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For moms behind bars, the holiday can be a lonely one. But here's how one woman is making a difference
For many American kids, Mother's Day means getting up early to prepare breakfast in bed for Mom, perhaps with a bud vase of roses on the side. But for 25 or so sleepy boys and girls in Los Angeles, the day starts in a very different way. Well before dawn, the children -- a few still in pajamas or wrapped in blankets -- shuffle into a church and prepare for the five-hour trip to see their moms. For some, it will be the only time this year they've seen their mothers; for a few of the younger ones, it may be the first chance they've ever had to really meet their moms. What unites these children is that their mothers are state prison inmates in Chowchilla, CA, 260 miles away.
As the kids file into the church, they are met by volunteers in purple "Get on the Bus" T-shirts, who offer up goody bags with toys, snacks, and a purple tee for each child. Then it's time for the kids and the family members who accompany them to gather in prayer and head out onto the still-dark street, where a bus is idling. One little girl, dressed up in a frilly pink dress with her hair plaited with beads, climbs aboard and snuggles next to her grandmother. A 10-year-old girl and her aunt look for seats. The doors heave closed, and they're off, heading north for the annual Get on the Bus outing.
HOW THE BUS BEGAN
Celebrating its 10th anniversary this year, the Get on the Bus program (getonthebus.us) is the brainchild of Sister Suzanne Jabro, C.S.J., a Los Angeles nun, who discovered a hard fact when working with prisoners: "Nobody visits women in prison," says Jabro, with her characteristic no-nonsense manner. "Their men have left," she explains, "and the children live with relatives who can't drive, can't afford the gas, or can't manage a carful of kids."
As part of her job in the Office of Restorative Justice for the Catholic Archdiocese of Los Angeles, Jabro, with other members of an interfaith delegation, visited Chowchilla to find out how to help female inmates, most of whom are serving time for nonviolent, drug-related offenses. "Oh, we had all kinds of ideas," she says with a self-deprecating laugh. "But when we stopped and asked them what they wanted, they said, 'To see my kids.' One woman told me, 'Please help me. I can't live without touching my child.' Some of them hadn't seen their children for four to nine years. The guards weren't even aware these women had children." What Jabro knew in her heart -- that reuniting these broken families could have intense emotional benefits -- has been borne out by research. In fact, a recent study in the Journal of Research in Crime and Delinquency found that inmates who have contact with their families are less likely to be rearrested once they're released.
Jabro and the other nuns quickly grasped their mission -- to facilitate family visits -- but not all those involved were enthusiastic at first. "People said, 'Why do this for these women? They don't deserve it!'" says Jabro. "And I said to them, 'Think of the children!' The sudden removal of a parent from a child's life is traumatic. These kids need to be touched by their parent and to see that the parent is safe." Jabro was adamant that these families needed more contact, and Mother's Day presented the perfect opportunity.
As she convinced people inside the correctional system of the program's value, Jabro called on the nun community in Los Angeles for support. Bus rentals cost close to $2,500, and they needed food for the passengers making the trek. By May of 2000, they were able to arrange for their very first bus to take children from nine families to one of the two state prisons in Chowchilla. "When we saw the kids on that first bus, we had a big shift in our consciousness," recalls Jabro. "We knew it would be good for the mothers, but that day, we saw how much the children needed this. They were conflicted -- you saw the joy and sorrow so mixed in this whole thing -- but those moments of reunion, whether quiet or loud, were just electrifying and wonderful." This year, 48 buses, sponsored by churches, synagogues, and other agencies, will bring children from all over California for Mother's Day visits. (Sixteen buses are planned to bring children to see their incarcerated dads for Father's Day.) The big day involves months of meticulous preparation, working with the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation. Inmates must request that their kids participate, then the prison vets each case to make sure no child abuse or neglect has occurred. Social workers then join in, wrangling volunteers to contact each family and help the process along.
MOTHER'S DAY BEHIND BARS
Back on the bus to Chowchilla, some kids sleep; others are full of nervous anticipation. For Jennifer,* a teenager whose mom has been at Chowchilla for six years, and her brother, the Mother's Day trip is a treasured event: "It's all about spending time with my mom. I really miss her. I can't just call her, and besides, calls are only allowed to be 15 minutes."
As the bus pulls up to the Central California Women's Facility late in the morning, the excited children are talking, jumping in their seats, and looking out the window at the bleak scene: low beige buildings sitting in the blazing sun, surrounded by flat land, parking lots, and endless rows of barbed wire fences. On this day, an arc of colorful balloons festoons the entrance, and the prison warden and other officials shake hands with every visitor.
Inside the reception building, uniformed guards scrutinize each person's identification and then, for security reasons, log in all jewelry, hair clips, and keys to store until the end of the visit. The process is way too slow for small children, who hop around impatiently, while some of the teenagers, who've been through this process before, look sullen and perhaps a bit scared.
Once past this checkpoint, the Get on the Bus kids, relatives, and volunteers walk along an asphalt path leading to a large visiting room, and a few begin to break into a run. Finally, hundreds of miles from where they started, the children are all but engulfed by their waiting mothers. If it weren't for the identical prison garb of jeans and long-sleeved T-shirts, you'd think this was a group of unassuming moms assembled for a PTA meeting. They burst into laughter or tears or both as they embrace their families.
The moments of reunion play out in scenes that vary from bittersweet to jubilant: One woman walks into the adjacent yard flanked by twin sons about 9 years old, each gripping one of her hands tightly. A young mom plays peekaboo with a toddler who looks at her shyly from behind her grandmother's legs -- clearly, the little girl is not yet ready to be held by a mother she barely knows. Another inmate laughs as she discovers that her 14-year-old daughter is now taller than she is. Elsewhere, a mom sits in a circle with her sister and her three young girls and plays a clapping game while calling out rhymes. A photographer takes photos of mothers and kids -- one for every mom to keep and one for each child to bring home.
After four hours, visiting time ends, and bus numbers are announced on a loudspeaker. As their mom says goodbye, one of the twin boys cries openly; the other pulls his hood over his face, hiding his tears. The little girl in the frilly pink dress clings to her mother as a volunteer gently encourages her to let go. The 14-year-old girl puts her head down in resignation as she leaves. Back on the road, the ride home begins quietly; the younger children are drained, the older ones seem to be lost in thought. Some of the volunteers on the bus are counselors, trained to help the kids handle the mixed emotions.
"We talked about everything," says Jennifer of her visit with her mom. "And it reassures her that we're doing OK. It makes her want to do the best she can to get out as soon as possible." Volunteers give each child a stuffed animal and a letter written by his or her mother, which helps foster a deeper connection. "This helps Jessie* celebrate Mother's Day just like other kids," comments the aunt of a 10-year-old girl whose mom has been in prison most of her life. Jessie gazes at the card from her mom for a long time, then leans her head against the window to sleep.
WORKING TO PUT FAMILIES BACK TOGETHER
Although the families have only a few hours together, the lasting impact of that time can't be underestimated, says Jabro. "When people think they're forgotten, then they give up on themselves," she explains. "What we're about is restoring connections and healing relationships between parents and children. And in some cases, the caretakers are angry at what the women in prison did, and they need healing, too. Everyone says rehabilitation is great, but without access to one another, how will this happen?"
The minimal contact that Get on the Bus provides can make a major difference, says Jabro, recalling the first Mother's Day outing. "One 17-year-old girl had been in foster placement and hadn't seen her mother in nine years," she says. "When they met, her mother just held her and stroked her hair." Jabro wasn't sure how powerful that reunion had been until the mother was released from prison. "The mom got a minimum wage job, but she gave 10 percent of her pay to Get on the Bus for a year. Seeing her daughter meant that much to her -- it inspired her so deeply that she wanted to share it."
Happy Mother's Day: Thanks to the Get on the Bus program, kids are reunited with their moms, who are at two state prisons in Chowchilla, CA
