people

The light was beautiful this afternoon — golden, blinding in the rearview mirror as I headed east. I know this stretch of Interstate 40 so well. I know which gas station is the best on every exit. I know where to avoid the fast food fries. I’ve driven this stretch of highway a million times.

I had just got down the mountain, the one that forms this physical and mental barrier between western North Carolina and the rest of the state that stretches itself out like a cat purring to the sea. Down that mountain and I felt myself leaving.

Outside of Morganton, I followed the curve to the left. I was daydreaming, about what I don’t remember. I was listening to the radio when I saw this flock of birds — hundreds of the them, so many that the sky was darkened — just as the announcer slid into a twang, a strum, a hum. Country, but not. Alternative, but not as flippant. The birds floated like a bubble over the fields next to the interstate. The dipped and swirled and veered. And I suddenly felt homesick for Kathryn. Kathryn, are you reading this? I wanted to call you so badly right then. I wanted to stop by your house in Greensboro and listen to records and pet Buddy and listen to your stories. Hey, friend! I miss you!

This morning I got up early, jumped in the shower, threw on some clothes and drove to prison.

For the last year and a half, I’ve been following two women at Black Mountain Correctional Center for Women. I sat with them through a re-entry program and their subsequent class graduation, interviewed them in the cafeteria and library for hours upon hours, talked with them about everything from how they got in prison to their work-release jobs to what they’ll do when they walk out of the administration building for the last time. Notebooks are piled in my office, filled with my scribbling about our conversations, their stories, thoughts, feelings.

And today! Debbie! Was! Released! After five years of living in a N.C. Department of Corrections facility, a sargeant’s voice rumbled over the PA system, calling out her name, telling her to go to the administration building. It was for the last time. Cheers and clapping erupted in the yard, where women in green-blue shirts and shirt dresses sat smoking or listening to music at concrete picnic tables. She went inside and 20 minutes later, she came out arms filled with white plastic bags holding all her stuff. She and her probation officer loaded them in the trunk of the officer’s car, and she climbed in the backseat. I stood in the parking lot, watching. As she rode away, her face was turned to the red brick dormatory where she’d lived the last two years. The sun shone on her face. And suddenly this feeling hopefulness flooded over me.

If you know me or my writing very well, you’ll know that I don’t believe in the “objective journalist.” Do I believe in being fair? Oh, absolutely. For the last 1.5 years I’ve been practicing fairness. But today I felt so proud of her, so hopeful for her future, so happy that she won’t have to ask anyone whether she can go to the bathroom or sit on a bench ever again. (She is the first to tell you that she needed to be in prison, that there wasn’t a choice almost. But that was five years ago, and a lot has changed, I’m hoping. Now, I’m so happy that she’s back!)

And it must be catching, these New Starts, because a woman I worked with at the newspaper is leaving the paper today to go teach English in South Korea with her husband. Wow.

I’m ready for a change, too. And, really, there was nothing left to do except jump up and down outside my house, happy that I feel one coming.