Happy Holidays: Daughter of an Incarcerated Parent
It was a surreal morning. Although everything looked the same,
from the lights twinkling on the tree to every stocking stuffer
meticulously wrapped, the once cozy living room felt empty and cold.
Attempting to affirm this Christmas wouldn’t be different from any other,
I ran into my parent’s bedroom, eager to wake my mother up and begin the unwrapping!
I swung the door open, flew on my parents bed, and as if I saw Medusa, was
frozen by the image of my mother sleeping alone. She was resting for the first time in what seemed like months.
Every other Christmas this didn’t faze me; I poked her repetitively until my father, only half asleep,
would order me to leave my mother alone. Then I would poke him, and the cycle continued for about an hour.
Finally they would let me open my stocking, in secret, but warned me to not say anything about the knickknacks
I received, as Santa gave my sisters similar ones.
Despite this, like clockwork, when my sisters sat down to open their stockings I could never help but blurt out things like, “IT’S A PACK OF CHAPSTICK!” Or, “IT’S PERFUME!” as they opened their little wrapped mysteries.
My father would shoot me a look that said something to the effect of “I love you, but you’re annoying.”
He wasn’t there to admonish or entertain me this year. I paused and thought about him, wondering what he’d be
having for breakfast while the rest of us would eat our annual Christmas morning Eggs Benedict. I wished I could call.
Instead of being a spoiled badger I slipped under the covers and laid quietly for an hour or two, holding my mother’s
hand as she slept, and preparing myself for any other anomalies I might encounter this Christmas.
When I was sufficiently braced I tiptoed out of my mothers room to wake my two older sisters. That,
thankfully, was the same. I went back and forth between the two bedrooms, creaking open and noisily
closing their doors to “check” if they were awake yet.
When my movements interrupted their slumber I seized the opportunity, “Oh, you’re up? …Weird,
it’s early for you… Want to open stockings…?”
They knew my actions were calculated, but they appeased me nonetheless.
When we were all finally awake and waiting under the tree, my mother was in the kitchen making coffee. At this point in the morning my father would warn us not to open a single present until my mom was in the room and comfortably situated.
I tore one little piece of wrapping paper, just to take a peak, and my eldest sister acted as though I had sinned in the highest form.
“Don’t,” She snipped.
I rolled my eyes and started nibbling on the chocolate from my stocking with no regard to the fact it was 8:00AM.
Finally, my mother arrived and we started opening gifts. Christmas music was playing in the background and it
started to feel normal. This is Christmas; this is our family; look how much for which we have to be grateful.
The phone rang. My father wished us a Merry Christmas one by one, making each of us promise to take pictures
opening every gift, memorializing the morning.
I distinctly recall being on the phone when my sister opened a gift she was particularly
excited about, and my father asked, “What! What did she open? What is it?” And the normalcy
vanished. I couldn’t explain what it was quick enough or well enough for him to be satisfied,
and the disappointment was transparent in his voice.
We passed the phone around for a while, but then he told us the other inmates wanted to call
their families, too. He ate pancakes that morning.
This was written by Photo Patch Content Creator, a volunteer of Photo Patch Foundation.
Can’t Talk Now: Daughter of an Incarcerated Parent
I look over at my phone and see seven missed calls.
I'm at my internship and my colleagues can see I am
actively ignoring this blinking block of technology.
Five years have passed and I'm still too uncomfortable
to answer my phone with four co-workers and my manager within earshot.
"You have another missed call," my colleague murmurs to me, clearly
concerned that the multiple, incessant phone calls indicate a grave emergency.
But I know that's not the case. I know it's between 9:00AM and 9:30AM, and my father can
call now, so he will. I need to talk to him about my budget this month —
I had an unexpected medical expense that I don't know how to cover —
but I can't step out of the room right now, definitely not for a thirty-minute call.
Thirty minutes is the allotted time for one phone call, and you're
charged the same whether the call is two minutes or thirty, so hanging
up before thirty minutes is quite literally a waste of money.
"It's okay, I'll call him back," I reply, knowing I can't.
There's no calling back a prison; no voice mails; and no "call me in 10s." You pick up or you don't.
On occasion we've gotten into heated arguments about this.
"You make yourself available when I call! We have important things to
discuss and if we don't talk you won't know what to do."
I understand his frustration — especially when I actually dodge his
calls, something of which I am guilty from time to time.
But really, what are my options here?
I pick up my phone, look around the room wide-eyed and paranoid,
wait 10 seconds, dial one number, and start talking as softly as possible, as to not attract any attention?
Take a minute to imagine what that looks like… I
think it's safe to say I would shortly after be unanimously labeled the biggest loon in the office.
But for arguments sake, let's imagine I pick up. I continue to whisper
personal details of my life: my budget, my doctor's appointment, my
roommates, the stock market, and our family financial investments —
using up all 30 minutes. I can't get annoyed when he can't hear me,
because I can't move; and I can't speak up, because I don't want anyone to hear me.
I don't want to discuss my budget, and definitely not my thyroid anomaly,
in front of co-workers; I don't want to explain why my Dad can't Google
market information and world news himself; and I can't leave my desk in
thirty minute intervals. It's not feasible for me, or for any other kid of an incarcerated parent.
Still, this isn't one of the "bad" things, really. It's so small
that I almost feel guilty complaining about it. It's just another
inconvenience; one more thing that makes life a little bit more
difficult than it needs to be. You want to share great news? Bad news?
Time-sensitive news? Better keep your phone's volume up and be prepared
to walk out of any business meeting, doctor's appointment, subway platform,
restaurant or movie-theater. I suggest living in a city like New York, where
animatedly expressing intense human emotion on the street goes relatively unnoticed.
My father wants to impart wisdom on me and help me grow into a successful, strong person.
I know he wants to take solace in the fact that I am resilient, and his errors and setbacks
did not tarnish my future. The trouble is, he has limited pockets of time to do this. When
I visit my father he does not weave advice into our conversations like tokens of patient
wisdom; rather, he outlines a series of well thought-out, repressed gestures of love,
and shoves them down my throat at an unbearable force. I often feel like a saturated sponge,
listless and eager to dry off.
Unlike other parents, he doesn't have the luxury of revisiting the conversation
after I've "cooled down" from an adolescent outburst. So we get as much as we
can out in one exhausting, often turbulent, six hour visit, once every two to three months.
Call me crazy, but I don't see how this aspect of my father's punishment "punishes" him at all.
This was written by Photo Patch Content Creator, a volunteer of Photo Patch Foundation.
