The Weight of Incarceration: Celestial’s Story of Art, Trauma, and Survival
My family eventually packed up and migrated to **Atlanta**, finding refuge with my grandfather’s brother until my granddaddy secured a job. The catalyst for our move was a singular, haunting moment in a store: the realization that my mama was destined to be a **baby maid**. It was that sense of **inevitability** that forced my grandparents to seek a different life. Please hold onto that memory; it’s vital to understanding everything that follows.
I never shared this with you, but about a year ago, I experienced a mental health “incident.” It wasn’t a full breakdown, just a moment of profound **emotional distress**. I kept it from you because I didn’t want to add to your burden. I’m okay now, but you need to know what happened.
Andre and I were near **Peeples Street** after installing my latest art exhibition at the **Hammonds House**. These **handmade dolls** are incredibly intricate—almost **baroque**—crafted with raw silk and tulle. The **creative process** was physically demanding; I even built the movable platforms for the **topsy-turvy dolls** myself. Between the labor and the lack of sleep, I was completely exhausted.
We were walking down **Abernathy**, heading to get fish sandwiches from the Muslims. I was hungry, depleted, and vulnerable. Near an intersection, we passed a young mother and her toddler. He was tiny and beautiful. I often find myself wondering if, in another life, we would have a son that age. Looking at her—so young, maybe twenty-one, but so **conscientious** and present—I saw a reflection of a life I could have had.
As they approached, the little boy smiled, and I felt a sudden, violent **jolt of recognition**. He looked exactly like you. In that moment, a voice in my head—chilling and foreign—whispered, *”A baby prisoner.“* The trauma hit me instantly. I clamped my hands over my mouth, gasping. Andre looked at me, bewildered. I asked him, “Did you see him? Was it Roy?” He didn’t understand. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I lost control. The next thing I knew, I was on my knees on the sidewalk, sobbing and clutching a water hydrant as if it were a small, sturdy child.
Andre knelt beside me in what probably looked like a **domestic dispute** to passersby. He gently peeled my fingers off the metal, one by one. We eventually made it to the fish shop. He called Gloria, who arrived with a “nerve pill”—the kind of **anxiety relief** mothers always seem to carry. I slept for hours, trying to recover from whatever had possessed me. The very next day, I attended my **art opening** at the Hammonds House. I can’t fully explain the psychology of it, but that vision of a “baby prisoner” stayed with me like a **hookworm**.
## From “Dream-Adjacent” to the National Portrait Gallery: Art, Shame, and the Prison-Industrial Complex
The idea for the piece took hold of me like a parasitic **hookworm**. I had to create it. I took the doll, stripped away the innocent **John-Johns**, and meticulously crafted a diminutive set of **prison blues** using waxed cotton. Dressing that doll was grueling, but it transformed the object from a simple toy into a powerful work of **fine art**. This was the creation that eventually won the national contest. I deeply regret that you had to learn about its success from your mother rather than from me.
During my **artist interview** on stage, I chose not to disclose your situation. When the panel asked about my **creative inspiration**, I spoke of my mother’s history as a “baby maid” and discussed the systemic impact of **Angela Davis** and the **prison-industrial complex**. Our personal struggle is so intimate that I couldn’t bear to see it dissected in a newspaper headline. I hope you can understand my need for privacy in such a public moment.
Yours,
**Celestial**
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### Roy’s Response: The Reality of Incarceration vs. Artistic Fantasy
Dear Georgia,
A few months ago, you described yourself as “dream-adjacent,” but it’s clear you’ve been chasing a **professional fantasy** behind my back. While the shop was my vision, your aspirations were always rooted in **high-end galleries**, museums, and the prestige of **white-glove installations**. Don’t act as though I don’t know the real you.
I hear what you’re saying, but I also hear the silence. Are you **ashamed** of me? It feels like you can’t stand before the **National Portrait Gallery** and admit your husband is **incarcerated**. You have the platform, but you choose not to use it. I understand the transition is hard—we went from a “Huxtable life” to this nightmare—but it begs the question: where is our marriage in all of this?
Send me a photo of the doll. Perhaps I’ll appreciate the **artistic concept** more if I see it, but right now, I’m skeptical. Even if your goal is to **raise consciousness about mass incarceration**, what can a **handmade doll** actually achieve for those of us on the inside? Just yesterday, a man died here because of a lack of medical care. No amount of **poupées** or **social justice art** can fix the systemic failures of this facility.
I have always been your biggest supporter, but I feel you’ve crossed a line by erasing me from your narrative. I truly hope that prize from the **National Portrait Gallery** provides the fulfillment you’re looking for.
Your husband (I think),
**Roy**
## The Hidden Cost of Incarceration: Shame, Success, and Systemic Bias
That is all I will say on the matter. If you are uncomfortable admitting that your husband—an **innocent man**—is facing **wrongful incarceration**, you can simply tell people about my “promotion.” I’m now pushing a trash can around “Mars,” using giant tongs to collect refuse. Since **Parson Correctional Center** operates as an **agri-business** site, I’ve moved from picking soybeans to working inside. I may not have a white-collar shirt and tie, but I have a white jumpsuit. Everything is relative, Celestial. In this **prison labor** system, I’ve made it to the top. There is no need for you to feel **shame**.
Your husband (I think),
**Roy**
**PS:** Was Andre there? Were the two of you playing up that “childhood best friends” narrative for the crowd? I may have been born yesterday, but I wasn’t born last night.
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### The Burden of Representation: Why the Truth Doesn’t Always Set You Free
Dear Roy,
Your last letter deeply upset me. How can I explain that this isn’t about **social stigma** or shame? Our story is too delicate for the public eye. Don’t you see? Once I mention **mass incarceration**, people lose sight of my identity as an **artist**. Even when I advocate for your **wrongful conviction**, the only label that sticks is “prisoner.” The truth gets lost in the **systemic bias**.
This was a pivotal moment for my career. My mentor flew in, and even **Johnnetta B. Cole** was there. During the **Q&A session**, I didn’t want to be “the prisoner’s wife”; I wanted to be recognized for my craft. Perhaps it was selfish, but I needed that moment. Please write back.
Yours,
**Celestial**
**PS:** I won’t even dignify your comments about Andre with a response. I trust you’ve come to your senses.
—
### The “Ghetto Yoda” and the Reality of the Black Professional Brand
Dear Georgia,
According to Walter, I’m being a “jackass” for not seeing things from your perspective. He argues it’s unreasonable to expect you to constantly highlight my **incarceration**. He calls it the “Fugitive” dilemma—you can’t spend your life chasing a one-legged man.
Walter believes your **professional advancement** and “brand” would be sabotaged by the **troubling stereotypes** associated with **African American life**. He says that as a Black woman, you’re already fighting **prejudicial tropes** about “fifty-eleven babies and daddies.” To the world, you are a “Houdini” of **doll-making**, working a high-level hustle. If you mention the “hoosegow,” the **racial bias** kicks in, and people stop seeing the artist and start seeing a statistic.
My exact words should be: **I’m sorry.** I didn’t mean to guilt-trip you. But the weight of this **legal injustice** is heavy, Georgia. You cannot imagine the reality of life inside these walls.
I checked the article again. You were wearing a smile—and my ring. I don’t know how I missed it before.
Love,
**Roy**
## The Branding of Survival: Navigating Racial Stereotypes and Professional Success
According to Walter, I have been a “jackass” for failing to see things from your perspective. He argues it is unreasonable for me to expect you to constantly broadcast that your husband is **incarcerated**. He says, “This ain’t *The Fugitive*. You want her to go running after the one-legged man?” (Now you see why we call him the **Ghetto Yoda**).
His core argument centers on **brand protection**: your potential for **career advancement** and professional growth is at risk if your public image is tethered to the **criminal justice system**. In his view, that association triggers **troubling stereotypes** of African American life.
Walter put it bluntly: “She is a Black woman, and society already projects **prejudicial tropes** onto her—the ‘welfare’ narrative and the ‘absent father’ myth. She has already fought to overcome those **systemic biases** to convince the world she is a master artisan. She’s working her hustle. If she stands up there talking about her man in the hoosegow, the audience stops seeing her talent and starts seeing those fifty-eleven stereotypes. She might as well give up her **entrepreneurial dream** and go back to a corporate 9-to-5.”
My exact words should be: **I am sorry.** I didn’t mean to guilt-trip you. But this **legal burden** is heavy, Georgia. The reality of life inside these walls is something you can’t imagine, and I pray you never have to. I went to the library and looked at the article again. I saw your smile and, most importantly, I saw **my ring** on your finger. I don’t know how I missed that symbol of our **matrimonial bond** before.
Love,
**Roy**
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### The Silence of the Incarcerated: A Plea for Correspondence
Dear Celestial,
Did you receive my letter from last month? I offered a sincere **apology**, but perhaps I didn’t make it clear enough. I’m sorry. Please, write back. Even an **electronic communication** or email is fine.
**Roy O. Hamilton Jr.** **Inmate ID: PRA 4856932** **Parson Correctional Center**
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### Seeking a Father’s Blessing in the Shadow of Injustice
Dear Mr. D,
I imagine this isn’t the life you envisioned when I approached you for your daughter’s **hand in marriage**. I was serious about doing things the “right way,” following **traditional marriage customs**. When you said her hand wasn’t yours to give, I felt embarrassed, like I didn’t understand the **social etiquette** of your world. But I needed to speak to you man-to-man. I wasn’t just asking for a wife; I was asking to join your family.
I have always respected my own father, even if he is technically my stepfather. He provided a **stable home environment** despite having no high school diploma. I respect his sacrifice more than anyone. But I looked to you as a **mentor**—a fellow “immigrant” to Atlanta’s **middle-class success**. You achieved **upward mobility**, and I felt I was on that same path until this **wrongful conviction** changed everything.
Mr. Davenport, Celestial hasn’t visited me in two months. She cited **transportation issues**, but the silence has grown long. I am turning to you because you know her better than anyone. Perhaps you can offer the **mediation** or guidance needed to bring her back to me.
## A Letter of Honor and Heartbreak: Seeking a Father’s Blessing
When you said, “Her hand is not mine to give,” I felt a wave of **embarrassment and social anxiety**. I tried to backtrack, pretending it was a joke, but inside I felt out of place—like I was eating with my fingers while everyone else used a knife and fork. I realized then that while her hand wasn’t yours to give, I still needed to approach you as a man. I wasn’t just asking for a wife; I was asking for the **honor of becoming your son-in-law**.
### The Influence of Positive Male Role Models
I am incredibly close to my own father, Big Roy. Although he is technically my **stepfather**, he is the only father I’ve ever known and the ultimate **positive male influence**. I am his “junior” in every way. Despite not finishing high school and living his life in small Southern towns, his **financial sacrifices** and hard work provided a secure home for our family. I hold more **respect for my father** than anyone else in the world.
### Seeking Mentorship and Shared Heritage
I came to you because of our shared journey. We are both **immigrants to Atlanta**, navigating the path from **rags to riches**. You’ve been established longer, and I was just “off the boat,” but our backgrounds are mirrors of each other. In asking for Celestial’s hand, I wasn’t just seeking a **marriage blessing**; I was seeking a **mentor**. I felt I was “punching above my weight” with her, and instead of the **fatherly validation** I craved, I left feeling like a dummy.
### Coping with Incarceration and Relationship Strain
Maybe I’m a dummy for writing this at all, but I am desperate. Mr. Davenport, Celestial has not visited me in Louisiana for two months. Despite no **relationship arguments**, she missed her September visit due to “car trouble” and hasn’t sent any **correspondence** since.
I am turning to you because you know her better than anyone. You once said I didn’t know her well enough to marry her—perhaps you were right. I am asking you to **advocate for our marriage** and speak to her on my behalf. Please tell her I understand the **heavy sacrifice of being a prison wife**. I have always worked for everything I have, and I am not used to asking for help, but I need her back.