After Perfect (37 page)

“Get out of the road!” someone shouted from an ambulance. Before I could respond, a young woman in an EMT uniform had grabbed me by the arm and yanked me over to the shoulder.

“You're going to get hit by a car!” she yelled. I turned and looked at her.

“You're in shock,” she said as I touched my head. The air bag hadn't deployed.

I sat in the back of the ambulance as an EMT wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm and started pumping to make it tighter. I looked out at my car and realized what I had done. I exploded into sobs, crying as I looked at my totaled BMW. The emergency medical technician kneeled down in front of me. “Breathe,” she said. “Breathe. It's going to be okay.”

“My car, my car, my car, my car . . .” I started hyperventilating. “It's gone.”

I had shut down both lanes of the freeway. Gridlock was emerging. Drivers slowed down and saw my mascara-streaked tears in the back of the ambulance.

“Look at me,” the EMT said sharply. Her cheeks were glowing from the heat. “Do you believe in God?”

“What?” I asked, breathing in and out.

“Do you believe in God? You know, something bigger than you? Big breaths now.”

I exhaled. “I'm willing to believe in anything at this point,” I told her.

“Then repeat after me: God—”

She grasped my hands in hers.

“Repeat. After. Me,” she reiterated. “God—”

I looked out at my totaled BMW. A tow truck with flashing yellow lights was pulling up behind it as a police officer paced around it filling out the accident report.

“God—” I said at last.

“I'm giving this to you.”

“I'm giving this to you.”

“Thy will be done.”

I let out one more exasperated sob. “Thy will be done.”

I
was still sore from the accident as I waited in the security line at the Los Angeles Superior Courthouse once more.

I had never noticed her before, the statue above me. The word
Justice
carved below her feet, a terra-cotta goddess draped in judicial robes, all-powerful, and holding a sword in her right hand. Two men kneeling on either side of her; the scales of justice balancing on her head, while an American eagle perched above, its wings spread.

I don't remember what I was wearing and now, perhaps, it doesn't matter. Raw to the tip, I walked inside of the courtroom. I sat on the wooden bench in the second row.
Humbled
. Across the aisle from me, a Hispanic man sitting next to a young Hispanic woman held a baby girl. An Asian man sat behind me, and a girl of mixed race sat next to me.

“I'm Gloria,” the girl whispered. “Are you changing your last name too?”

“Yes,” I whispered back.

“To what?”

“McDowell.”

“Pretty.”

“Thanks. What about you?” I asked.

“Jones. You wouldn't be able to pronounce my birth name. It's hard to find work with it, you know? So this is much better.” She smiled.

“Sounds perfect,” I said. Gloria tapped her fingers on her folder and waited.

A few minutes later, Commissioner Matthew St. George, a soft-looking man with a white beard, entered. He took a seat and called the first person to the podium. For each person, he stated the reason for the name change. I squirmed in my seat at the thought of him saying for all to hear, “She is estranged from her father, Thomas Prousalis Jr. He is a convicted felon. She does not want any association with him, his family, or his name, as he illegally took advantage of her Social Security number. She wants to protect herself.” I panicked.
Oh God, why did I write that? Now everyone will know.
For a minute, I debated leaving as I watched the Hispanic man carry his baby to the podium to be granted a new name. It would be too humiliating.

But it was too late. “Christina Prousalis.”

That's my name! That's—
was
my name, will not be my name anymore, almost not my name—oh God, he just called my name.

I stood up. My hands were shaking as I squeezed past Gloria, and my purse hit the back of the wooden bench making a banging noise that everyone heard, which was embarrassing, as I made my way to the podium to stand before the commissioner.

There I was standing in front of him. I exhaled slowly.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, sir.”

“You have also filed a petition for name change, I see here.”

“Yes, sir.”

I was ready for him to say the words out loud, in front of everyone, why I had done it. My heart held still—ready for his words to hit me, more painful to hear the truth about my father from someone other than myself.

The commissioner looked down at my file and paused. He looked up at me, and his eyes grew kind, as though he had read my thoughts.

“Congratulations on your new beginning, Ms. McDowell,” was all he said.

My eyes flooded. “Thank you, sir.”

I was finally safe.

The building sat isolated down the street from an abandoned warehouse with bars on its windows. “Jobs Not Jails!” was painted in blue across the side. I stepped out of the used Volkswagen Jetta I bought with the insurance money I got from the accident. I was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. The building wasn't far from the old nightclub I'd worked at near skid row. Cars whizzed above me toward the bridge over the Los Angeles River. A homeless man, the only person in sight, moped by, pushing a shopping cart filled with blankets, backpacks, and trash. I looked both ways to cross the street. The address was marked inconspicuously on the sidewalk a few feet down. I walked up to the steel door, which was propped open by a giant rock. “Office of Restorative Justice,” it said. Afraid to enter unannounced, I rang the intercom button and waited.

A man with a bald head swung open the door. “It's open. See?” he said. He was no people pleaser.

I took a step back. “Yeah, I know. I just wasn't sure. I'm here to see Amalia. Is she here? She told me to come by today.”

“Yeah, yeah, Amalia's always here. Come on up. I'm Francisco.” He held out his hand.

“I'm Christina,” I said. His arm was covered in tattoos. When he turned around, the back of his neck was red and swollen. Gang tattoo removal. He must have just been released from prison.

He led me up a dark cement staircase. Crosses and candles lined the stairwell.

Upstairs was a typical office space. Francisco led me down to Amalia Molina's office at the end of the hallway.

She was more elegant than I had anticipated, sitting behind her desk in a blouse, pearls, and black slacks. Her hair was long and dark, with a few gray streaks. She got up from her seat to shake my hand.

“Hi, I'm Christina McDowell. I called you earlier this week.”

“Yes, yes. Hi, Christina, have a seat. Please.” She pointed to the chair in front of her desk. A few days earlier, I had Googled “families of the incarcerated, Los Angeles.” After all that I had been through, I thought maybe I could be of use and help.

“So what can I do for you?” Amalia exuded a wisdom and serenity that any woman would hope to have in her later years. I noticed stacks of handwritten letters on her desk. I knew they were from prison. No one handwrites letters anymore except people in prison.

“I'd like to help,” I said bluntly. “Put me to work. I can come in three days a week to volunteer.” Amalia smiled at me, wondering why I'd come all the way down there demanding I be put to work without any pay. I was young, not wealthy, and not doing it to fulfill some social elitist expectation or for my college resume. I was still cocktail waitressing and nannying when I could, wondering what I was supposed to be doing with the rest of my life, wondering if I had any kind of purpose or use on this earth. I was searching for something, and Amalia knew what it was before I did.

Each day that I showed up at her office, I sorted through mail and filed letters from prison inmates while I watched Amalia take meetings with mothers, wives, and homeless children who'd come seeking her help. One woman came in panicking because her electricity had been turned off; she could no longer pay all of the bills because her husband had been the main breadwinner, and he was gone. She didn't know how she would care for her daughter. Amalia held her hand. She listened. She took notes, and she told the woman she would help her look for more work. But I knew there was only so much she could do. I could see the surrounding community drowning in these issues. Ones I related to, yet, because I was white and from a privileged background, I didn't feel right bringing them up. Dare I say I understood, because I didn't. The reality of my childhood was starkly different, because even if it was based on some fantasy of my father's, the things—those material things—I did have, I did touch. I did have an education, and I was privileged. And the shame of it all permeated deep inside of me.

Amalia planned bus trips for families to see loved ones in prison because so often they cannot afford to travel. Many do not own cars or have the money to travel the long distances to isolated locations where many of the prisons are located. She also planned events for the families to gather, as a way to create a supportive community.

“Can you call the number next to each name on that list and check off who is coming and who is not?” Amalia asked. We were planning a trip to the beach. Many of the children going didn't own bathing suits, had never even set foot on sand or seen the ocean. In fact, most had never even ventured beyond a ten-block radius of their neighborhood.

T
he next morning, we met at the public school nearby, where buses parked out front waited to take us to Malibu for the day. I was one of the chaperones.

“You see?” Amalia said, pointing to what the children were wearing. About fifty Hispanic and black children climbed up onto the bus in their shorts and T-shirts. Most of them were being raised by a single parent, some with no parent at all, and all of them with a parent in prison or facing deportation.

The afternoon was spent on the beach. I watched a young girl touch the ocean for the first time. I watched them learn how to surf and boogie board. They built sand castles and buried one another in the sand. And I spoke with the mothers and grandmothers, who shared their stories.

Back in the office the next day, I was sitting at the computer, drafting the monthly newsletter, when Amalia walked over and asked point-blank what my story was.

I told her everything. She listened, and then jumped up from her seat, excited, rubbing her hands together as if concocting a brilliant plan. I was hoping my sob story would warrant tears, but instead she beamed and said, “You're coming with me to prison next week. You're going to share your story in one of my victims' workshops.”

“Um, okay,” I said, having no clue what she was talking about. But I trusted her.

The following week, at the crack of dawn, I met Amalia at her home. Another woman was coming with us to share her story too. Norma was the mother of a teenage son who was killed in a drive-by shooting, his body obliterated by an AK-47. He was standing on a street corner in Watts, headed for high school, when a gang member's bullet blew off his elbow, soared through his heart, and blasted his abdomen. A senior, he planned to attend UCLA in the fall. This woman had more faith, courage, and forgiveness inside of her than anyone I had ever met. I didn't understand at first why my story should be told, how it related to any of this, because of my socioeconomic background, because of my race, because of everything I thought made me separate or apart from. But Amalia kept insisting it didn't matter. She'd say with affection, “
Mija
, it's not about the money.”

P
leasant Valley State Prison is an all-men's prison about midway between Los Angeles and San Francisco. It sits on a blanket of brown in an empty desert, like most prisons. The air was dry and smelled of cow manure, and the thermometer read 104 degrees. I could see the desolate compound in the distance as we drove through its deadbeat town filled with Jesus-themed clothing stores, frayed American flags, and scattered one-story homes. I was reminded of when I visited my father in prison. I asked myself why was it that faith seemed so prevalent amid such darkness and why, in the light, it's often taken for granted. I didn't tell Mom or Mara or Chloe what I was doing. They were on their own journeys of grief.

“
Amor
, how are you doing back there?” Amalia looked at me in the rearview mirror.

“Great.” I smiled back at her. I felt sweat from the heat forming on my forehead and upper lip.

When we arrived, we walked through metal detectors and checked in. The experience was entirely different from when I checked in as a visitor to see my father. Pleasant Valley treated me like a staff member, with more respect. I was a victim to them now, coming to share my story. As if I hadn't been a victim before, being the child of an inmate?

We stood in front of the security booth as the chaplain's hands strapped an alarm to the belt loop of my pants. “If you feel your life is at risk, just press this center button here, and it will sound an alarm for security,” he said, pulling down on the device to make sure it was secure. “See those monitors there? We're tracking your every move, so we know exactly where you are at all times.” I pressed my hands and nose up to the thick tinted glass to catch a glimpse inside the security booth. Correctional officers sat wearing stab-proof vests in front of monitors, buttons, and gadgets. The chaplain grabbed a brown clipboard off the steel counter behind us and said, “Sign your name here and slide your driver's license under the window.” I took the pen and began to write my name—a name I still wasn't used to signing; a name that still didn't feel like mine:
Christina McDowell.

I handed the chaplain back his pen and clipboard knowing that I'd signed my life away. Knowing that if a riot broke out, this alarm, which resembled our garage clicker from the nineties, wasn't going to save my life.