Trapped Up

By Dahlia Aspen

Arts & Entertainment, National Geographic, Dateline, 48 Hours, and American Jails TV series have portrayed the inside of our countrys worst jails and prisons. I have always been fascinated during my incarceration I wondered why the jail did not warrant a story.

County jail is a city within walls inmates become complacent with the self-contained structure, three meals, a cot, cable TV, and other amenities keep the revolving door spinning inmates to and fro in the penal system.

The journey from sally port to cell is an experience you will not have anywhere overwhelming about the women who choose this way of lifestyle, trapped up in an atmosphere providing sense of security and added supplementary basic necessities for daily life.

Repeat offenders violation of parole/probation and/or new charge(s) go through the booking and classification formalities that can have inmates held for months to years before transfer to an upstate prison.

Trapped up will take the reader on a journey through few county and state penal systems in new jersey for women who conform to this separate way of life without day-to-day assumed responsibilities as civilians.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499077261

Dahlia Aspen

The author has published her first book, inspired by her unfortunate incarceration and the encouragement from many to write about the experience.

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Copyright © 2014 by Dahlia Aspen.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014917392

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4990-7725-4

Softcover   978-1-4990-7727-8

eBook   978-1-4990-7726-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 09/26/2014

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Trapped Up is based on actual events, names of persons and places have been changed to protect their rights to privacy.

December 8, 1999 was the beginning for this forty-four-year-old African-American female, Faith Sabre, to become trapped up in the penal system in a New Jersey County jail that has been rated among the worst in the country. My charges were kidnapping, attempted murder, aggravated assault, and theft against my mother, who I resided with in a two-bedroom apartment located in Voorhees, New Jersey.

During the month of February 1999, my physician placed me on disability for severe high blood pressure, asthma, depression, and anxiety. Changes in my financial status caused me to move out of my apartment, first living with a male friend, Ryan, who later had some financial concerns of his own. This led me to move in with my mother in November 1999. She did not believe my health issues, as she voiced, allowing me to stay—charging me $175 rent from my social security checks and use of my electronic food stamp card of $100 monthly.

Mother gave birth to me in Pittsburg County, Virginia. When I started elementary school, we moved to New Jersey, to a three-bedroom house in the Park Side section in Camden, across from the elementary school I attended. There was one Jewish family living on the block, across the street from our home, with an only child named Sherrie and their collie-shepherd mix. She had me as her only friend in the neighborhood. Mother did not want me to go inside their home to play or spend the night, nor was she welcomed in ours. We could only play in front of her house or mine. Mother allowed me to go into the African-American families’ homes on the block, though. As I got older, I did realize the racial divide could have been Mother’s reasoning.

One of our next-door neighbors, a family of three—mother, preteen daughter, and son—played the piano. I was very excited when their mother offered to teach me how to play. After several sessions, Mother did not allow me inside their home anymore, even though she knew I was enjoying the lessons. During this time, at school, the music teacher had the students pick the instrument we wanted to learn how to play. I wanted to choose the piano in the classroom, but I knew Mother would not encourage my choice, as she would be bothered whenever the neighbors played their piano. I chose the flute, not because it was an instrument I wanted to learn how to play but because it may not sound as loud as a piano. The flute playing at home annoyed Mother, and with no family encouragement, I gave up the instrument.

Mother and Father, who were middle-class workers, provided a very comfortable living pertaining to material things. There were not any verbal I love you, kisses, hugs; every holiday was celebrated to the max. In January, there was a New Year’s Eve party. The day before, Mother was making sure house chores were done with extra attention. She had me assist with the dicing of the vegetables for preparing her delicious potato salad, grating the cheese for the oven-baked macaroni casserole, with a reward of licking cake frosting off the spoon and inside the mixing bowl.

At Easter, Mother made sure there were new outfits for church and visiting relatives for an Easter egg hunt. Big, colorful baskets were filled with jelly beans, chocolate bunnies, Marshmallow Peeps, and my favorite: chocolate-covered coconut eggs. We also had a deliciously prepared holiday dinner. The month of May meant Mother’s Day gifts. In June, she would bake German chocolate cake on my birthday. July brought new outfits for Independence Day and plenty of barbeque, macaroni salad, corn on the cob, and watermelon, to mention only a few to be enjoyed. August meant shopping for September’s back-to-school outfits, including the necessary school supplies. In October, we had costumes for trick-or-treating—on our block only—while Mother would host a game of pinochle with good food and cocktails. The card games could last into the wee hours. Sometimes after being sent to bed, I would sneak onto the top stair and watch the grown-up party. November brought new outfits for Thanksgiving Day and a dinner party held at an aunt’s house. At Christmas, we had a pretty, decorated tree and lots of toys, new clothing—coats, shoes, boots, socks, PJs, undergarments, etc.—arranged underneath. Throughout the house came the sweet smells of tangerines, apples, chocolate, sweet potato, turkey, bowls of Brazil nuts, pecans, my favorite, walnuts, almonds, and those small, round nuts that—looks like—squirrels enjoy. Between the pecans and squirrel nuts, it’s a tie, but with all these things, Mother didn’t say I love you, kiss, or embrace me.

For my birthday, she did not say or sing happy birthday, nor was there a card. Nothing really personalized the event; there was never a birthday party. There was no display of affection. When Father would sneak up behind her for a kiss, she would angrily shrug him away. There were times when alcohol was involved, Mother’s cocktail being scotch and milk. A fight would ensue, instigated by her being very mean-spirited, hollering, and throwing items at him. The last fight between them was horrible. Never did I see Father so furious. As I peeked out my bedroom door into their bedroom, he was on top of Mother, who was face-down on the bedroom floor while he was choking her. When Father became aware of my presence, he hastily pulled himself off her back.

Not long after the incident, he and Mother separated, and we moved several blocks up into an upstairs two-bedroom apartment. Every other weekend was spent with Father now, renting an apartment across town. A year later, we lived on the first floor of a duplex located across the street from a middle school I attended. Some years later, we moved to newly built townhouses near New Jersey’s Patco Speed-Line train station. It took some time, getting adjusted to the swooshing train sounds.

Mother began entertaining again and dating. Throughout our time living in our new home, she had three paramours in different years. In the beginning of the relationship, Mother could be charming. Then, as time went on, Mother would become verbally abusive toward her companions, who would leave the home, giving her plenty of time to simmer down. None of the gentlemen ever struck her.

The summer of 1973, I graduated from Rutgers Academy, an alternative school. Mother transferred me from Woodrow Wilson High School to attend Rutgers. Before that, she transferred me from Camden High—known as the castle on the hill—to separate me from the company I was keeping at both schools.

One afternoon, while walking a friend’s Doberman pinscher on Haddon Avenue, a few streets up from our townhouse, I met a guy named Nate Temple, who had recently moved to Camden from Chicago, Illinois. After several months of seeing each other, he assisted me in obtaining my first one-bedroom apartment in Lindenwold, New Jersey. My income came from working as an associate head cashier at the Deptford Mall. Mother didn’t come to the apartment. She was not fond of Nate, for her own reasons. Her disapproval showed in her facial expression. If looks could kill!

Nate had his own neighborhood tailoring shop and grocery store on the corner of Haddon and Kaighns Avenues in the city. His tailoring business gave me the idea of wanting to attend modeling school. He paid for a modeling course at the John Roberts Powers Modeling School in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. In the weeks before my graduation, he was very supportive in the preparations, taking care, making sure I had outfits to strut on the runway in the graduation ceremony. He made professional casual evening and beachwear; several outfits were tailor-made by his seamstress. The audience included models, family, friends, and the modeling school staff. Several days before the graduation, I had to convince Mother to attend the ceremony. During graduation, Nate was snapping pictures along the runway, letting the audience know that I was his prodigy. At times, I would glance at Mother, who showed no excitement. I didn’t see her clap; she did not bring a camera or show interest in obtaining graduation fashion show pictures.

From Nate’s tailoring shop, she received free clothing. When someone came into the shop with deals on electronics or other goods, even the best-cut steaks, chicken, or seafood, she would partake in the enjoyment of the gifts. But she would never show appreciation. Instead she had questions of why we were giving the items. Where did they come from? She still accepted them, never with a thank you. It was done because she is my mother. Nate and I were a couple for almost three years.

Growing up, there were many day trips in the summer months to New Jersey state parks for picnics and swimming. We took trips to Clementon amusement park, Six Flags, Philadelphia Zoo, many trips to Atlantic City’s boardwalk, visits to Crystal Cave in Pennsylvania. Nate came along on the latter.

In the mid ‘80s to early ‘90s, Mother’s lady friends arranged trips with family and friends to Baltimore, Maryland, for weekend crab feasts; vacations in Nassau, Bahamas; day trips to Freeport and Paradise Island. Mother, a sister, and I went to Jamaica. Both of them were acting like snooty, uppity persons, talking to me like I was a kid in front of the islanders. While vacationing in their beautiful country, I was bitten by the travel bug. I would go off without them, enjoying myself tremendously, socializing with the native people. No problem, Mon, like they say in Jamaica.

Our American Airlines flight back to the United States would have a two-hour layover in Miami, Florida. Waiting in the Miami airport bar lounge, I mentioned calling my high school friend Clarissa from New Jersey. She lives in Miami now, not too far from the airport. I wanted to find out if she could come to the airport during the layover. Mother and my aunt made a big fuss about making the call; they embarrassed me in the lounge. I moved from the lounge area to the bar so I could enjoy my drink in peace until it was time to board the plane. I passed the time by chatting with other passengers.

Another vacation was a twelve-day family reunion cruise. It started with a flight from Philadelphia to San Juan, Puerto Rico. There, we boarded a Carnival cruise ship sailing for South America. The ship anchored at St. Thomas, St. Barts, St. Martin, St. Croix, St. Kitts, Antigua, Guadeloupe, Martinique, St. Lucia, Grenada, Venezuela, and Aruba. We enjoyed shopping, sightseeing, and spending time on the magnificent Caribbean beaches with all their delicious activities.

That evening, for the captain’s ball, I wore a beautiful white long-sleeved sheer dress. It was sexy, with a deep V-neck slit that dropped down to my waist. At the bottom of the neckline, a belt went up, decorated with sequins adding the finishing touch to the outfit. Of course, I could not wear undergarments, only sheer pantyhose. Mother purchased the dress for my birthday from a shopping club on television. I loved this dress; it fit like a smooth glove.

As long as I could remember, Mother chose to yell rather than speak in a normal voice. This was her way of answering a situation. Over time, the behavior contributed to my hypertension and anxiety disorder. In 1998, I noticed that my asthma was triggered by perfumes, colognes, and a vast range of chemical odors. I checked my blood pressure several times a month, and my physician adjusted medications to get my hypertension under control. I became depressed because of my health issues, and I continued to miss work. Mother was in denial about my health issues. She always talked disparagingly to me.

In November, a past male friend of hers started moving his belongings into the apartment. He had vacationed with our family in the Bahamas. Because he worked at a funeral home, he was always dressed in suits. He performed funeral services.

Both he and Mother insisted on wearing heavy fragrance not caring of the fact that I lived there too. The apartment was overwhelmed by their overpowering odors. To protect myself, I locked myself behind my closed bedroom door, a towel shoved under the door. Even though Mother did not like to have the windows open; I would crack the window in my room for a little fresh air. The central-air vents had to be kept closed in the bedroom so odors could not come through. In my attempt to keep offensive odors from my bedroom, I asked them to please wait until they were in their car before putting on fragrances, but they ignored me. They just didn’t seem to care that their fragrances caused me to have nervous spasms, severe headaches, upset stomach, and vomiting. It also induced asthma symptoms. I regularly experienced a tightening of the chest and wheezing, and my blood pressure would elevate to a critical level. As a result, I was frequently hospitalized for as long as it took to have my vital signs stabilized.

One November morning, Mother shouted at me with the good news that she is planning to paint the wicker basket and towel shelf in her bathroom. Since she knew that smell supposedly bothered me, she told me to go somewhere else until she was done. I hurried up so I could take a quick shower before I left. She gathered the wicker furnishings and several cans of white spray paint in the dining room/kitchen area. After I dressed, I went into the kitchen for breakfast and saw her at the table eating. She explained that she hadn’t made me any breakfast and told me I should eat out. She told me to hurry, adding that she wanted to start her painting as soon as she finished eating.

I can’t say I was surprised. She only cooked for herself or her company. I left the apartment and sat in my Chevy Beretta in the parking lot, thinking where to spend my day. My friends worked daytime jobs, so that was out. My physician had me on light bed rest, but there I was at nine in the morning, sitting on the street. Eventually, I decided to grab breakfast at Burger King and then go to a park in nearby Clementon to eat. As I sat there watching the ducks in the lake, I started to doze off. I decided to visit my aunt’s house in South Camden, where I spent the day resting in the guest room. Later that day, my aunt made us dinner.

When I returned to the apartment that night, I was absolutely overwhelmed by the paint fumes. She didn’t even open the windows for ventilation! The fumes came through the air vents. Covering my nose and mouth with my scarf, I rushed into my bedroom and blocked the bottom of the door with a towel. Even though the vent was already closed, I reinforced it by duct taping a piece of cardboard over the area and then barely raised the window for some outside air. It was awful.

On the morning of December 8, Mother’s male friend knocked on my bedroom door and opened it before I could even respond. His cologne flooded the room. Wearing only a suit jacket, he announced, This is what I’m wearing to work today! I grabbed some clothing to cover my nose and mouth and quickly shut the door to get him out of my room. I thought his actions were very disrespectful, and to make matters worse, I could hear Mother laughing along with him. Before they left for their jobs, she asked for my electronic food stamp card. As I was giving her the card, I asked her to please leave something on the card.

The frequent use of irritants in the apartment was a big problem for me. I begged my mother to at least close her bedroom door when she