying for all to see. She finally turned and we watched until the very last sight of her duffle bag disappeared.

On the night before my sentencing, Nikki, who was 18, came back from college and spent the night with me. Just as she had done when she was a little girl, she slept in bed with me, one hand on my cheek. Even as we shifted in bed during the night, she sought me out. I slept poorly and as I lay awake beside her. I memorized her face. In sleep, she was a young angel with tangled curls and rosebud lips that mumbled in a restless sleep. She would wake as a grown woman with the weight of the world on her slim shoulders. As I watched her sleep, I begged silently, Please, please give me a chance to make this up to you. Their graduation from childhood didn’t happen in New York. It happened on the day of the accident.

Hard and Fast Graduation from Childhood

Hard and Fast Graduation from Childhood


Looking all the way down into my blackness Karen Campbell Writes

Looking all the way down into my blackness

Looking All the Way Down into My Blackness

Day 21

The word on the Intake unit was, “if you want to get out of your cell, sign up for church.” My parents weren’t church folks; the last time I went to church I was wearing red tights and patent leather shoes. I couldn’t be farther than the innocent girl I had been then. So, what do I have to lose?

That night, I sent a kyte message and two days later was given permission to attend a church service in the prison chapel. But I was doubtful. That night at dinner I asked the women at my meal table what the allure was, besides the chance to get out of their cells?” They all agreed it was also a social activity, a chance for gossip and a chance to check out the women who lived on other units.

I go to cry

“I go to cry,” said Hippie Chick a co-worker from the kitchen. “I check in at the door of the chapel and go straight for the hankies before choosing a seat. I’ve tried to plan a good cry in the shower and end up standing under the trickle, nothing comes out. I turn off the water and keep going.”

“Church is not for me,” Rainy said. Her crime was similar to mine, we were both mothers. “It brings up all my crap. I about lost it the last time I went to church. Then what? Mental Health can’t help me. I don’t want their drugs. I tried taking them and I gained 45 pounds.”

Birdie, with her sharp nose and small mouth said,  “I was brought up in the Catholic Church. I went to parochial school and sang in the choir. It’s good for my mom to know I am going to services, it’s like we are together, going to mass.”

Creator of the universe

“I’m still not sure about the whole church thing,” said LaLa, a bawdy blonde. “But I’m pretty sure the Creator of the universe can handle a little doubt and a few questions.” She brightened, “They play music. It’s loud and they let you stand and dance.”

She was right. That first night, I could hear the music from the corridor. I stepped into the chapel, where the women were standing and singing, the lyrics projected on the wall. The pews were filled with prison blues and Intake scrubs. The women had their heads down or hands in the air, many of them in tears. I had been afraid to cry in prison, afraid I would be seen as prey.

A shipwrecked group of human beings

I walked toward the pews near the front, joining the Intake women. We were a shipwrecked group of human beings; we were at our worst and we knew it. I stood next to Hippie Chick. She was bawling. Through her tears she looked at me and laughed, then sobbed, then laughed again. She cried waves of tears and used her hands as a squeegee. As we sang and listened to the service, she just kept on crying and laughing. I felt safe with her. Maybe church was a safe place to cry.

But I didn’t think I could do it. I distracted myself with the words of the Pastor who spoke in complete sentences of proper English instead of prison slang. I distracted myself with the pews, which were padded and the soft carpet under my feet.

The Pain I Caused

Suppressing emotions for so long,  I didn’t know what would happen if I gave them free reign. The days after the accident were for survival, first to heal the wounds and twenty broken bones, then mentally prepare for a prison sentence. I couldn’t think of everything I’d lost; all the pain I’d caused. Instead, I gave away possessions both Tom’s and mine, I said goodbye to elders I wasn’t sure I would see again, and I said goodbye to my children. And I suppressed the guilt, grief, fear and self-loathing.

Looking all the way down into my blackness Karen Campbell Writes

But sitting in the collective misery of the chapel service, I saw something else besides devastation on the Intake women’s faces. Hippie Chick had her face lifted, her eyes closed. The tears ran down her cheeks but she wasn’t wiping them away anymore. He face was soft, as though she surrendered, no longer imprisoned by her emotions.

I wanted what she had. Do I dare open the door, just a slit? I took a ragged breath and closed my eyes; I felt a stream of emotions: grief, despair, guilt, and revulsion. I saw the faces of my family and Tom. I saw the family members of the woman I killed in the accident. My body collapsed inward as though I might melt where I stood. Deep within, there was warmth in my chest, expanding and growing brighter. The light was like a passageway to something greater. Karen. It was an invitation. Let it go.

Panic

Then I panicked. My eyes snapped open. I did not deserve grace and love. No, I didn’t deserve forgiveness. If I let go and let God in, I would have to be truthful. I would have to look all the way down into my blackness. What if I could not crawl out of that pit?

I was not ready.

Looking all the way down into my blackness

Looking all the way down into my blackness


Good Cop touched many lives of incarcerated women and their families

Good Cop touched many lives of incarcerated women and their families

Good Cop touched many lives of incarcerated women and their families

Day 240 

I had questions about the staff of DOC.

I had questions about the staff of DOC. I decided to ask my questions to two women sitting at a table in the dayroom. I chose them because they wore the clothing of seasoned felons: faded jeans and tee shirts and tennis shoes from the canteen list. I approached in my shiny blue jeans, my Nobody jeans. “May I ask a question?” One woman with wolf-blue eyes nodded to a stool, I sat. “Do you ever have real conversations with the guards?” 

Do you ever have real conversations with the guards?

“I try not to,” said the second woman called Sinful. “They don’t care about us. There’s a couple who are O.K. But never forget which side they are on. Here’s what they want: no fucking, no fighting, no paperwork. Nothing that keeps them here one minute longer. Most have given up on the idea of corrections. They’ll tell you to quit your whining, go outside and leave them alone.”

 You may have been right, but they will always be righter.” said Blue Eyes. “As an inmate no matter your stage of development or intelligence, YOU WILL OBEY. Best thing you can do is get out of those new-girl clothes,” said Blue Eyes.

“Yeah, you look like a mess,” laughed Sinful.

“Drop a written request for a clothing room call-out, said Blue Eyes. “Tell them you lost your Intake weight.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that right now,” I said. I walked over to the podium and asked the guard on duty for a form. He slid it to me and quickly retracted his hand like he didn’t want to touch me.

Karen Campbell Writes ContactThat night in my cell, I thought about what Sinful and Blue Eyes said about the DOC staff. I wondered what would it be like to work at a prison? They chose to come to a prison day after day. Who among them believes incorrections versus punishment? How many times would it take for an officer to give the inmate a chance, trust just a little bit, stick their neck out, only to get lied to or burned in some way? How many times would it take before it hardened them? What kind of person would they become if the safe career choice, day after day, was mistrust and cynicism?

Not long after, I had a call-out to the clothing room. I could hear laughter and music out in the hallway before I arrived. I walked into a large room with floor to ceiling shelves, stacked with clothing, bedding and shoes. The inmate women workers were seasoned felons, the cool girls. They had control over the shelves of clothing and the power to make or break your visual reputation

The jeans on this girl are too tight

The Sargent in charge was a blonde woman with short hair. She looked athletic but also looked like she enjoyed a scoop of ice cream once in a while. A young pear-shaped woman was standing before her for inspection.

“Smith!” she called to one of the inmate workers. “The jeans on this girl are too tight.” She started laughing. “My God, I can see her butt crack. I do not want to see her butt crack, Smith, ya got me?” The jeans rear seam split her inactive bottom into deflated pouches. She was too young for a butt like that.

“There aren’t any bigger jeans in that length,” answered Smith.

“What are you talking about? I can see some on that shelf right there.”

The clothing room inmate crew looked at each other. “But Good Cop,” said Smith. “She’s too new for faded jeans. She hasn’t earned them yet!” The whole crew laughed. “I need to save them for someone like her,” she nodded to me. Yes, I am cool enough for faded jeans! The Sargent looked at her clipboard.

“Baker?”

“Yes ma’am.” She smirked, sat back in her chair and swiveled. “C’mon over here, Baker.” I walked to her desk that was housed in a wire cage that reached to the ceiling, the door was open. “Have a seat.” There was a simple chair next to her desk.

“Tell me something about yourself.”

“I am here for a Man II car accident.”

“Drinking?”

“Yes. I don’t remember anything about the accident.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing. What else Baker? What do you do in here?”

“I just got a job at DMV.”

“That’s a good job in here but it’s gotta be intense dealing with all those rules and frustrated callers,” her eyes were amused.

We’ve seen her around, Good Cop

“I like the carpet and the soft chair,” I said softly and she laughed.

“You know any of these girls?” she tilted her head to the crew. The crew had gathered around the cage, curious.

“We’ve seen her around, Good Cop,” said a woman with a head of massive auburn curls and a little china doll face, “She’s alright, hasn’t caused any drama.”

“You got kids?” asked Good Cop.

“I do,” my heart tightened. “Two girls, fifteen and eighteen. I really let them down.” I felt safe to continue, so I added, “I think of them all the time. I still have five plus years to go.” The woman with the china doll face snorted like my five years was nothing.

Good cop gave a dismissive nod to the crew, sending them back to work. “Baker, let me give you some advice.” She leaned forward, looking me straight in the eye. “You gotta show those girls that you’re gonna make it. Not just survive in here, but own up to your mistakes. All of them. Make it right with them. Show them you can still learn something in here. Send away for some study books, go to any call-out that helps you out. You are still their mother, Baker.” My eyes began to prick with tears. She waited until I could answer.

“I am writing. I think I am going to write a book. I didn’t have a clue what life was like in here. I even didn’t know if I would get a bra,” I looked out at the clothing room shelves, and dried my eyes.

“Yeah?” she sat up. “Why don’t you bring me some of your work and maybe I can help.”

“O.K.” I squeaked.

 

“C’mon over here.” said Smith, “What’s your name?”

“Karen.”

“Let’s get you out of those ugly jeans,” she said. “We gotta save the good ones for us, don’t we?” I felt like I was asked into the tree fort of older kids. She found two pairs of faded blue jeans and a pair of thin cotton shorts. I was elated. I spun around for Good Cop, she gave me a quick once over and they were mine. I kept them until I paroled.

“I really like it in here,” I said gesturing to the stacks of clothes.

“Look, Baker, I’m doing my time too,” said Good Cop, “I got a ways to go before retirement. I would get bored being mean all the time.” She paused and looked at me seriously, “Here is how we get along, Baker: I will always do my job, it comes first. If you let me do my job, and you do your job, we’re going to get along just fine.” It felt fair, like a respectable boundary.

Good Cop was now in charge of the visiting room

Over the following months, I requested a clothing room call out when I had written something. To her credit, she plowed through those early works and encouraged me to sign up for the Write Around Portland workshop that came into the prison. She gave me hope that I was onto something, something my daughters could be proud of.

Four months later, near the holidays, my youngest daughter, Haley came for a visit. A shift change had occurred and Good Cop was now in charge of the visiting room. Both kind and steady, her presence created an environment that seemed less hostile and allowed a chance for the families to talk and heal. Haley had come for the weekend, that day was her final visit, she would fly out in the morning. We were down to the final hours. She cast aside the trendy clothes that made me think she was doing alright and stripped down to a plain gray hoodie. Her eyes were rimmed in dark circles and she slumped on the table between us. We had run out of easy stories, all that remained was raw emotion and the unspoken hurt that was inconsolable. Haley started to cry at the beginning of the visit and cried all the way through. We leaned forward as far as we could across the table, I ached to hold her and stroke her shiny brown hair. At one point she put the hood over her head and wept. 

Good Cop touched many lives of incarcerated women and their familiesGood Cop came over with her officer. She made some small talk to get acquainted but was somber and did not overstay our private time. “Sorry Baker, she can’t wear the hoodie.” She actually looked sorry for saying it. Near the end of our visit, I looked over at Good Cop. She and her attending female officer had their heads leaning together, staring at our table. Their faces were anguished, their eyes brimmed with tears. I quickly put that image aside and focused on the final seconds I had with my precious child.

I hugged Haley goodbye, she felt so frail. From my chair, I gave her a tight smile, holding back so her final sight of me would not be her mother falling apart. I watched her stand in the silence of the sally port. She pulled the hoodie back up, over her head but I could see she was crying openly. The exit door opened, she turned, and I watched the back of that crumpled gray hoodie until it was out of sight, just like the final day at the airport when she moved away.

Is your daughter coming back?

The pat-out area beyond the visiting room was quiet after a visit. I walked in silence at the end of the line women, out of the visiting building, toward the cell block. Good cop fell back to talk to me.

“Is your daughter coming back?”

“Not for a few months, she lives in California.”

“Oh. That’s hard.” She was silent for a few steps and then she started to chuckle sadly, “I don’t think I could take another visit, Baker. My God, she just cried and cried. We let her keep her hoodie on for a while, she’s not supposed to wear a hat of any kind but we felt so sorry for her, and with her hood up, we couldn’t see her cry. She killed me. We were a mess.” We both laughed a little, humor our salvation. We entered the block and went our own way. Following the rules, I kept walking toward my unit but I turned for a glimpse of her walk down the corridor in the opposite direction. Her arms hung at her sides, her shoulders slumped, she was looking at the floor and stepping slowly. She sees me. She sees my child.

Years passed, I midway to the top of the pecking order. All my clothes were faded Blues. I had tennis shoes and a canteen brassiere. One day, I saw Good Cop sitting on a bench in the corridor. Next to her was a woman wailing, tearing cheap toilet paper to shreds. Good Cop was crouched forward elbows on her knees, listening. I walked past. She knew I was there, ever vigilant, but her focus remained on the woman and her grief.

Good Cop touched many lives of incarcerated women and their families. Whenever I saw her in the hallways, I would smile, and stand tall. It only takes one of them to see you and your experience becomes a little more bearable.

Good Cop touched many lives of incarcerated women and their families

Good Cop touched many lives of incarcerated women and their families

Good Cop touched many lives of incarcerated women and their families


Learning to love the unlovable including myself by Karen Campbell

Learning to love the unlovable including myself

Learning to love the unlovable, including myself

Learning to love the unlovable, including myself

Karen Campbell

I was incarcerated at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility from 2005 to 2011 for second-degree manslaughter and driving under the influence of intoxicants. I caused a fatal accident after drinking wine on an empty stomach. I killed two people, one my beloved husband, Tom, and the other, an innocent woman on her way home from work.

Prior to going to prison, I could have been your neighbor. I was an educated professional and community volunteer. I have returned to that life and am now writing a book about my experience. It’s the story of how a middle-aged mom learns to navigate life on the inside.

Learning to love the unlovable, including myselfOver the six years I was incarcerated, I learned how to eat a meal in 10 minutes with a spork. I learned 46 recipes for ramen noodles. I learned obedience and humility. I learned lurid slang. I learned how to keep my mouth shut. I learned how to mother from behind bars, miles from my teenage daughters. And finally, I learned how to love the unlovable, including myself. My memoir will appeal to anyone who has ever survived hardship and anyone who has had to work hard at forgiving themselves. It will help readers embrace the humanity in all of us because ultimately this story is a celebration of what makes us human.

From the current news reports on OPB and other sources, incarceration of women rose 200 percent between 1994 and 2015. The elephant in the living room is Measure 11, which is tough for politicians to oppose or reform. Until judges return to judging, it remains a daily battle in our prisons solve the over crowding issue. While incarcerated, I was a maintenance worker. In 2010, to address crowding, one of my duties was to erect extra bunks. Our supervisor grimly told us that the bunks were designed to be tripled if necessary. Well, here it is.

During my six years and three months, I watched women come in on the turnstile. The inmates fell into two categories. Those with Measure 11 and those who had incentive for good time. I understand programs cost money and some do not work, but over-incarceration does not work either. Any reduction in a sentence is motivating for an inmate. Who wouldn’t want to be out a month early for Christmas? Becoming a decent citizen takes practice and affordable solutions are available. For example, as a part of returning to society, an inmate must study the requirements for US citizenship, a curriculum that’s already available.

For the taxpayer to weigh in, we must humanize the inmate. There are some leaders in our state pointed in the right direction. They are the creative thinkers of reform and made the greatest impact on me personally. One is John Haines of Mercy Corps Northwest who provides the Lifelong Information for Entrepreneurs (LIFE) and the second is Living Yoga, which brings regular classes to Coffee Creek. It is my hope that my book will contribute to that goal.

Over-incarceration just makes better criminals. The best investment for the tax payer is to provide a higher road up and out.

Read the original article here.

Learning to love the unlovable including myself

Learning to love the unlovable including myself


The child Raccoon Doesn't Want to Go to School

The Child Raccoon Doesn't Want to Go to School

The Child Raccoon Doesn't Want to Go to School

Day 795

When Haley was a child, I read her the book The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn. The story is about separation. The child raccoon doesn’t want to go to school, he wants to stay home with his mother. The mother raccoon kisses the paw of her child and tells him to place it on this cheek when he misses her, and she will be with him. LIke Nikki, my younger daughter Haley was deeply hurt by my actions. She was so young and tender and her life was ripped away from her. She left her friends, her sister, and her mother and went to live with her father in Southern California. We couldn’t place our hands on each other’s cheeks, but Haley and I sent drawings of our hands through the prison mail for comfort.

~ Karen Campbell

Haley Hand Drawing Karen Kampbell Writes

The Visit A Poem by Nikki Karen Kampbell Writes

The Visit A Poem by Nikki

The Visit A Poem by Nikki

(Year four – of six years three months prison sentence)

My daughter Nikki wrote this poem, The Visit, as part of her Senior Project at the University of Oregon. Nikki publicly bore the brunt of my crime. She finished raising herself and stood by me. I would have never wished this on her slim shoulders, the ripples go on and on.

~ Karen Campbell

The Visit

I am driving, past sheep and empty fields to visit my mother in prison.

When I get there I will sit at the stoplight facing the entrance of the prison.

The light is especially long and for every second

I can feel the family in the car to my right staring at me.

Dad in the driver’s seat, mom with the perfect hair in the passenger’s seat

and their two angels in the back.

They look over at me going to the prison.

They are probably going to a picnic or coming home from a soccer game,

and I am going into a building to sit under fluorescent lights with my mom

while we are monitored by cameras,

the always over-weight and lifeless looking guard.

Not to mention all the other inmates plus whatever humans choose to visit them.

It’s always the same people.

Some of them try to be friends with each other in the waiting room

and act like they can just shoot the breeze with wry expressions

as they slide between freedom and incarceration.

I just can’t take it that lightly.

I do not talk to anyone unless it is to tell them how to use the lockers,

because those sons of bitches steal your money

faster than any criminal is physically capable

and I know that at least 95 percent of visitors are living in poverty

so lost quarters are worth talking for.

Other than that I sit in the corner and I look at the floor

and I listen to other people’s lives in the waiting room.

I always look at the board to see  who got the officer of the week,

but I wonder who judges that and doubt they ever deserve it.

Anytime I bring pictures in they stare at them for far too long,

and it makes me feel completely exposed and objectified.

“Looks like somebody had fun.” Or “Where was this?”

They are just curious, but I do not want to talk to them about my life.

It is none of their business.

They think they are being nice, but they reveal themselves every time.

When they become the person in charge,

and they tell you to spit out your gum like a drill sergeant

and they are above you and they carry cuffs and a taser.

I try not to look at the children, usually kids make me laugh.

Their simplified outlooks on life make so much more sense,

remembering how to think like a child is my religion.

And as they are crawling around on all fours like dogs,

I can’t help but notice how hideous they are and how fat they are,

and I can’t help to think about how fucked up their lives are going to be.

You can just see their futures splayed out before them

like the mess they are making with the prison toys.

When I am finally released from this compartment of depression

I sit in another room and wait for my mom to come out.

She is always the same.

She reacts like she is so surprised and so happy to see me she can’t even stand it.

She is also dramatic.

I do it too, I think, I hate faking excitement

but we only have two hours so I match her energy without thinking.

When it is time to go we hug and tie knots on the ends of our conversations

so that we don’t feel terrible inconclusive feelings as we return to our segregated lives.

I wave to her like a child so she feels especially motherly.

It’s easy to humor her now.

In between the visiting room and the lobby with the lockers

is a transfer room with windows so you can see into both rooms.

It is the Earth between heaven and hell

and it is also the room where the young ones realize they are leaving their mothers.

That is the worst part by far.

You can see their smiles fade slowly and their tiny lips catch on their teeth

in that frozen moment when it hits them.

They all cry. Some scream.

Some even plead with the guards or their fathers to let them stay.

“Please! Please let me stay just a little longer.

Please, I just want to stay the night with my mommy.”

The adults or those who like to think of themselves as such

laugh at the little girl for wanting to stay the night in a prison

and I pity them because they do not understand her love.

We children would give anything for a sleepover.

Maybe they didn’t have mothers like that little girl’s.

Maybe they didn’t have a mother like mine.

I’d like to think that no one has a mother like mine.