Presenting my passport at reception to verify who I was, the lady on the desk waxed lyrical about her holiday plans - she's off on her jollies next month.
She tells me as she holds my passport up and looks at me, looks at the passport, looks at her screen that she had her blue post-brexit passport out last night whilst booking flights. She's giddy. Excited.
As we all are when we book a little holiday, to break the dreary rat race of work, sleep, eat, repeat. I imagine her job can be a thankless one at times, manning the gate, the entry, the exit, of this prison. The comings and goings of staff, prisoners, outsiders, couriers, deliveries and the never ending verification of who's who and why.
She doesn't show a glimmer of recognition, why would she? I was here in 2021, for 6 months at best in the second part of my prison journey and we rarely crossed paths unless she tannoyed my name through the prison compound - "Barker-Mills to centre," "Barker-Mills to employment hub,"
Still... Barker-Mills, a bougie double-barrel name is not as forgetful as some, a Smith? A Jones? Perhaps.
And so, I meander through the prison hallways once again, lead by the lady I'm meeting, who leads the way as if I've never been here before, it's an assumption many make when I set foot inside the prison walls now free, that I'm "one of them," and not "one of the other,"
Even whilst incarcerated I was mistaken for a member of staff in a meeting, whereby someone addressed me as a regular human being and asked when I might be available for a meeting; I laughed and looked perplexed at the question and responded "always? I live here?"
Cue red faces all round and an air of horror at the mistaken identity of prisoner, masquerading as professional.
I suppose you could say the same now as I walk side by side with those who have keys, and those who do not.
As I sat waiting in reception for this meeting to take place, I could hear the keys jangle down the corridor and whilst it tingled the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck, it less so instilled fear. Time and distance from this place and who I was here has quieted that trauma response. And a lot of work.
Up to the governors corridor, into the meeting. Familiar faces. All familiar as figures of authority, now peers; although I'm not sure if they see it that way, but treat me as such whilst we converse.
We talk of Coming Home, its work in the community, data, impact, outcomes, women, names, places, faces, some who walked these halls, some who left as I did. A shadow, but stepping into the sunlight at their own pace - no thanks to the scarring the prisons left upon them.
I'm pleased to hear of changes taking place here, it already had a solid model for redemption and transparency, as best any HMP establishment could, failings of course, prisons are never without failings, but where there are failings; there are learnings and unlike other womens estates, the learnings have been put into place here but I'm always aware that the free woman walk around, is very different to the prisoner experience and I never let that stray from my mind when in meetings like this.
It smells the same.
The cleaning products that douse the floors, the polish that waxes the wooden staircase of grandeur, the air freshener that covers the chaos of 100 women sharing living spaces and bathrooms. However, less like cattle here, there's dignity in that.
And so plans are made, discussions had.
The beauty of the day is in meeting an officer who was in situ whilst I was incarcerated, most animals would not want to see their zookeeper or fraternise with the enemy, it's almost a betrayal amongst prisoners to do so - sit on the other side of the fence, now with the people who caged you. But this woman was different then, and remains different now.
I have written about her before "I come to work and hope I can make a difference, and I like to think that I do,"
I quoted it back to her today. Told her of the impact those words had on me. Sat on a picnic bench debating my mortality and decision to live until the following day.
If ever there was a ledge, she helped pull me back from it.
Sincerity can be found in the power dynamics which exist behind prison walls. Empathy. Understanding. Always treading the boards of professional privacy in a volatile and unknown environment. It was always fascinating to me, as an educator, understanding the need to engage and share tit bits of real life and lived experience, but know the limitations. In prison, that's amplified.
And I wonder, as we bring the program into the prison setting, how I will tighten that narrative and teaching style, to share, but not share in a way that allows for vulnerability and exploitation.
I'm an open book, I was before prison, even more so after. I share because I care. This blog is testament and reflection of that, but it's not something that can exist in a prison setting, which makes me wonder, if Coming Home can have the same level of authenticity and care behind bars as it does in the community - the answer is yes.
Anyone who knows me, has met me, read my work, attended my sessions, seen my public speaking, listened to my podcasts, knows. There's a way in the criminal justice arena to share in a way that inspires, without the occupational hazard of that being used against you.
And yet, the lady I set the meeting with, greeted me with a hug, a warm hello, asked about my wife by name, work, how the new house is, I don't doubt she cares, because I'm very much a product of this place (although that takes away from the work I put in to become this person, this version 2.0)
The next lady I meet, she too "remembers me," - for my writing. A sly smile. I wrote a piece you are now all accustomed to - "Fuck The Patriarchy"
It won a competition, it was created for stage through Clean Break Theatre. A true piece of art. Still, the greatest piece I've ever written or will write.
Alas, there were those amongst the professional education team at this prison who happily shared "we googled every line, and we can't find it anywhere, where did you copy it from?"
They couldn't believe "a prisoner could write like that,"
That doubt continued as I wrote articles for the prison newsletter, on topics like LGBT pride and use of language, on neurodiversity, on equality.
One claimed my piece of work on LGBT equality was originally written by Tony Blairs daughter in Grazia magazine.....
What a joy, to be tarred with the same brush in prison as I was in the press.
The baker who put bread on the radiator was also the writer who plagiarised politicians children's prose.
Alas, for anyone who has read this blog or my articles in publications, and equally, anyone who has eaten my bread; will know, neither are true. And both, to my credit, are my true joy and success in life.
My art.
So as I type and wonder - can I work with women and institutions that have the prepencity to cast such doubt over a woman's abilities and ambitions in such a way as they did me, the answer is yes. Because for every doubter, there's a Miss Jones, or there's a Fran.
This prison will be the better and the richer for my balls to the wall approach at education, employability, empowerment and ownership of who you are, what you did and what you can and will become if you work to overcome the trauma of prison and the trauma of who you were once upon a time.
I will be the one who reminds these women, these allies behind bars, we all succeed together. We are the change.
We are the girls who go back to prison in nice suits, with big smiles and say "I'm here,"
I type, sat in a first class carriage on my way home. To my wife. To my life.
It's not an ostentatious over-reaching of luxury, it's a pragmatic planned purchase that says "I can, so I will,"
For those who have travelled in the prison van to and from York or Cheshire or elsewhere, to travel HOME, like this. You should.
I'm the furthest away from the Fran of 2021 who came home from prison in the front seat of my wife's car, wanting to be anything else, anywhere else, not that person, not there.
3 years on.
I go home to our little house in the suburbs, where the rent is paid on time, but it's paid because we work our socks off to make it happen.
Where the fridge is full because prison starved me and I wasted away in body and mind and now we feed ourselves our of self care and self love and worth.
Where the bills are paid because I don't lead debt collectors to our door anymore or peep around curtains to see who's knocking and why.
It took forever to get here.
But if I can, anyone can.
I like to think I can play a part in that.
I can be that moment of inspiration or hope.
To know, life gets better.
It's not prison bags, prison pals, prisoner numbers for life.
And just when I think I'm adjusting to my place within the prison walls, I'm chatting, walking towards to exit, take my laptop and things from security, a hug farewell from the lady I've spent time with and she says to Mrs-going-on-holiday
"Do you remember Fran? She's one of ours, an Askham girl,"
My heart sinks a little - I'm not one of yours. I made me, but she says it with such pride, it's hard to be mad.
The other woman's body language changes instantly. Cold. Closed and horrified.
"Barker-Mills, I thought that name sounded familiar,"
Nobody has called me Barker-Mills in this establishment for some time and I don't like it.
I nod through the gap and give a wave
She looks like I've hit her with a shovel.
And I'm reminded, just like the officers who tread the boards of professional / privacy - there are those within these walls who will always see a prisoner first and not an equal.
She's shared her holiday plans with an ex-con.
She's shared her excitement and humanity, with a prisoner.
Hunni, you enjoy that all-inclusive - nobody cares.
I'm sure you deserve the break, it must be hard existing in your world of judgement of "us," and "them,"
But I can promise you one thing - you'll be seeing a lot more of me, so practice those pleasantries.
Because I'll be back.
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