California Prison Industry Authority (CALPIA) sheets are made by prisoners for prisoners. Many will hang their sheet across the bunk, to create makeshift curtains and provide the illusion of privacy in their personal space. It's common practice to paint and decorate bedding. Some will pay heavily for artists to create designs.

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I painted a letter to my bed on a new CALPIA sheet. I used a paperclip end for fine lines, and a tiny paint brush for larger lines. A hair dryer was used to "heat set" the paint so that the sheet can be washed without bleeding or fading. I painted the sun and moon using Zentangle art to symbolize how I use my sheet for both sleeping at night and privacy in the day. The tree with few leaves shows how this place can destroy us, and those who are well grounded with good roots can survive.

This gavel was sculpted from California Prison Industry Authority (CPIA) soap, which is made by and for the population in California prisons. CPIA bars turn to butter-like clay when soaked in hot water. Using multiple bars of soap soaked in a bath, I shaped this gavel by hand. 

I started with the handle by using an unfolded paper clip to strengthen the core and left room to attach the head. I then left the gavel in direct sunlight to dry and harden while I sculpted the head. Finally, I attached the two pieces together, allowed it to dry and solidify around the paperclip, and finished it off with acrylic paint.

I wanted to add a figurine of a woman being crushed under the gavel, but an institutionally-forced bed move broke the body into pieces and left me without time to remake her. However, the gavel survived and is on display as a symbol of America's injustice, which women are crushed beneath.

As I started reflecting on my culture, I could only think of what had the largest impact from generation to generation. Our ancestors were instructed to keep silent and put their heads down; this was a survival mechanism. They instilled this in us, too. Now I understand the significance of my voice and creative abilities. I will continue to sharpen my skills as a disruptive innovator, sketching my candid thoughts and feelings onto a blank canvas. I will use different techniques to be heard.

This piece was inspired by the physical comfort I feel once my body hits my bed, and the peace that comes from my place of rest. Peek into my transformed world, a safety zone I’ve created to give myself a small reprieve from my severe environment.

This is the space where I’m able to mentally shift gears and take my mind off of prison politics, with its constant barriers and stressors. This is the only space in prison I’m able to call my own. Our beds are not always a safe place in prison, but when you’ve finally found that safe place, you hold onto it for as long as you can.

The woman symbolizes a future me, looking out into the paradise I will one day attain. Now I strive to live in congruence with my internal freedom. Although I may be physically imprisoned, my mind and soul are free to evolve, learn, grow and exist outside of these walls.

This drawing is fully symbolic. The hourglass has a woman trapped inside, in time and in sorrow, as though she is incarcerated. Everything about this woman is transforming. Her tears and hair turn to sand as she loses her old self and blossoms into something new. The sand falls to the bottom half of the hour glass and leaks out of the glass. As the sand leaks out, it transforms into a new and colorful butterfly. The woman’s time in prison transforms her inner self to a new and improved existence.

My answer to the question "What’s my antidote in prison?" is “the sky.” My bed is nothing but the state's assigned spot for me. I can be moved at any time, and without advance notice. In contrast, I can look up and see the same sky and stars my family sees from home—that is my antidote. 

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Thus, the sky is my inspiration for this self-portrait with my hair turning into bars and my body turning to stone (brick). There are four stars and a crescent moon in my eyes. The moon represents my mother, and the stars are for each of my children. The longer I spend here, the more I feel that I’ve become one with the brick and bars that hold me captive; however, I can always look up at the sky and see my family in my mind's eye.

Since the COVID-19 pandemic, I have lived in fear of being moved around because the prison might need the bed or because I have to quarantine. This separates me from the people I have bonded with, yet I have the freedom to dream my way out of the borrowed bed. 

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Through pencil work, I express the dullness of prison during my twenty-eight years of incarceration. In contrast, the brightness and beauty I see through my soul is expressed with the use of watercolor and glitter—releasing the heavy weight off my mind and spirit.

There was a time when my bed was the only place that made me feel safe. My bed was the antidote to the madness that surrounded me. I could go to bed and dream my way out of the chaos. I could go wherever I wanted. I could lie in bed and feel secure, watch TV, read or just be in my "assigned" space.

All of that changed in 2020 when the COVID-19 pandemic took over the world. It was the rudest awakening of the illusion I had created. The pandemic made me realize that my bed was never really my space. I was moved from room to room, never allowed to truly social distance or shelter in place. Despair took over, and the reality set in that I had no control over my own safety or wellbeing. My bed was no longer safe; it had belonged to the state all along.

Through pencil work, I express the dullness of prison during my twenty-eight years of incarceration. In contrast, the brightness and beauty I see through my soul is expressed with the use of watercolor and glitter—releasing the heavy weight off my mind and spirit.

This 33 page zine showcases the poetry created for the exhibition. Designed by Miye Sugino

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I painted a realistic representation of our bunk beds—how we dress them with sheets, blankets, and pillows. My theme for this bed is "bittersweet." I used chains and padlocks around the beds to represent our captivity. In my bed is where I feel the most imprisoned. The Japanese cherry blossoms are added to give a sense of something that should be calm, relaxing, and serene. But, I can never truly feel the flowers due to the chains. 

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This is what the bed is to me: an oxymoron. A beautiful disaster. Cherry blossoms in chains.

When thinking about the prompt, "How is your bed your antidote?", I was lost; because honestly, it's not. I am only in my bed to sleep, and — by the time I lay there — I'm so worn out that it only takes a few minutes to fall asleep. Being in bed is a gateway to depression for me — in fact, it’s a symptom of being depressed. I do anything to avoid the thoughts, the flood of emotions, the worries, guilt, loneliness, and regret that laying still in that hard prison bed brings. For someone like me, the bed is a strong, dangerous river with a vicious undercurrent that constantly threatens to drag me under. 

The thing that brings me peace in this bed is looking out my window, especially at the sunset and the sky. My optimistic mind tells me that the one thing they cannot take is the sky. When I look up, I'm free. The sun rises and sets here the same as every other place. And in the moments when I'm looking up, I can't see barbed wire, or the ugly dry grass and dirt — only the sky, and the beauty and freedom that comes with it. This can also be bittersweet, yet that is rare for me. I painted the window pane exactly how it looks in Chowchilla. 

I created this piece to reflect how my bunk bed is my antidote to this dismal environment. There is no safer place in prison to release tears of grief built through the years, reflecting on all the missed time with my precious daughter and family. This is where I can lay my head safely and dream of my family.

The bunk bed posts are depicted as trees grounding me in my safe space. The roots surround the drawers below our bunks, safely locking our personal property. Japanese cherry blossoms, for new beginnings, create a canopy above with a starry night sky—because no matter the distance between us —my daughter and I look up at the same stars every night.

This artwork is about a soul innocent enough to continue to dream. Being incarcerated can rob you of your dreams. No matter how bad my day has been, though, I can manage to escape to my bed and be in a place that my current living situation can't interfere with. This piece represents a place of safety that allows me to leave my confined space and be in a place I call peace.

I tried to use shapes that are circular and without sharp edges to convey a sense of innocence. I chose a pastel background to give the impression of a child's bed. When trying to catch a respectable night's rest, you need a good place to retreat. This is how my bed is my antidote.

This artwork is about a human being trying to free herself from her current living constraints and create a better world for herself and her progeny. The bed in prison allows me to contemplate where I've come from and where I'm going. I think of my mother’s struggle while running across a desolate desert, pregnant with me, and how she wanted to provide me with a better future — despite all odds. Her journey gives me hope that no matter what, there is always space to dream.

The image of a woman running towards a better tomorrow for herself and her child is one that resonates with many incarcerated women. We dream of the day that we can run to our families, who are waiting for us outside these walls. From our beds, all we can do is dream and try to imagine what that feels like.