I stared in disbelief at my grandmother’s door—the locked entrance to the apartment where I’d spent most of my life. “What do you mean, ‘how are you?’” I shouted. “You’re not even going to open the god-damned door?”
“I’m glad you’re all right,” she called out. “Okay, then. Bye.”
P.O.P.S. the club came to my attention during a recent conversation with a fellow convict named Boston Woodard. After being told what P.O.P.S. the club was all about, I felt compelled to offer my input and perspective in regards to “the pain of the prison system” and how it relates to me.
Two years ago I learned about P.O.P.S. the club from author/poet Judith Tannenbaum. “It’s a great program for young students who have a parent or loved one in prison through no fault of their own,” she said. After pondering her words, it occurred to me that no one really talks much about the wounding effect prison has on all those kids left behind when a loved one is imprisoned. It’s as if they did not exist. They are real. The voids in their lives are huge, and at times extremely painful.
