MEET
KATE BOCCIA
President & CEO of the NIA
That’s the truth. Old and young, men and women, black, white, Hispanic, you name it. They all call me “Momma Kate.” I didn’t become Momma Kate alone. Momma Kate is part of a small package of mammas who devote a lot of attention to the incarcerated and their families. None of these mammas really having the time or the resources. But they are mothers – a special band of such, no doubt – and instinctively they can’t turn their backs on a family in distress.
Through a set of strategies, we at the NIA refer to as “CPR” these mamas give incarcerated people and their families a warm and sincere space to voice their needs. To wrap their minds around what went so terribly wrong and what can possibly be done to survive, repair and rediscover hope. To help them resolve the myriad of issues that come with current soft-on-crime carceral and criminal justice systems. To help them resuscitate themselves and their loved ones.
I had never dreamed that this work would play such a profoundly important role in the lives of the families seeking out the NIA daily. I began by simply listening to the concerns they were having. Learning how to best help systems officials relate more and improve situations for all involved. As more and more calls and letters came in, more and more stories were developing, and more and more Momma Bears were coming out and asserting their interests.
I began to realize that the effects of long term, sustained and sequential trauma, such as incarceration, have lasting and serious impacts on how a family navigates life and future.
My personal experience was that my psychology and behavior changed the moment my son was sent to prison. I stopped being the typical consumer of what big-box retailers assumed of me due to my demographics, age and other considerations. I no longer felt compelled to shop and entertain and travel and consume by the usual habits. Items like seasonal products, household and electronic upgrades, cars, clothes, meals and cocktails and a variety of other things that I had consumed with predictable regularity my entire adult life. If GDP indicators were applied to my immediate household, we’d be highlighted as having caused an economic freefall.
The trauma also played out when I was fired from my job 90 days after he went to prison because of my poor performance; I was a walking, talking zombie. This firing pushed me to go on unemployment, something I had never done before. Then I curled up in a ball and cried for weeks on end.
It also gravely impacted my marriage, my mental stability and my health. I had nowhere to go and no one to help me navigate. I felt so alone and distraught. I felt the pain deep in my bones that woke me in the middle of the night as if he had died. I became angry at the system, from the courtroom all the way through the facility, the officers and counselors. I was made to stand in a visitation line in the rain feeling as if I had committed a crime myself for which I was being punished. I felt like they hated me, and it made me hate them. I acted out with fear and hysteria, repeatedly until one day I realized it wasn’t working, that I in fact had become just another statistic.
This is a reality to EVERY single person who has a loved one go to prison. Even when the family is disengaged, they still feel the pain and stigma of incarceration. Imagine what goes on in the mind of a child during this traumatic journey. Now multiply this number by 2.5 million Americans currently incarcerated. Staggering, untreated pain abounds.
The missing piece for families who are in this state of trauma is triage. Triage is used in the battlefield, and prison is its own sort of battlefield. First, we need to stop the bleeding. Incarceration hurts and damages for life. And not just the incarcerated. Incarceration is costly and should not be a default stake in the ground. As much as possible, it should be a purposeful pause to repair, restore and retool in a process to release. We need such a process to sort the hurting families into groups based on their needs. Triage is essential to sustaining productive living. And it must be attacked with urgency as if lives depend on it.
Triage is not something difficult to figure out. We’re talking about family trauma; the kind of trauma that can only be addressed and survived by the kind of empathy and compassion and quite frankly the broader level of responsibility that a mother feels.
The NIA CPR program has proven to have filled a major gap for families. We’ve accepted that government has not been given enough permission from jaded voters and frightened citizens to really reform and rehabilitate. So we, like mommas, scrap to find a way to do it ourselves; focusing within. We first help them to take a breath. We triage the situation then point them in the right direction to get them relief, if not resolution. It’s more than a band-aid type answer from a traditional ombudsman representative. It’s a down and dirty clean the wound and wrap it up kind of model. It’s a broader model with an end-game that targets community care and civic restoration.
So, if you know someone who might need a Momma Kate, reach out. Mommas are always where you need them to be. And if you feel that you can help a Momma Kate fulfill this work, don’t hesitate to donate. It’s easy, and mommas never ask for much.
This isn’t my story. This is a story of unwavering passion and determination. This is a story of a mother’s love.
When my son went to prison, I went with him, not physically of course, but emotionally. He had just turned 22, 4 days before he was sentenced to 15 years in Georgia on a non-parole eligible offense. Not coming home until 2026. He will be 36, best years of his life, gone.
A profound and deep grief came over me that was hard to shake. I felt so alone. I was stumbling blindly through a maze of confusion. As so many mothers do, I turned to alcohol to numb the pain. I couldn’t get out of bed some days, got fired from my job and strained my marriage thin. My son’s sentence literally turned my family’s world upside down.
Where were the people who could help me help my son? How do I navigate this beast alone? I sunk deeper and deeper into depression. I was giving up.
Then I met Tori, Michelle, Rotunda, Wesley, Dena, Edward, Mazzetti, Darion, Ana, Nolan, Jimmy, James, Kevin, Deanna, Sierra, Tricia, Dena, Brandon, Diane, Maurice, Linda and hundreds of others, just like me and my son. Families torn apart by “the system.”
These families inspired me to act, I was no longer afraid. I turned my anger into advocacy, my alcohol into action and became a voice for the voiceless.
I was particularly inspired by Rotunda Nelson. I met her in the prison line while waiting to go in to visit our sons. We began talking and told each other our stories. They were so similar. Our sons were only 3 months apart in age. They both had armed robbery charges. Neither had a weapon or stole anything. The difference was her son went to prison at the age of 15.
Rotunda was battling this alone, her health deteriorated, she became depressed and angry, but she never gave up. She was an unwavering force for Wesley, his light and his hope the entire 11 years he was in prison.
Through her pain I learned of what we do to 15-year-old boys of color. Things I never believed could happen in my country had been happening to her and her family for 8 long years.
She gave me the strength I needed to fight for what I knew was right. I gave her the place to tell her story. We became Momma Bears, a name that stuck with all the mother’s we encountered.
Stories like Rotunda’s are what began my life’s work, helping the families who love someone in prison navigate the system and advocate for their loved one. This is no easy task.
I had no money to start and no rule book to go by.
I used whatever resources I could, from social media posts to showing up in political arenas and attending conferences and meetings all over the country. Whatever I had to do, I did. Where ever I had to go, I went. It wasn’t about my son anymore. It was about the 2.5 million sons and daughters that live in our prisons today.
Has it been easy, no, have I tried to give up, yes. But whenever I felt down a call would come in a desperate family needing help. Like the call from Anne.
She was trying to get wheelchair parts for her incarcerated son. He is a double amputee and the warden was saying she couldn’t do it, that he would get a state issued chair. What I learned was that double amputees need a special wheelchair to prevent tipping over. The prison didn’t care, but I did. One call was all it took to get her the help she needed.
Then there were the sweet smiling faces of the children in the visitation room, how could I turn my back on them? The tears from a broken mother’s eyes, just like mine, they needed me. And most importantly the men and women who needed my strength to survive the relentless journey of incarceration.
As my strength grow, I began to attract an army of families and a team of volunteers. A company was born out of the grass roots, boots to the ground work that began as a result of the trauma my family went through.
The National Incarceration Association (NIA) is 2 ½ years old now. This was where God wanted me all along. There is nothing more powerful than a mother’s love, especially when she learns she is not alone.
I found my peace.
This isn’t my story. This is a story of unwavering passion and determination. This is a story of a mother’s love.
When my son went to prison, I went with him, not physically of course, but emotionally. He had just turned 22, 4 days before he was sentenced to 15 years in Georgia on a non-parole eligible offense. Not coming home until 2026. He will be 36, best years of his life, gone.
A profound and deep grief came over me that was hard to shake. I felt so alone. I was stumbling blindly through a maze of confusion. As so many mothers do, I turned to alcohol to numb the pain. I couldn’t get out of bed some days, got fired from my job and strained my marriage thin. My son’s sentence literally turned my family’s world upside down.
Where were the people who could help me help my son? How do I navigate this beast alone? I sunk deeper and deeper into depression. I was giving up.
Then I met Tori, Michelle, Rotunda, Wesley, Dena, Edward, Mazzetti, Darion, Ana, Nolan, Jimmy, James, Kevin, Deanna, Sierra, Tricia, Dena, Brandon, Diane, Maurice, Linda and hundreds of others, just like me and my son. Families torn apart by “the system.”
These families inspired me to act, I was no longer afraid. I turned my anger into advocacy, my alcohol into action and became a voice for the voiceless.
I was particularly inspired by Rotunda Nelson. I met her in the prison line while waiting to go in to visit our sons. We began talking and told each other our stories. They were so similar. Our sons were only 3 months apart in age. They both had armed robbery charges. Neither had a weapon or stole anything. The difference was her son went to prison at the age of 15.
Rotunda was battling this alone, her health deteriorated, she became depressed and angry, but she never gave up. She was an unwavering force for Wesley, his light and his hope the entire 11 years he was in prison.
Through her pain I learned of what we do to 15-year-old boys of color. Things I never believed could happen in my country had been happening to her and her family for 8 long years.
She gave me the strength I needed to fight for what I knew was right. I gave her the place to tell her story. We became Momma Bears, a name that stuck with all the mothers we encountered.
Stories like Rotunda’s are what began my life’s work, helping the families who love someone in prison navigate the system and advocate for their loved one. This is no easy task.
I had no money to start and no rule book to go by.
I used whatever resources I could, from social media posts to showing up in political arenas and attending conferences and meetings all over the country. Whatever I had to do, I did. Where ever I had to go, I went. It wasn’t about my son anymore. It was about the 2.5 million sons and daughters that live in our prisons today.
Has it been easy, no, have I tried to give up, yes. But whenever I felt down a call would come in a desperate family needing help. Like the call from Anne.
She was trying to get wheelchair parts for her incarcerated son. He is a double amputee and the warden was saying she couldn’t do it, that he would get a state issued chair. What I learned was that double amputees need a special wheelchair to prevent tipping over. The prison didn’t care, but I did. One call was all it took to get her the help she needed.
Then there were the sweet smiling faces of the children in the visitation room, how could I turn my back on them? The tears from a broken mother’s eyes, just like mine, they needed me. And most importantly the men and women who needed my strength to survive the relentless journey of incarceration.
As my strength grew, I began to attract an army of families and a team of volunteers. A company was born out of the grass roots, boots to the ground work that began as a result of the trauma my family went through.
The National Incarceration Association (NIA) is 2 ½ years old now. This was where God wanted me all along. There is nothing more powerful than a mother’s love, especially when she learns she is not alone.
I found my peace.
I am a white American. My ancestry is Danish, Scottish and English. I’m just enough of a WASP to have ancestors who were patriots of the American Revolution. But I certainly didn’t feel superior to the blue-collar Italian and Irish kids in the lower middle-class neighborhood near where I grew up. In fact, I would have laughed at the notion that merely as white people, any of us were privileged. I reserved that term for the rich kids living in big houses across town. In my book, privilege meant you had a lot more than my family had.
We weren’t exactly poor and I was taught to have compassion for those who were less fortunate than me. But it was mostly an abstract idea, a compassion felt from a distance that rarely had to be put to the test. And those I felt compassion for didn’t really include criminals. I was raised with the same belief still held by most white people in this country: that the criminal justice system is by-and-large fair, and if you’re in jail, it’s probably because you deserve to be.
I knew that people of color were somewhat more skeptical about the system’s fairness, but I didn’t ask too many questions as to why. That would have involved imagining their experience at a much deeper level, and probably questioning the received beliefs I thought of as objectively true. Only when my personal reality was shattered did I realize all of my assumptions were built on quicksand.
October 24, 2012 is when everything changed. That was the day my son went to prison. As one of the new friends I made in line waiting to visit him later told me: “Honey, that’s the day you became black.”
She was wrong of course, because when I drive home from Georgia Central State Prison to my house in a white neighborhood in Alpharetta, I am many times less likely than her to get pulled over for missing a stop sign. If I do get pulled over, I am more likely to get a warning than a ticket. And if I get a ticket, paying it probably doesn’t mean my lights could get shut off, or worse, that I could put less money on my son’s books next month so he has enough to eat. (I bet you had no idea how bad hunger is in prison. Something else that had never even crossed my mind until my son told me how common it is.)
But my friend, also a mother, was a little bit right. As I witnessed the machinery of the criminal justice system chew up my son, she saw that I was getting a crash course in the experience most black people in this country were all too familiar with. My friend’s entire family had been colliding with the criminal justice system their whole lives – or rather, the system had been colliding with them. I was simply in more shock about what was happening to my son because, for most of my life, prison had only been something that happened to other people. Those people.
When you are suddenly one of those people, it’s deeply uncomfortable to realize how much you used to think of yourself as fundamentally different from them. The fact is that you needed to imagine that seeing a son go to prison was somehow easier for them because you knew how intolerable it would be for you. It is awful to discover that you were right – it is exactly as painful as you feared it would be. I literally thought I was going to die from the pain more than once. No wonder I distanced myself from even the idea of it. On some level, we think if we label the experience unimaginable, we are increasing the odds against it happening.
As I got to know other mothers like me, and my son Daniel got to know other inmates, it also became clear that there were plenty of white inmates who’d had it rough in life too, and certainly black inmates from comparatively advantaged backgrounds. But you’d have to be willfully blind to conclude that whites and blacks were generally treated equally by the system.
Ironically, my son was treated very unjustly by the system. I could have used that as “proof” that whites get the shaft, too. But to my mind, the exception proves the rule. They certainly can be treated as bad or worse than any person of color, but they almost never are.
When I tell the story of what happened to Daniel to my white friends, their jaws drop; when I tell the story to my (new) black friends, they nod with identification. It’s not that they claim their son was innocent – although some do (because some are.) But in almost every case, African-American boys begin to get sucked into the system at much younger ages than white kids, usually because of behavior that is the logical result of a child reacting to the harsh realities of growing up exposed to a level of poverty and violence that no human should know, much less a young one.
My request – my plea, really – is for all people, but particularly those who check “Caucasian” on their census forms, to take the opportunity to challenge the boundaries and quality of the empathy they extend to those caught up in the American criminal justice system. I pray you never have a son or a daughter who goes to prison. But you shouldn’t wait for such a personal disaster to shock you into awareness that all of these men and women are coming from families who love them just as much as you love yours. If you find it hard to put yourself in their shoes because the external circumstances of their lives are so different, then put yourself in mine, and others like me whom you feel look like you. For although I am grateful that the trauma of my son’s ordeal has led me to found the National Incarceration Association, getting to this place of acceptance and purpose has involved a baptism in fire I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
I’ll finish with a statistic: One in 9 African-American children have an incarcerated parent, while this is true for only 1 in 57 white children (for Hispanics, it’s 1 in 28)*. It should come as no surprise that these children are far more likely to live in poverty, and hence to do poorly in school or end up in foster care. In our “lock-‘em-up” hysteria of the past two decades, the desire to score big in the competition for political and popular favor has made us lose sight of the fact that retributive justice doesn’t just punish the criminals, but also their completely innocent families and every other community of interest connecting and spreading across towns. If it merely punishes and doesn’t restore, that’s not smart justice. That’s targeted collective punishment. And we all end up in endless suffering.
Don’t wait to experience the heartbreak of finding a family member behind bars to question your unconscious assumptions about incarceration in general. There are hundreds of solutions being proposed and tried by advocates and reformers all around you. I hope you’ll join us in pursuing some of them. But all of the fixes start with your willingness to imagine the experience of people with whom you may not think you have anything in common. And ultimately, it means embracing the idea put well by a former Governor of Georgia, that absolutely “no one is irredeemable.”