The Revolution Will Be Posterized

Around the cement patio and the fenced-in grass next to it, women in identical jerseys, pants and brown boots chased toddlers, rocked babies, played cards and board games, introduced their families to each other and gave piggyback rides.

“He went through puberty!” a woman named Loretta cried out gleefully, pointing at her 13-year-old son, who shrank in mortification. “His voice changed, got a little fuzz going on his mustache!”

“His hair sure grew,” observed another woman, poking at her son’s towering Afro.

The women were only allowed the visits if they had no disciplinary problems; one teenage girl’s mother was denied a visit, but the girl came anyway. Prison guards allowed the two to speak on phones through a glass window in the corner of the room. The girl pressed her prom pictures to the glass.

Five minutes before 3, a guard called out, “Visiting is terminated!” Toys were packed and families held each other in group hugs around the room.

“I wore waterproof makeup, ’cause I knew I was going to cry,” Spanne said. She clutched both her children to her. “I love you,” she said, as she kissed the tops of their heads. Tears ran down their faces.

Slowly the room reorganized: Softball-jerseyed women lined up on one side, families on the other. One or two at a time, the women were ushered behind a door with a heavy glass pane. While they waited, they called to each other.

“Mom! Mom!” “I love you.” “Stay cool, sister.” “Bye, Mom.” Spanne waved, and her kids waved back. The heavy door opened and Spanne walked through. She turned and pointed at herself, crossed her arms over her chest and then pointed at her family. “I love you,” she told them in sign language. And then she was gone.

—Sonya Geis