The Letter: Troubling My Soul
I wanted to talk about what was really on my mind during our visit. I didn’t push it then because I didn’t want to ruin our **quality time** together. And it wasn’t ruined; I was so glad to see you that Walter teased me the next day about being lit up like a Christmas tree. But I’m sorry, Celestial—I have to tell you what has been troubling my soul regarding our **family legacy** and the **difficult decisions** we’ve faced.
I know I said I didn’t want any son of mine dealing with the **social stigma** of having a daddy in jail. I don’t know much about my biological father, other than his name and the likelihood that he was a criminal. Because Big Roy raised me, I didn’t have to wear **generational shame** like a giant clock around my neck. Sometimes, though, I could hear that clock ticking. I thought about a kid named Myron whose father was in Angola. Myron was teeny-tiny, wearing **charity donations** from the church. They nicknamed him “Chickie” because his father was a jailbird. To this day, he answers to that name.
But our child would have had a **support system**—Mr. D, Gloria, Andre, and my family. That is a village and a half to help with **parenting and childcare** until I win my freedom. He would have been my hope for the future. I understand why you avoided this **difficult conversation**, and I know what’s done is done, but I can’t stop thinking about him. My gut tells me he was my junior.
It is painful to ask, but if we had more **spiritual faith**, would things have worked out differently? Was this a **test of character**? If we had kept the baby, I might have made it home to see him enter the world. This entire **legal ordeal** would just be a story we told him to teach him about **social justice** and how to survive as a Black man in the United States. When we chose **pregnancy termination**, it felt like we were accepting a **wrongful conviction**. It felt like we gave up on God, and maybe things changed for us then.
You don’t have to answer, but I’m curious—who else knows? I wonder if your parents know about the **choices we made**. I needed to tell you what was blocking my throat. Still, it was beautiful to see you. I love you more than words can express.
**Your husband,**
**Roy**
## The Letter: A Response from the Soul
Dear Roy,
Yes, baby, I think about it, but not constantly. You can’t sit with a **life-altering decision** like that every single day. When I do, it’s with sadness rather than regret. I understand your **emotional pain**, but please don’t send me another letter like that. Have you forgotten the **harsh reality** of the county jail? It smelled of bleach and desperation. Your complexion was gray, and your skin was cracking; you were a ghost of yourself waiting for a **legal trial**.
When I shared the **pregnancy news**, it wasn’t the joy it should have been. I hoped it would stir your **mental health** and bring you back to life, but you only moaned into your fists. You told me, “You can’t have it. Not like this.” Your grip was so tight my fingers tingled. You made your wishes clear, and I didn’t want to be a mother to a child born against a father’s wishes.
Roy, remember that I am the one who experienced this **reproductive health** journey. I am the one who went through the **medical procedure**. Just as I don’t know the **experience of incarceration**, you don’t know what it’s like to sign your name in that clinic book.
I am managing my **grief and recovery** through my **creative work**. I’ve been sewing late at night. These handmade dolls remind me of the “babies” in Cleveland, Georgia. I don’t see them as orphans; they are babies in my sewing room. I’ve made forty-two so far and plan to sell them at **local craft fairs** for about fifty dollars—at cost—for children, not collectors. I need to get them out of the house because I can’t have them staring at me, yet I can’t stop the **creative process**.
You asked who knows. It’s a **private matter**. If you are a grown woman with **financial stability**, people don’t understand why you wouldn’t have a child. But how could I think about **motherhood** with my husband in prison? This isn’t a movie; it’s our life.
I only told Andre. He provided **emotional support**, driving me and shielding me from demonstrators. He told me, “This isn’t your last chance.” He’s right. We will have a **family future**. We will be parents one day. When you are free, we can have ten babies if that’s what you want. I promise you that.
I love you. I miss you.
**Yours,**
**Celestial**
### The Letter: Confronting the Truth of Our Choices
Dear Georgia,
I know I said I would let this go, but I have one more thing to say regarding our **relationship dynamics** and the **difficult choices** we made. We took our family and pulled it out by the roots. Reading your letter, you make it sound like I forced you—like you came into the county jail excited to be starting a family. You said, “I’m pregnant,” with a tone usually reserved for a **health crisis**. What was I supposed to say?
And besides, even if I did push you in a certain direction, don’t act like you were ever an “obedient” woman. I’ll never forget our wedding day and that **marriage vow** standoff with the minister over the word “obey.” If he hadn’t backed down, we’d still be on the outskirts of matrimony.
That day at the County Jail, we had a **serious discussion** as two grown people. It wasn’t about me dictating your **personal autonomy**. As soon as I mentioned the idea of not keeping the baby, I saw the relief on your face. I loosened my grip, and you snatched the ball and ran with it.
Everything you remember is true; I said what I said. But you didn’t try to argue for our **family’s future**. You didn’t say we could make it work or that this was a child we created together. You didn’t mention the hope of my **legal exoneration** before the birth. Instead, you tucked your head and said, “I can do what has to be done.”
Yes, I get it—your body, your choice. That’s the **empowerment** they taught you at Spelman College. Fine. But we should have known there would be **long-term consequences** for our **mental well-being**. I’ll take responsibility for my role in this **life-changing decision**, but it wasn’t me by myself.
**Love,**
**Roy**
## The Letter: A Past Revealed and Lessons Learned
Dear Roy,
I need to give you some background on my **educational journey** and the experiences that shaped my view on **personal responsibility**. In college, my roommate told me that men want a woman to be a “virgin with experience.” She said you should never discuss past **relationship history** because men want to pretend it never happened. I know you won’t want to hear this, but I feel forced to share this **transformative life story**.
You know I spent a year at Howard University before transferring to Spelman, but you don’t know the **academic and personal crisis** that led to my departure. At Howard, I enrolled in an **Art History course** on the African Diaspora. My professor, Raul Gomez, was a brilliant man from Honduras who spoke Spanish when he was excited about art. He was forty, married, and a charismatic figure. I was eighteen, flattered, and completely lacked **life experience**.
When I discovered the **unplanned pregnancy**, we were unofficially engaged. I had his word, but there is always a “but.” He claimed he needed a **legal divorce** first and didn’t want his wife to bear the social shame of a “love child.” Looking back, the **red flags** were clear. While I was still recovering, he came to my dorm room to end our **extramarital affair**. He was dressed in a sharp suit, looking like a figure from the **Harlem Renaissance**, while I sat there in sweatpants, barefoot and broken. He told me I was beautiful but that I made him “forget right from wrong,” and then he walked out of my life.
I was gone, too. It was like I slipped on a patch of ice on a dark road inside my own mind. That **emotional trauma** caused me to stop attending classes entirely. Eventually, my parents were alerted by a family friend in the **university faculty**. My folks were up to DC immediately for a **legal consultation** with Uncle Banks.
That experience caused a total **mental breakdown**, Roy. I returned to Atlanta and sat in silence for a month. I felt like I had jinxed my own life—that if I had been brave enough to keep the baby, I would have been rewarded with the life I hoped for. I viewed my life as a **test of faith** that I kept failing.
## The Letter: Healing Through Art and Resilience
It was like I slipped on a patch of ice on a dark road inside my own mind. I stopped going to his class and then I stopped going to all my **university courses**. After a couple of weeks, one of my dad’s friends from the chemistry department alerted my parents. **HBCUs (Historically Black Colleges and Universities)** are serious about that *in loco parentis* culture. My folks were up to DC faster than you can say “**civil lawsuit**.” Uncle Banks served as the **legal counsel**; the suit was technically frivolous, but the strategic goal was for Raul to face **professional accountability** and lose his job.
The experience led to a total **emotional breakdown**, Roy. I returned to Atlanta and entered a period of **isolation and depression** for a month. My parents even considered **inpatient mental health treatment**. It was Sylvia, acting as a **supportive mentor**, who snapped me out of it. I was telling her how I thought I had jinxed my life—that if I had been brave enough to choose **single motherhood**, I would have been rewarded with the marriage I wanted. I felt like life was a **moral test** I kept failing.
Sylvia didn’t judge; she focused on **mindfulness and honesty**. She asked, “Do you wish you had a baby right now?” I couldn’t say. She asked if I hoped for a plus or a minus on that **pregnancy test**, and I admitted, “Minus.” She told me to stop looking for a time machine and focus on **moving forward**.
Then she introduced me to **therapeutic crafting**. She pulled out socks, embroidery thread, and cotton batting to show me how to make **handmade sock dolls**. We donated them to the neonatal unit at Grady Hospital. It wasn’t just **charitable giving**; I sewed those first dolls as a form of **trauma processing** to work the guilt out of my system. I never thought about **art commissions** or gallery exhibitions then. I felt like every doll was a way of **repaying the universe** and finding **spiritual healing**.
Eventually, the dolls and the DC trauma weren’t connected anymore. I had a weight on my soul, and I used **creative expression** to find a **path to recovery**. But I didn’t forget. I promised myself I’d never face that predicament again. I worried I had ruined myself—not in a medical sense, but in a **spiritual wellness** sense. Roy, I know we had a choice, but given our circumstances, we didn’t. I mourned that loss like a **miscarriage**. My body was fertile soil, but my life was not ready for **sustainable parenting**.
Beaks me. Tomorrow I serve the Chapel of the Holy Innocents which is yards away from a abortuary. I spend the day in prayer, serve the Altar at Holy Mass and lead the liturgy of Exposition and Benediction. All of it for you, dear Georgia and Roy, and the thousands like you. There I embrace you in Divine Love and know your baby lives in the arms of the Divine Person. You are loved. You are cherished. You are beloved. Then again at Holy Mass at 4:00 PM you will be in that prayer of uplifting and freeing from the bonds of the slavery of memory. Replacing it with Horizon!
A heartfelt reflection—it’s clear you valued the moment and chose care over urgency, showing both sensitivity and thoughtfulness in preserving your time together.