Stripped: Denied the Right To a Woman’s Wardrobe
Mithrellas Curtis on expressing femininity while incarcerated and the self-affirming power of a vibrant red lip.
“Who’s the new stud?”
I heard the voice from a few feet behind me, but I ignored it as I had learned to do with most of the background noise in prison.
It was 8:30 in the morning, and I was focused on not freezing to death. We’d been called outside for a quarterly fire drill, and my breath fogged the air in front of me as I stood behind my friend Dez’s1 wheelchair. Lined up on the sidewalk between building 5, where we were housed, and the gym, we shivered in the frigid February air.
“Girl, that’s not a stud,” a familiar voice responded. “That’s Rellie!”
Hearing my nickname I whipped my head around, aghast. The second woman, another friend of mine named Ann, looked up at me and laughed at my shocked expression.
“Ignore her, Rellie. It’s just the hat,” Ann assured me with a wink.
Despite her comforting words, I was unnerved. I had been incarcerated for about three years at the time, and though I’d never considered myself particularly girly, I was still struggling to adjust to this environment that was so clearly designed for men.
Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women didn’t allow us to order from outside vendors or carry cosmetics on personal property. I had learned to use a #2 pencil as eyeliner and to make a sort of paint for my eyelids out of colored pencils.
That morning I was in gray sweatpants and a tee-shirt, both men’s. I hadn’t yet put on earrings and as we’d been waiting for the officers to count us, I’d put on Dez’s orange ball cap to cover my cold ears—though being made of mesh, it offered little protection from the wind. Back then, circa 2011, Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women didn’t allow us to order from outside vendors or carry cosmetics on personal property, so I was makeup and fragrance free. I had learned to use a #2 pencil as eyeliner and to make a sort of paint for my eyelids out of colored pencils, but the fire alarm had roused me from my bunk. Without all the feminine accoutrements with which I had so profligately enshrouded myself at home (perhaps I was more girly than I thought) and with my short hair covered by the ball cap, I could see all too well how someone could mistake me for a “stud.”
That was over a decade ago, and I’ve endured similar comments numerous times since. It happens less often now that Keefe Commissary Network (the outside vendor that contracts with the Virginia Department of Corrections to sell us grossly overpriced personal items like clothes, jewelry, and art supplies through personal property, as well as food, stationery, and hygiene products through commissary) sells us makeup. My signature vibrant red lipstick feels like a piece of home—as a teenager, my cigarette butts were easily identifiable by their crimson stains; now my drinking cups are equally distinguishable—and it helps to avoid confusion, because others can see from a distance that I’m a femme.
In the fifteen years I’ve been in prison, I have never worn a skirt or dress, though I have seen some cleverly fabricated from sheets, tee-shirts, and mesh commissary bags (of course, being contraband, these are confiscated if staff sees them).
Obviously, being incarcerated means being stripped of certain rights. The right to vote. The right to participate in civic and community life. The right to a woman’s wardrobe.
Despite the DOC’s recent efforts to make women’s facilities more “gender-affirming,” prison is still an environment designed for men. These new policies have wrought few real changes in our daily lives.
Most of the clothes VADOC provides the women housed in its facilities—the “state uniforms” of jeans and chambray shirts for everyday wear and the dark green tee-shirts for working—are designed for men, and Keefe no longer offers women’s Levi’s on property. I even had to learn to convert my shoe size to men’s (the closest I can get is a 7 since they don’t carry 6 ½). Like most people, before my incarceration, I took for granted the freedom to choose my clothes (and accessories!) every day. Jeans and fitted tees, colorful paisley-printed sundresses, flowing hippie skirts and peasant blouses, capris and tank tops, not to mention body sprays to suit every mood, fresh fruity fragrances and light florals. The options seemed endless. Honestly, I didn’t wear skirts that often—I tended towards jeans (snug-fitting and bootcut, of course)—but it was nice knowing I could when I wanted. Now my wardrobe is limited to boxy button-up shirts, men’s straight leg jeans, baggy sweatshirts, loose athletic shorts, and shapeless tee-shirts in two colors (purple and gold, as if we’re all a bunch of Lakers fans).
Despite the DOC’s recent efforts to make women’s facilities more “gender-affirming,” prison is still an environment designed for men. These new policies have wrought few real changes in our daily lives. Many women here now have their hair flowing down their backs since the grooming compliance standards requiring us to keep it above our shoulders has been rescinded (which doesn’t affect me at all), and those who identify as transgender can now purchase boxers and beard trimmers. Unfortunately, I still can’t order a decent bra. Though Keefe offers a small selection of bras (all without underwire support), they do not carry my size. I’ve had to settle for cheap sports bras since we lost the privilege of ordering from outside vendors again several years ago (we were briefly able to order from approved vendors from 2012-2014). At least Keefe sells women’s underwear—when they have it in stock, that is.
I am keenly aware of how fortunate I am to be able to buy my own clothes, even if they aren’t feminine or flattering. Some people here have to rely only on what the state provides: three flimsy shirts; itchy bras that offer no support yet somehow manage to give one’s breasts a cone shape; three pairs of nearly knee-length “boy shorts” manufactured in a men’s prison elsewhere in the state; three pairs of paper-thin socks made for man-sized feet; three of the aforementioned state uniforms, and a stiff, tube-shaped nightgown—no casual clothes. When new intakes move into general population, those of us who’ve been here longer often bring them hand-me-down shirts, shorts, and sweats; recently, the treatment officer in the Acute Mental Health Restricted Housing Unit has begun collecting donated clothing articles for the people in that unit as well. However holey and threadbare, these meager offerings usually elicit a level of surprised gratitude more suited to high dollar gifts.
My signature vibrant red lipstick feels like a piece of home—as a teenager, my cigarette butts were easily identifiable by their crimson stains; now my drinking cups are equally distinguishable—and it helps to avoid confusion, because others can see from a distance that I’m a femme.
This morning, as I waited to go out to chow, I studied my reflection in the mirrored windows that make up the front wall of the wing. From the neck down, I could’ve passed for a day laborer: my figure was completely obscured by a short-sleeved denim button-up work shirt hanging slightly over Levi’s, my Timberland work boots peeking out underneath. I have a picture of my dad on my JP6 tablet wearing a nearly identical outfit. The main differences in our appearances are the length of our hair, and my bright red lipstick.
I pulled focus to my face, the feminine anchor keeping the rest of me from dissolving into anonymous masculinity in the sea of similarly clad nondescript humans. Locking my gaze onto my pretty green eyes framed by mascaraed eyelashes, shimmering eyeshadow, and meticulously manicured brows in the mirror, I vowed for the thousandth time that when I’m released, after nearly eighteen years in prison, I will wear nothing but dresses and skirts for at least the first eighteen months I am home.
In the meantime, stripped of the right to a woman’s wardrobe, I have no choice but to endure three more years of men’s clothes. At least I've got my lipstick!
Mithrellas Curtis is a writer who strives to transform her life from one of pain to one with purpose. As a peer recovery specialist, she seeks to use her experiences to help others on their own journeys to recovery and wellness. She is incarcerated in Virginia.
Names changed for privacy.
Really good piece