Eliza Jordan is fundraising
Eliza's campaign for Women's Prison Association
Tomorrow is my birthday.
Typically, I’d be on a rooftop with cocktails and friends. Instead, we are isolated due to a pandemic and continuing to fight for racial equality. Regardless of where I am each year, before I turn another page, I sit down and think about my life. I think about what has made me who I am over the years, and what can make me who I want to be in those to come.
I also think about trauma and its lasting impact. Recently during a therapeutic chat with Swoon, we talked about trauma and its ability to paralyze you with shame, even if the scenario at hand evolves around a family member and not you personally. That shame is a veil that covered me growing up and still covers me from time to time today.
Ever so often, I come out of my wind tunnel to talk about my mom—a woman who was in prison for 14 years; not an average mom from the time I was 4–18. She missed my entire childhood. During this time (from elementary school to college), I spent most holidays at a correctional facility, but never felt as though there was any “correcting” going on. Instead, officers raped inmates, women were thrown in confinement for imaginary issues, and sentences were elongated while a disregard for mental and physical health drove people to death.
As a teen, I questioned the big things—how we pay for this inhumane system with taxes, how policies by lawmakers keep this gamut running, and, overall, why a privatized prison system exists in a country like America. Globally, the U.S. has the highest rate of incarceration. Americans only make up 5% of the world’s population, yet 25% of our people are locked away in cells. Today, 1 in every 4 Americans goes to prison, and over 2.3 million people are there right now.
But to understand the current prison system, to dig into how this is happening, we have to understand history. And it begins with race. From the abolishment of slavery in 1865 to no more “free” labor; from segregation to the Southern Strategy; from the takeoff of mass incarceration in 1970 to the threat of violence as political bait; and from created ideas of a “war on drugs” to “super predators.” Projected as crime reform, most policies are actually paid for by corporations.
I could go on and ON, but what struck me as a daughter of a prisoner was how little I felt connected to most people. (I lived a weird double life of sorts, as I recently professed to the wonderful Isolde Brielmaier.) Then, most of my friends who knew about my home life were compassionate. But plainly, as a white girl growing up in Florida, you were expected from your elders to not talk about such a shameful happening, especially to the other gender or race.
I found myself at school feeling like I connected more with kids of color in my class who spoke about their parents being locked away. They confided in each other, but I always sat on the outside of their circle. Meanwhile, I was directed to go to cheerleading practice and acting class and pretend nothing at home was happening. Essentially, I confided in no one. The few times that I did, my friends of color understood me more immediately than anyone else—they just wanted to talk about their parents, who they missed dearly, too. I realized early on there were more issues with race (and its undeniable link to incarceration) than our peers or parents eluded to. I despised that dishonesty.
What also struck me about being involved with the system was the “end.” Picking my mom up from that disgusting facility, I knew that if I weren’t there to get her, she would be left to a halfway home (if she was lucky enough to pre-arrange that). Most of those “homes” are riddled with drugs and just enough doubt to send you right back in, increasing the recidivism rate. The first few years of her being home were life lessons: how to use a debit card (not a check?), how a modern cell phone works (touchscreen?), how to be responsible for more than a spoon, and how society norms are today (please don’t tell the CVS cashier you just got home from prison). Those were starters.
More pressing for her, and something I can not control, is the therapy and rehabilitation she needs to mentally and emotionally adjust to being back in the “free world,” which is not at all monitored as mandatory rehabilitation or health care in our country.
Over the past near decade of me living permanently in New York, I promised myself to heal. As I didn’t fully live as a child during childhood, I need now to be a young adult in adulthood. I knew I needed time to be me and me alone—no strings attached to incarceration. I told myself that after a few years of healing, I wanted to personally do more to help women who are in prison, the families they leave behind, and those that are fortunate enough to come home. I’ve finally reached that time.
I started small by getting in touch with the Women’s Prison Association (WPA) and have been building a relationship with the remarkable people there. The first time I met with WPA’s Executive Director, Georgia, we talked for hours. It was the therapy I never got. She listened, she asked questions, she wanted to help—even though I was there to offer help.
Working with women at all stages of criminal justice involvement, WPA assists in finding affordable housing, unifies women with their children, guides them to treatment, aids in obtaining employment, and more.
For my birthday, I want to continue to heal. I want to continue to build my relationships with those at WPA, and other institutions like Equal Justice Initiative, Cut 50, and Dream Corps. These dedicated organizations, most of which are nonprofits, rely on donations to fuel their fight. So, I’ve started my first-ever GoFundMe to raise some $$$ for WPA.
To my friends who really know me, please consider donating the money you’d spend on a bottle of champagne or a fancy candle to my WPA bday fund. Of course we aren’t on my roof with rosé or at a fancy party sipping cocktails, but this is truly the next best thing for me.
By donating, I’m able to help WPA help women associated with incarceration (like my mom and I!) get to a better place. The goal is to heal, to help the helpless get to a more stable place, and steadily reform the corrupt racial and criminal justice systems.
In a time where Gorge Floyd’s murderer can raise $1M in funds to make bail, I’m hopeful we can raise my targeted amount of $1K.
We can eat cake later.
-Eliza
Typically, I’d be on a rooftop with cocktails and friends. Instead, we are isolated due to a pandemic and continuing to fight for racial equality. Regardless of where I am each year, before I turn another page, I sit down and think about my life. I think about what has made me who I am over the years, and what can make me who I want to be in those to come.
I also think about trauma and its lasting impact. Recently during a therapeutic chat with Swoon, we talked about trauma and its ability to paralyze you with shame, even if the scenario at hand evolves around a family member and not you personally. That shame is a veil that covered me growing up and still covers me from time to time today.
Ever so often, I come out of my wind tunnel to talk about my mom—a woman who was in prison for 14 years; not an average mom from the time I was 4–18. She missed my entire childhood. During this time (from elementary school to college), I spent most holidays at a correctional facility, but never felt as though there was any “correcting” going on. Instead, officers raped inmates, women were thrown in confinement for imaginary issues, and sentences were elongated while a disregard for mental and physical health drove people to death.
As a teen, I questioned the big things—how we pay for this inhumane system with taxes, how policies by lawmakers keep this gamut running, and, overall, why a privatized prison system exists in a country like America. Globally, the U.S. has the highest rate of incarceration. Americans only make up 5% of the world’s population, yet 25% of our people are locked away in cells. Today, 1 in every 4 Americans goes to prison, and over 2.3 million people are there right now.
But to understand the current prison system, to dig into how this is happening, we have to understand history. And it begins with race. From the abolishment of slavery in 1865 to no more “free” labor; from segregation to the Southern Strategy; from the takeoff of mass incarceration in 1970 to the threat of violence as political bait; and from created ideas of a “war on drugs” to “super predators.” Projected as crime reform, most policies are actually paid for by corporations.
I could go on and ON, but what struck me as a daughter of a prisoner was how little I felt connected to most people. (I lived a weird double life of sorts, as I recently professed to the wonderful Isolde Brielmaier.) Then, most of my friends who knew about my home life were compassionate. But plainly, as a white girl growing up in Florida, you were expected from your elders to not talk about such a shameful happening, especially to the other gender or race.
I found myself at school feeling like I connected more with kids of color in my class who spoke about their parents being locked away. They confided in each other, but I always sat on the outside of their circle. Meanwhile, I was directed to go to cheerleading practice and acting class and pretend nothing at home was happening. Essentially, I confided in no one. The few times that I did, my friends of color understood me more immediately than anyone else—they just wanted to talk about their parents, who they missed dearly, too. I realized early on there were more issues with race (and its undeniable link to incarceration) than our peers or parents eluded to. I despised that dishonesty.
What also struck me about being involved with the system was the “end.” Picking my mom up from that disgusting facility, I knew that if I weren’t there to get her, she would be left to a halfway home (if she was lucky enough to pre-arrange that). Most of those “homes” are riddled with drugs and just enough doubt to send you right back in, increasing the recidivism rate. The first few years of her being home were life lessons: how to use a debit card (not a check?), how a modern cell phone works (touchscreen?), how to be responsible for more than a spoon, and how society norms are today (please don’t tell the CVS cashier you just got home from prison). Those were starters.
More pressing for her, and something I can not control, is the therapy and rehabilitation she needs to mentally and emotionally adjust to being back in the “free world,” which is not at all monitored as mandatory rehabilitation or health care in our country.
Over the past near decade of me living permanently in New York, I promised myself to heal. As I didn’t fully live as a child during childhood, I need now to be a young adult in adulthood. I knew I needed time to be me and me alone—no strings attached to incarceration. I told myself that after a few years of healing, I wanted to personally do more to help women who are in prison, the families they leave behind, and those that are fortunate enough to come home. I’ve finally reached that time.
I started small by getting in touch with the Women’s Prison Association (WPA) and have been building a relationship with the remarkable people there. The first time I met with WPA’s Executive Director, Georgia, we talked for hours. It was the therapy I never got. She listened, she asked questions, she wanted to help—even though I was there to offer help.
Working with women at all stages of criminal justice involvement, WPA assists in finding affordable housing, unifies women with their children, guides them to treatment, aids in obtaining employment, and more.
For my birthday, I want to continue to heal. I want to continue to build my relationships with those at WPA, and other institutions like Equal Justice Initiative, Cut 50, and Dream Corps. These dedicated organizations, most of which are nonprofits, rely on donations to fuel their fight. So, I’ve started my first-ever GoFundMe to raise some $$$ for WPA.
To my friends who really know me, please consider donating the money you’d spend on a bottle of champagne or a fancy candle to my WPA bday fund. Of course we aren’t on my roof with rosé or at a fancy party sipping cocktails, but this is truly the next best thing for me.
By donating, I’m able to help WPA help women associated with incarceration (like my mom and I!) get to a better place. The goal is to heal, to help the helpless get to a more stable place, and steadily reform the corrupt racial and criminal justice systems.
In a time where Gorge Floyd’s murderer can raise $1M in funds to make bail, I’m hopeful we can raise my targeted amount of $1K.
We can eat cake later.
-Eliza
- E
- T
- A
55 supporters
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