A Visit Long Overdue

At the beginning of last month, I became an approved visitor for Indiana state prisons. It’s been on my to-do list for some time now. I don’t know why I avoided it for so long. I have my suspicions, of course, but no real reason I could write for you here. Not because I don’t want to, just because I’m not sure it would be true. I want to be honest with you.

The first person I called after finding out I’d been approved, was Trent. I told him that if he still wanted to take me, I was ready to go. He said,

“Of course. I’d love to.”

He was moving to Denver at the end of the month, so it had to be soon. What worked best for us both was one week away. I thanked Trent. He is the kind of friend that when you need something and he says he’d love to help you, there is no question whether or not he means what he said. He is the best kind of friend.

One week away seemed soon, but I know myself. If I had not set the wheels in motion immediately, I would have found a million and five reasons why I couldn’t make the trip. There are always excuses to be made, and I had been making them for the past seven years, since I was 18, and legally able to make this trip on my own. But I would not be alone. I’d already sent in all the paperwork I needed to send. I wouldn’t even have to drive. Still, I was afraid to go. What scared me is another question I can’t answer.

I sat at my desk after my conversation with Trent and thought too many things. Among them, why now? Why after thirteen years, was I ready to do this? The answer, like any real answer to any real question, is complicated. Maybe I was ready because seeing my father was on this list. Maybe I was ready because I’m happier than I’ve ever been and it felt less critical. Maybe I was ready because my mother was just getting over being horrifically sick, forcing me to consider what my life would look like without a parent. In the end, why I was going was the question I worried about the least. The question that preoccupied me, that kept me awake at night was, after thirteen years of not seeing one another face to face, of not hearing one another’s voices, what would my father think of me?

The oldest letter I have from my father is dated in 1991. He has been writing me for as long as I can remember. Letter upon letter filled with “I love you”, “I’m proud of you”, “Smile”, “You’re beautiful”, “You’re so smart”, and a host of other things every girl want to hear from her dad. Most girls got to hear those words in person, but I thought his way was better. Did my father love me? Yes. I have it in writing. I have it in writing over and over again.

The letters, notes, and birthday cards came all year long. And for many years, I did not write him back. Only in the past few years have I taken the time. I’m sure I had my reasons why I didn’t write. I’m sure I’ll figure those out.

The morning I left to see my father, I wore my favorite striped top and jeans. Nothing fancy, but still nice. I had to leave behind my beloved rhino necklace. Jewelry wasn’t allowed. Trent texted me, “I’m here!”. I checked my bag for the fifteenth time. Drivers License? Check. Keys? Check. Notebook to write down important thoughts in car? Check. Valium? You wish.

I met Trent at the bottom of the stairs. He pulled me into a hug. When he released me, he grabbed my hand,

“Thank you so much for letting me do this for you, Ashley.”

When we got to his car, there was a flower sitting on the seat for me. It probably sounds like I’m making Trent up. I’m not. He’s just like that, people.

Taken by Brett Tubbs

The trip to the prison was shorter than I thought it’d be. The facility looked…like a prison. Everything was concrete grey and beige. Trent dropped me off at the door, waiting in the parking lot wasn’t allowed. I fumbled in my bag for all my quarters. I knew you could take in quarters for the vending machines and sometime you could use them to take a picture with your loved one. I wanted a picture more than I wanted anything else. I also wanted to be able to buy him a cookie. Like my brother, my father loves all things sugar.

My nervousness radiated around me. I kept dropping the quarters, starting to leave the car, then stopping to check and make sure I had everything I needed again. Trent leaned over and hugged me.

“It’s going to be good. You’ve waited a long time for this. Tell him I said, hello.” I put all of my quarters in my pocket and got out of the car. My chest tightened on the walk to the door. The waiting room was full, and the two officers working the sign-in booth seemed like they were doing a job made for more than just two officers.

When I’m nervous, I have a hard time sitting so I didn’t do much of that. I almost jumped when they called my father’s last name which is how they indicate it’s time to go in for your visit. I went through the pat-down and the metal detector. Then the female office asked the male officer if I was allowed to wear my headband in. He said no. She said I’d have to put it back in my locker. I took it off and handed it to her.

“Just throw it away.”

“…are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

She looked at me like I might be a nut job, and threw it away. She handed me a plastic tub for my shoes, belt, and quarters, then opened the big heavy door. I walked through, put my belt and shoes on after the door closed behind me. When I’d gathered the last of my quarters from the bin, a second heavy door opened in front of me. I held my breath and stepped inside.

Once inside, I scanned the room for my father. I’d stared at the few pictures I have of him enough to recognize him. An officer directed me to a sign in sheet. I signed my name quickly nearly dropping the pen. By the time I turned back around, my dad was standing up. And oh crap, here come the tears. My first instinct was to run to him, but I was mindful enough to realize that running in a prisoner visitation room might be on the list of Shit You Don’t Do In A Prison.

I walked calmly, if eagerly, toward him. He held his arms wide open and smiled. Then, I sprinted. My right cheek landed right in the middle of his chest. He squeezed me tightly and kissed the top of my head, my forehead.

“I love you, I love you, I love you…”

There was his voice. It was deep and sincere. It made so much sense why I loved talking to my Uncle Clarence so much. They sound almost identical.

“I love you too, Daddy.” I’d told myself before I got there, that I would call him ‘Dad’ because I am not a child. I’m a grown woman, and I’m pretty sure grown women don’t call their father’s ‘Daddy’. But in that moment, I felt like someone’s little girl. And I have to tell you, I’d been waiting a long time to feel like someone’s little girl.

My dad walked me to our seating area. He looked at me and smiled. He is handsome. I look so much like him. Much more so in person than in pictures.

Here’s the thing guys, I don’t know how to tell you what happened here. I spent almost a month thinking of how to write about this part. The conversation. The moment when my father—my dad—who I hadn’t seen in thirteen years and I sat down to catch up. You would most likely think the conversation was mundane aside from a few key statements, but for me, it was everything. It was even better than I’d hoped.

I can tell you this: My dad loves me as much in person as he did through my letters. Maybe even more. He has two degrees in Art and Business. He reads voraciously. He’s funny. Really funny. He makes no excuses for the actions that led him to prison. He’s remorseful, but is aware that he made choices. Choices that hurt people he loves and people he’ll never know. He takes full responsibility. Did I mention that he loves me? Well, he does. He loves me and my brother and my mother. He misses us. I was the first person to visit him in five years. He's one of few people I know with bigger hands than mine. He remembers everything. The first question he asked me was, “Is my daughter happy?” because that was what was most important to him.

We sat and talked for two hours and forty-seven minutes. We covered politics, religion, even relationships. I asked him about his relationships before he married Mama, he began that story with,

“Well, you know…your father is a very handsome man…”

I laughed more than I cried. He held my hands. He spoke to me sometimes with such sincerity; I could tell he had been waiting to say those exact words for thirteen years, perhaps longer. We are alike, my father and I. Very much alike.

The picture machine was broken, so we didn’t get to take a picture. By the time they came and told us it was time to go, I’d felt every emotion I can name. Still, there was so much to say.

We hugged. He walked me to the front of the room. I was crying again. He hugged me one last time and sat in the designated seat for prisoners to return to wherever they came from on the inside. Separate from the rest of us. Separate from me. In most cases, I am glad for this. Today, it felt cruel.

I waited in the line of people leaving their loved ones behind them. I turned frequently to look back and wave at him as he waited. He was always smiling, staring at me, waiting to wave back. Just there in case I needed him. The door opened and we filed through. I turned to him and blew him a kiss. He caught it. I turned the corner, past the last window I could see him in. Then I felt panicked and ran back to the glass, still crying. He was still in the seat, still smiling. I mouthed, “I love you.” He laughed, mouthed, “I love you too. Now go!” I waved and rounded the corner.

I cried all the way to Trent’s car in the parking lot. He was being a criminal and waiting there for me. He asked me how it went I started crying. Harder than I had inside.

It felt wrong to walk out of that building without him. I wanted to be taking him away from there. It felt wrong not to be holding his hand and heading home. Luckily, I won’t have to wait too much longer for that dream to come true.

Visiting my father was a success. I got more than I wanted. I think he did. I will go visit him again soon. I’m sure I’ll write about this again. There is more to say.

I’m pretty sure there always will be.