Justice Involved Mothers
Justice Involved Mothers is a monthly column developed in partnership with Raising Mothers: A Literary Magazine. Devoted to real life, authentic narratives of criminalization, Justice Involved Mothers is curated and edited by Nicole Shawan Junior and penned by the Black, Latinx, Indigenous, and Brown women who have suffered the white supremacist arm and misogynist fist of law enforcement. Through these creative nonfiction works of literary art, we aim to uplift liberation demands, amplify abolitionist urgings, and cast an even wider spotlight on the vice grip criminalization holds around the necks of women—MOTHERS—of color. Justice Involved Mothers centers Our stories because we are the ones who are most ignored. The ones with the most to tell.
Roots. Wounds. Words. compensates all contributors of the Justice Involved Mothers column. To submit an essay for consideration, email RootsWoundsWords@gmail.com.
How the Fuck Did I Get Here?
by Dominique Cole
I devoured Donald Goines’ Dope Fiend right after I put the grilled cheese on top of the radiator, a griddle’s sizzle loudly absent. It had been 24 years since I last read those short chapters. The day before, I read Black Girl Lost. At this point, reading was my only escape from plentiful tears.
How the fuck did I get here?
I was a good Catholic school girl, a good daughter. I ate my vegetables, I worked hard. When Mommy left to meet the ancestors a few years before and I was a lost soul, I took care of my little sisters as directed in “The Oldest Child’s Responsibilities Handbook.” Trying to figure out adulthood without my shero was more than a challenging task. Mommy left me with a treasure trove of knowledge, but I had no idea where and how to apply it. The number of people I trusted dwindled to almost zero.
It was lights out and I tried to fall asleep. Reading was no longer an option.
How the fuck did I get here?
Read More at Raising Mothers —>
Lost Daughters, Losing Mothers
by Heather Stokes
Pulling my charcoal peacoat tighter around me, I trudge the short distance from the train to Ma’s house. January’s cold nips at my bare fingers. I shove my hands into the coat’s pockets, bow my head to the ground, quicken my pace as I near the brick elementary school that shares space with Ma’s housing complex. School has ended for the day, but its resource officer still sits guard in the police cruiser. He watches me approach the beige and green townhouses, a stark contrast to the lemon yellow I grew up in. Nearing the parking lot, I notice Ma’s gray Honda Civic isn’t parked in her usual spot. The breath I don’t realize I’m holding breaks free. Before her empty parking spot came into view, I anticipated Ma greeting me with her trademark scowl and silent treatment. It’s been two days since I was last home. It’s been less than three months since I left a post-prison halfway house, and, already, I’m spending nights with a man I hardly know.
Read More at Raising Mothers —>