Healing from Parental Incarceration | Nicole Ausmer | TEDxCincinnatiWomen

The year was 1994. Nelson Mandela had just won president of South Africa, and I had just won vice president of student council in elementary. You could say the year was off to an amazing start. However, instead of 1994 being stamped on my internal timeline as a year of celebration and joy, it's forever stamped with pain because it's the year my father went to prison. While I vaguely remember the details of the day, I remember exactly how I felt. I felt like I was a glass that hit the floor and shattered into a million tiny little pieces, and everyone around me quietly swept them up, hoping I wouldn't get cut, but what they didn't realize was it was too late. I was already hemorrhaging pain, and no one gave me an out the next day. I had to get up and go to school and walk by teachers who looked at me with concern, and I remember sitting silently shackled in my chair for days and weeks to come, pretending as if nothing happened. When a parent goes to prison, the child is left behind to mourn the life that could have been. They fumble through a bunch of what ifs and maybes, and when you tell someone that your parent is in prison, their face contorts to an undeniable state of pity for you. Trust me, I've seen it. Some of you are making it right now. I would imagine it's like sharing you have a parent that has passed away, but very different at the same time. When you share that your parent has died, people think about their own mortality and the mortality of their mom or dad. They send flowers and cards and bake bad casseroles, but ultimately, they show concern for those left behind. Making a prison announcement, that's a little different. You don't see that on Facebook. You generally don't see anything because the shame is too much to bear. Your parent did not die, but they are gone, and that fills you with a silent rage and pain you can't describe. So while the traditional relationship is dead, the physical bodies are still there, and that makes it hard for children to process. I wish I could share with you that my story was unique, but unfortunately, it's a classic American tale with the prison industrial complex at the center, and for me, crack cocaine serving as the overture. The prison industrial complex describes the rapid and robust increase in incarceration rates in America. The rate at which we lock up individuals, particularly individuals of color, is alarming. A recent study found that there are 2.7 million minors living with a parent in prison today. Let's color that up. That's one in nine African American children, one in 28 Hispanic children, and one in 57 white children. Those numbers cause me to gasp because often, I felt like my sister and I were alone wearing the invisible orange jumpsuit, and no one ever gave us permission to take it off. Every big accomplishment in my life felt overshadowed by my father's crimes, and on days when I'm feeling inadequate or like an imposter, the voices scream so loudly in my head, everyone knows you are a fraud. Everyone knows you are a fraud. And before big events, I find myself pacing back and forth in the bathroom with my palms sweating and my temperature rising, trying to remind myself that I am bigger than the statistics, but it feels like I'm stuck in a nightmare, and I'm still that same 11-year-old girl, and my emotions have not caught up with who I am today. When a parent goes to prison, it cuts deeply, and the old saying is, time heals all wounds. But let's be clear, it still leaves a scar. I carried around shame and embarrassment for over a decade, and it took all of my 20s to somewhat begin the healing process. And recently, I realized others needed healing too. While the numbers I shared are alarming, another disturbing fact is the significant amount of growth from the 1980s to now. We have created two entire generations who need healing from prison, and they never served one day behind bars. Children of incarcerated parents have unique social and emotional needs, and unfortunately, they are an afterthought in our society. And they deserve more. I deserve more. We need to create a space that allows them to share their pain, grieve appropriately, and ultimately heal. It is my hope that you are inspired by my scars today to help heal the next generation before it's too late. Thank you.