Cover image for The prisoner's wife : a memoir
Title:
The prisoner's wife : a memoir
Author:
Bandele, Asha.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Scribner, [1999]

©1999
Physical Description:
219 pages ; 22 cm
Language:
English
Personal Subject:
ISBN:
9780684850733
Format :
Book

Available:*

Library
Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Status
Central Library PS3552.A47527 Z47 1999 Adult Non-Fiction Non-Fiction Area
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Frank E. Merriweather Library PS3552.A47527 Z47 1999 Adult Non-Fiction Open Shelf
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Summary

Summary

In this memoir, a young African-American poet describes how she fell in love with and married a man serving a prison sentence for murder and explores the redemptive and healing power of love.


Reviews 2

Booklist Review

When one hears of a woman marrying a man in prison, especially a man she met while he was already in prison, it is hard not to question her motives or sanity. Poet asha bandele writes of her relationship with Rashid, a man serving 20-to-life for murder. She tells of how she met this man while she was visiting the prison to read her poetry; of how she visited him as a friend/lover, waiting five years before she married him; of waiting the long months after the marriage before they were granted a conjugal visit; of love letters, long collect phone calls, and the horror and indignity of their prison situation. Yet she found in Rashid the strength to remember and confront her past as a victim of sexual abuse. She found, too, the love that most women long for, but in a place that imposes limitations that are a nightmare. Her writing soars with emotion. And the reader's emotions soar as well, not because of a shared experience but because her highly polished and skillful writing makes one feel her pain and joy. This is a romantic but realistic story, told with a directness and honesty that make us know that however impossible the problems asha and Rashid face, we can question neither her motives nor her sanity. --Danise Hoover


Library Journal Review

This book explains the inexplicable: how a talented young poet from a good family and privileged background could meet, fall in love with, and marry a prisoner serving 20-to-life for murder. As bandele says "I didn't fall in love with a killer. I fell in love with a man committed to the transformation of himself, of the world." They meet when she is among a group of African American activists giving readings at prisons. The prison, she says, "because of its stance against love made me take a stance for love." Her prison visits become personal visits as she and Rashid share stories of their lives and he helps her confront and overcome a history of sexual abuse. Their decision to marry, and thus have conjugal visits, seems offhand but not awry, given their deep emotional intimacy. The author has a poet's fluid skill with language and maintains a lyrical tone throughout, even in the uncertainty following denial of her husband's appeal and bandele's realization that he will be locked up for at least seven more years. For all public libraries.ÄJanice Dunham, John Jay Coll. Lib., New York (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

Chapter One This Is a Love Story This is a love story like every love story I had always known, like no love story I could ever have imagined. It's everything beautiful -- bright colors, candle-scented rooms, orange silk, and lavender amethyst. It's everything grotesque, disfigured. It's long twisting wounds, open and unhealed, nerves pricked raw, exposed. This is a love story, awake and alive. It's a breathing document, a living witness. It's human possibility, hope, and connection. It's a gathering of Spirit, the claiming of dreams. It's an Alvin Ailey dance, a rainbow roun' mah shoulder. It's a freedom song, a 12-string guitar, a Delta blues song. This story is a reprieve. This is a love story, threadbare and used up, yet sometimes fat, weighty, stretched out of shape. It's polyester, this story, man-made, trying to be pretty, not quite making it. This is a story desperate to hold itself together. This is a story with patches in the knees. This is a love story, my love story and thousands of other women's love story. It's a story that's known, documented, photographed, videotaped, audiotaped, filed, photocopied, watched over, studied, caricatured, questioned, researched, and noted. This is a love story. It's the one we keep close, sheltering it from judgment. It's lovers denied at family dinners and at office parties. It's secret glances at Polaroid pictures. It's whispered names. This is a story hidden within midnight bus rides and 5:00 A.M. van rides, behind metal detectors, electronic doors, and steel slamming against steel. This is a love story, the one not generally discussed in polite or even public conversation. But if there's one thing that I do know about myself, it's that I know I hate secrets, that secrets mean shame, and that I am not now, nor will I ever be, ashamed that I am a woman who has loved someone, and that someone loved me. And even though so many people have asked me if I have lost my mind, if I am lonely, or desperate. Even though so many people have wondered if I was having a crisis, or determined that I was just going through a phase, I will continue loving the man I am loving. I will love him even though he's got an ugly past, skeletons, and sorrow. Even though he doesn't have a great job or position or power, and even though he's a prisoner at a maximum-security correctional facility, which my husband, Rashid, is, I will continue loving him. And this is our story. The first time I ever went into a prison, it was for a class I was taking on the relationship between Black people and incarceration in the United States. Months later, long after final exams had been taken and grades received, my former professor called me and asked if I would come with him and a few other people to a place called Eastern Correctional Facility in upstate New York. It was just about eighty miles from Brooklyn, where I lived. He wanted me, he said, to participate in a Black History Month program. Don't you write poems? he asked. You could read your poetry, he said. I agreed and we all went to do the program, and this was how we met, Rashid and I, convict and student, gangster and poet, resident host and visiting performer. Rashid is fine as hell, which I tried not to but couldn't help noticing the very first time I saw him. He looks like this beautifully symmetrical collaboration between Africa and India. He isn't huge, not an overwhelming presence, contrary to the usual celluloid interpretation of Black prisoners. Rashid is 5'7", with a brave smile and bright eyes. He is, I remember thinking this then, just the right size, and I could look directly at him, nearly eye to eye. His voice, which was never loud, told a story of a transplanted Afro-Caribbean. Where are you from? I wanted to know. The Boogie Down, he responded, meaning the South Bronx. And before? Oh, oh, he said, understanding my question. Guyana. South America. It's the most beautiful place in the world. That's a hell of a thing in one life, huh? To have seen the most beautiful place in the world and the most horrible place. And I'm not even thirty yet! After that, a number of other men came over to me to tell me how much they enjoyed my performance, and would I be willing to read their work, when was I coming back up, could they write to me to discuss poetry, did I know I reminded them of this sister they used to know back in the day? In the midst of these questions, Rashid left me. I watched him as he walked across the huge auditorium where the program was being held. He weaved easily through the nearly one hundred men gathered there, through the orange chairs, across the stage, the back of it, and found another guest to talk to, a poet like me. A very talented poet, I should say, and a very attractive one. I waited for him to come back over to me. I tried to will him to come back over to me, but finally I was left there annoyed because Rashid did not return until it was time to say good-bye. After we were in love, Rashid would tell me that it was me, my fault, that I was hard to approach. He told me that while I was an animated and exciting performer, offstage I was quiet, withdrawn, cool and distant. Besides, he admits now, through a series of childlike giggles, every dude knows when you really want to talk to a sister, you don't step to her directly. You step to her friend, and that's what I did. I talked to that other sister, the poet who performed before you, because that way I knew I'd get your attention. I mean, what I'd look like trying to talk to you when all of them other dudes were running they game on you? You know what I'm saying? Rashid is so pleased with himself as he tells me this story five years after our first encounter. After all, in the moment of his confession, we are in a visiting room, and I lie, as fitted as possible, in the crook of his arms. And in that moment, despite every hurting and hell I have had to endure to love this man, there is no other place that I would rather be. When we began, I was twenty-five, a student and organizer, a wife on the verge of divorce from my first husband, a poet full of secrets and sadness, an emerging woman hampered by insecurities and anger, a human being fighting off loneliness while craving solitude, needing an open love, long honest discussions, a quiet touching at my core. When we began, he was twenty-nine, inmate number 83*****, a convicted killer doing twenty years with life on the back, a model prisoner, a program coordinator, the father of a nine-year-old boy he had never been able to raise, a lawyer without a law degree, a devoted Muslim, a man on the verge of divorce from his first wife, a human being fighting off loneliness while craving solitude, needing an open love, long honest discussions, a quiet touching at his core. We were exactly the same and we were completely different. We were never meant to be together. We were always meant to save each other. Copyright © 1999 Asha Bandele. All rights reserved.

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