Cocoon

“He-hee-he,” he rolled his head back, breathing deeply. “We don’t know where she’s from-won’t say.” It was my first time touring the county jail, seeing what law enforcement had to offer as a profession. A ride along was what I thought I was in for, cursing around, checking out the local area’s “crime scene” through the eyes of Johnny Law. I had no idea that a tour of the jail would be the central stop. Deputies hate the jail, an area they are bound to for months after they pass the academy. They want to patrol, as did I.

                The young lady inside was obviously Hispanic. She was involved in some sort of prostitution deal near a local casino.  He said, she said, no one knows who’s right-take em’ both in. The fluent Spanish-speaking officer was in route to give an authorities questioning. I don’t know why they bothered, because the mammoth of a man in front of me couldn’t get her to speak. If he couldn’t scare it out of her, no one could.

                We left the area. The jail itself was interesting, a vast labyrinth of cells and rooms dedicated to the containment of offenders. One of the cells was occupied when we finished touring-that same girl. “See, just minutes ago she was a problem, not talking. She didn’t have to, but it makes things easier. Look at her now though curled up, blanket around her. All nice and cozy in her little swamp donkey cocoon.” The large man turned and walked away, laughing.

                The only way I can describe this situation, and I’ve e often thought hard about it, is sad. That girl may or may not have been in the wrong. For all I know she probably was. But I didn’t know, the officers didn’t know, no one knew. All I knew is that it would have been a little more settling if she was questioned properly, so she could have been heard.

                The novel Jasmine Bharati Mukherjee centers on this dilemma. Those not born in the country, who are further removed from the average American, are less likely to be heard. Someone like the girl in the jail, or Jasmine have nearly zero chance of a fair shake.

                For all intensive purposes, the girl in the jail was lucky. At least she had witnesses all around her, and men who for the most part are decent surrounding her.

Jasmine was not so lucky. “He brought my head back and slammed it against the set, again and again…He pulled the drawstring off my salwar pants,” are some of the chilling tortures Jasmine was subjected to in her first night in America. A young women trying to find her way in a strange new land, she was the ultimate easy target.

It’s hard to be in a situation where someone knows that they have something over you, where a small action they take can completely destroy all of your intentions and aims. You have to submit and please, or everything you hope to accomplish will shatter. Jasmine found herself in the same situation, stuck in a hotel “no tourist would ever stay at… .” Lady Justice wasn’t only blind, but also deaf.

                What isn’t realized by most, especially those who choose not to listen to those who can’t be heard, is that there is a great danger in muting their calls. True, you may ignore what they say, trample them, or take advantage of them. Chances are you may get away with it, especially considering their options. The girl wrapped in a blanket, lying in the cell, very well may have been guilty. She could have been a young prostitute as guilty as they come. She also could have been a young girl spending what little she had hoping for a break, and upon leaving thrown into a car and raped.

                Jasmine shows us all the result of not hearing their calls. It also shows monsters what happens if you take advantage of the wrong person. “I pulled the bedspread off the bed and threw it over him and than began stabbing wildly through the cloth, as the human form beneath it grew smaller and stiller.” The rolls have been reversed, the cocoon now rapping the one who once held all the power.