When mail call is announced, I feel hopeful, excited and nervous. Standing at my cell door, I watch the guard get closer and closer. I hope to hear from my grandparents, who moved to Florida about three years ago.
At last he is near enough for me to ask, “Anything for me?”
“Not today, sorry.”
My heart drops.
The feeling of a fading connection with the outside world and loved ones is common when you have been incarcerated long enough. It even has a name: “The trend of less,” referring to how people on the outside send less mail and less money as the years of one’s prison sentence goes on. We also receive fewer phone calls and visits.
When I first came to prison, in 2014, I got letters and cards weekly. The phone calls I made were always answered, and I got two visits a month. These things helped me manage being incarcerated.
As the days turned into years, I began to get less. Fewer visits, less mail — everything good dwindled. I now typically get mail from home once or twice a month. All too common these days is an overwhelming sense of having been forgotten.
Antonio Swanson, who lives at the Jefferson City Correctional Center with me, has experienced this trend as well.
“My family has forgotten my birthday and even holidays,” Swanson said.
“I may be incarcerated, but I am still here,” he continued. “To be forgotten by my loved ones causes a hurt so deep it scars my soul.”
I’ve had family who moved out of state and friends who ghosted me. I have family who won’t talk to me if I am in solitary confinement because they find the department of corrections process for sending letters to people in solitary extremely frustrating. Postal mail to Missouri prisons is sent to a digital processing center in Florida, where the mail is uploaded to a digital format and accessible via our electronic tablets. In solitary confinement, we are not allowed to have our tablets, so prison staff is supposed to print the mail for us and deliver it to our cells. But, in my experience, mail is not consistently delivered to people in the hole. The result is losing contact with friends and loved ones.
In general, my grandfather speaks to me every week. But I haven’t gotten visits from him since he moved to Florida.
Five years ago, my mother, who lives just 20 minutes away, stopped speaking to me as a result of me being transgender. Since I had not seen her in a while, due to her being busy with work, I told her in a letter. Her decision to stop communicating with me shocked me to my core.
Vince Frazier, who has been serving life without parole since 2005, appreciates his good fortune.
“For me, it’s the opposite,” Frazier said. “My family comes and visits me, answers my calls and loves to email me using Securus. The support from my family has helped keep my spirits up in such a sad place.”
Visits bring so much joy to us and our families. They are also a source of pain because afterward, our families can’t take us home. After a phone call with my family, I feel rejuvenated, full of hope and ready to take on any challenges that come my way.
I now savor every visit as though it’s my last and enjoy each phone call. I sign up for every free newsletter and magazine I can find. The simple occurrence of getting mail with my name on it brings me joy. I have been remembered. I exist.
I’m not sure our loved ones realize they are causing hurt. Instead, they might think that after years of letters, visits and phone calls, it would be hurtful to talk about new things happening in their lives. The truth is, I’d rather listen to the events of their day than deal with the silence or my surroundings.
I have never mentioned “the trend of less” to my family because I don’t want to make them feel bad. Hopefully, in the next decade, I’ll be free. Until then, I’ll be waiting for mail call, hoping I hear from home.