Justice Notes: Shame
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
This week in our White Collar Group meeting, one of our members shared her story. She spoke openly about the shame she carried after her conviction. The quiet, internal weight that can follow someone long after sentencing. What struck me most was what helped her overcome it. She said it was her children. Their love, their normalcy, and their refusal to see her as anything other than their mother slowly dissolved the shame she had placed on herself.
Her story reminded me of my own most painful encounter with shame while I was incarcerated.
SHAME
The most difficult thing for an inmate to overcome is the shame of it.
Shame is internal. It’s precipitated by external sources—guards, family members, prosecutors, or harmed victims—but the emotion comes from within. It’s something we put on ourselves. And it’s the primary hurdle for an inmate trying to recover and rehabilitate from the trauma of the criminal justice system.
My most shameful moment came when my grandchildren—seven and five years old—visited me in prison.
My son asked if I wanted him to bring them for a visit. I was deeply conflicted. I had missed them terribly and wanted to see them, hug them, and experience that wonderful innocence that children carry. Something so cleansing, even for a felon.
But I didn’t want them to have to deal with my shame. I worried that somehow it might transfer to them. I also feared the guards, who are often rude and purposefully mean to visitors, even children.
I had already seen it happen. Women visiting their husbands would drag toddlers behind them, only to be forced to leave because the guards decided their shoes were not compliant. I remember the little faces—confused, shamed, embarrassed.
I feared that might happen to my grandchildren.
Eventually my son decided it would be okay for them, and worthwhile for me.
On the day of the visit, I had just been transferred to a new bunk with a tiny window overlooking the parking lot. It was a grimy window, but at least it let in some light in the morning. My prior bunk was buried in the dorm’s interior, where I stumbled in the dark every morning trying to find the bathroom.
This window allowed me to see them arrive.
Inmates wait to be called when a visitor arrives, and there is always a long delay between arrival and when you’re called.
I did everything I could to look like their grandfather.
I shaved twice.
I combed my hair three times.
I polished my work boots.
I cleaned my glasses.
Still, I was gripped with shame at the thought of greeting them in my green prison garb. It was overwhelming.
I stared out the window for an hour before they arrived, deciding and undeciding every minute whether to cancel the visit. One moment I was committed to meeting them, the next equally committed to canceling.
When they finally arrived, I still didn’t know what I would do.
My daughter-in-law stepped out first—a sweet girl I love like my own daughter. I remember her crying at my sentencing hearing and how much that touched me.
Then my son came around from the driver’s seat and opened the back door.
My grandson Nate, five years old—freckles and bangs, all boy—leaped out like he was heading to a ballgame or an amusement park.
Then Alice, seven years old, enchanting, stepped out smiling. She always has a grateful smile on her face. That’s just the way she’s wired—sweet and innocent.
They both looked like they were going somewhere fun. There was nothing solemn about them.
Their vibe reassured me and gave me the confidence to meet them.
The visiting room at Devens is not unpleasant. There are cartoons painted on the walls. Vending machines line the perimeter. Behind the main visiting room is an outdoor area for visitors when the weather is nice.
That day it was warm, so we sat outside.
There are picnic tables, beaten up and badly in need of paint, but passable. The area is surrounded by tall pine trees, with a view of an abandoned golf course.
It’s a setting that doesn’t evoke where you really are.
I can’t recall the conversation. I only remember that we never mentioned the word incarceration. We never acknowledged that we were in a prison. No one referenced my status, where I was, or what I was doing there.
We simply ignored the sense of place.
They probably stayed for a couple of hours. I think we bought some snacks from the vending machine. But I can’t remember the details. I only remember their exit.
Inmates typically walk visitors to the exit door, with the guard station immediately behind it. You say goodbye there. No hugs. No touching allowed.
For some reason, Alice was the last one to say goodbye.
She tugged on my arm to signal she wanted to tell me something in secret.
I bent down and she whispered in my ear.
“Is it hard?” she asked.
I wanted to say yes, but I was stunned into silence.
Then she smiled.
They all walked out waving and smiling at me. They looked like the perfect family.
One I didn’t deserve.
I can still feel the cutting shame of that moment.
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