I Identify as His

The Man I never Knew

Chapter 1

It took me so long to be angry at my Dad. As a child, the idealization I had for this man fueled my imagination creating a perfect image of a man that would never be.

Abandoned, not a word a five-year-old knows, but certainly an emotion that is very real for so many children growing up parentless in this messed up world. Abandonment, it's a feeling that I would grow to deeply understand, and do my best to run away from. Castaway for the sake of my parent's selfish indifference. Many times my childhood was filled with joy and wonder, through the love of one woman. She was all I’ve ever known, my legal guardian, in my case, a guardian angel, my grandma. I had a childhood of ups and downs, with much inconsistency; it was all she could do on a single income waitresses' pay to ensure my 'carefree innocence.'

“Make sure you don’t wear anything with metal,” Grandma warns hurriedly striding down the hall with the confidence of a woman half her age. “And close-toed shoes,” she said raising her tone as she rushed to her room to finish dressing.

“Your Aunt will be here shortly, we have a three-hour drive ahead of us. We’ll stop for breakfast on the way.”

I nervously respond with an ‘okay’ and keep getting ready. I hope this time will be different. A secret part of me has been holding down this heartbreaking excitement. I opt for some basic baggy jeans, a t-shirt about free expression, and my favorite, wore out Airwalks, a nineties knock-off skate shoe trying to be Vans, personally customized with rainbow shoelaces. Looking in the mirror, a young teenage tomboy stares back at me. I run my hands through my burgundy-dyed boy cut and the “girl” in the mirror does the same. Checking twice to be certain that the broken little girl isn’t showing through my façade, I set off to my room to get the items ready for our drive. Filling my backpack with only the essentials: a Dean Koontz book, a sketchbook, pencils, and art supplies, my Discman and CDs with mildly eclectic music choices, of course, my Gameboy and games, ‘Tetris’ and ‘Super Mario’.

My nerves sharpen as I prepare for this visit. I haven’t seen my dad in years. He’s in Chowchilla state prison and this will be the first time I’ve gone to see him in that facility. But not the first time visiting my incarcerated dad, not by far. One moment sticks out so intensely for me. When I was around five, my dad found himself on his usual wrong side of the law. Only the court recorder knows how many times he has been incarcerated. A dutiful family we were, going to visit him, but they wouldn’t let us because of some paperwork issue. This devastated me so much so that I am almost immobilized by a fear that the same thing will happen again today.

My dad, A skinny man, adorned with a mustache and full of tattoos for as long as I can remember was more of an uncle that came to visit on holidays, or just because of that steady rock of protection that you’d want out of a father. Though always absent, he managed a pen-pal relationship with me throughout the years. This is where I started to comprehend that just because someone said they loved you and wanted to be around you didn’t always make it the entire truth. Letter after letter, countless times apologizing for “messing up,” for not getting “clean,” for not being around this Christmas. “I’ll make it up to you…” emptiness in words… such shallowness of language, how not to love; these are all difficult lessons a hostile world didn’t teach me, my dad did. Not much has changed in our modern-day relationship, now I don’t get letters, I get texts, and Facebook messages, all with the same content as the letters he used to send, just more infrequent.

A polaroid of me kissing my dad showed me that, for a minute, my innocence was realized, however fleetingly. Life never lives up to the expectations of media, or our minds. By the time I’d reach my adolescence, all I’d have from our relationship was a shoebox full of letters and cards all addressed to me from inmate I.D. number whatever. At this point, after nearly a decade and a half of this, my dad is not even on my radar. He’s more of a chore that my youth-altered mind has to bear. His absence may create a void, however, I am doing my best to fill it with as much promise of love as with lust. It seems like ever since I’ve gotten into this world I have been fighting to be loved.

Aunt Nancy arrives, and I end up drawing the whole time in the back of her boat of a car; an evergreen-colored Lincoln Town car that floated like a boat down an asphalt river. Mid-sketch of a portrait drawing of what my dad would never be, we stop for brunch at some dusty diner just a few miles away from the state prison.

My Aunt Nancy was an elegantly thin woman. She had the honeybee hair that the ladies out of the ’50s would be proud to call their own, and as always if it wasn't a nicotine gum in her mouth it was a Virginia Slim in her hand. We ate our meal, the three of us, jokingly reminiscing as if our outing was a perfectly normal family gathering. These two strong, mature women were examples of people who had done their best when life dealt them men who didn’t live up to the expectations of their duty. They talked for what seemed like an hour, the wealth of their knowledge had only scratched the surface of that breakfast. Even if it had been fully revealed, I wouldn't have had the understanding to discern it. They talked of a time that I would never know but often dreamt of finding.

After feasting on the simple pleasures that an American diner can offer, fully satiated, my anxiety seemed to be fueled by the sustenance. The drive through this barren flatland from the diner, though short, was so overwhelming, my mostly settled breakfast almost re-appeared for a second course.

All this time to spend maybe an hour with a man I hardly knew and had been hurt by countless times, yet somehow I deeply yearned to be around. The anticipation for the short duration was almost too much to bear. Weeks of planning, coordinating, paperwork to secure. Though these prepared me for a life of dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s, it made for a very exhausting childhood.

“We’re here,” Aunt Nancy proclaims as we pulled up to the state penitentiary. I still get a lump in my throat today from all the nerves of this moment. What-if’s were racking my adolescent brain.

Walking up to the main entrance I saw inmates dressed in different colored jumpsuits and clothing identifying which level they belonged to, some men in beige or jean, some in orange, others in pink. Funny I thought, ‘a thug in pink….’

“I’ll sign us in,” my Grandma says walking over to the counter as Aunt Nancy and I settled into awkward unnaturally bent chairs, apparently not created to be sat in for very long. I looked around the waiting room, quickly realizing it was filled with many people just like me, waiting to be approved to see our loved ones, for however brief our chances may be.

Shockingly, there was an inmate gift shop that had all kinds of different creative works the prisoners had made during their stints, even here capitalism thrives. From intricately folded gum wrappers that formed all kinds of beautifully designed boxes to origami flowers, even very talented drawings, and “cell-made” cards for sale. After looking at all these amazing trinkets made by the hands of men that had committed some of the most barbaric crimes, my heart recognized the dichotomy of our souls. It also made me realize that the personalized cards and drawings that I had so cherished, sent to me in the mail from my dad for as many years as I could remember were not hand-drawn by him they were all gift shop gifts. The childish thought of removing the "101 Dalmations" art that fuels my dreams of the thought my dad is an artist disheartened me. Unfortunately, my Dad would be living in the cycle of addiction and guilt for most of his life and there wasn't anything I could do about it.

“Melis….” Grandma pulls me out of almost a trance of racing thoughts. “Hun, they said, you can’t see him.” I almost don’t even hear her.

“I’m so sorry, I’m going to talk to the officer, but they say that you weren’t on the itinerary somehow, and… Oh, hun…” she trailed off. To be honest, the minute I comprehended what she said I stopped listening, but I didn’t need to hear her words, her body spoke enough for me. Not again… I knew this would happen…. I feared that this would happen again… the emotion took over my body, expelling itself through running. The next thing I knew I was next to Aunt Nancy’s Lincoln, hoping that this boat could save me from drowning in the lifetime of disappointment and heartache that surrounded me. Hiding in its morning shadow I prayed for stillness.

One thing about my Grandma; if you messed with her family she went from being the loving smiling Wanda to a woman we later deemed as T’Wanda. She would, very simply put, go all Mama Bear on whomever she felt had been threatening her bear cubs. This time she set her eyes on the guards of the Chowchilla state prison. They never knew what hit them. With pleading and a bit of the wrath of T’Wanda, they finally said we could visit my dad.

With the anxiety of the moment over, this meant I could visit my dad. It’s amazing how fast one can go from an infantile fearful child to a closed-off, cold-hearted, tough teen. However, I had it down to a science.

The moment had come, my shoes came off to go through the metal detector, we were escorted very professionally by correctional officers down these long, confining, sterile corridors, arriving at what was fundamentally a lunchroom consisting of bolted-down tables and chairs, painted cinder block and with a small, outdoor, walled-in patio. These closed-off walls did nothing to me, I could, and, in fact, would be forced to leave in an hour, yet my mind was confined in a prison of its own.

My Dad was donned with more green prison ink than skin, with an intimidating stride if you didn’t know him. A motorcycle accident left scars, some from multiple attempts of corrective plastic surgery following the accident. Life had been unforgiving to my dad, I guess he decided to do the same back to life. Dressed head to toe in denim, he smiles at us through his mustache, and hugs us all, greeting everyone with warmth, though this warmth is cooled down within minutes of our short interaction. I don’t know if it's the awkwardness or guilt, but it's what seems to be the mountain between us that appears to be unsurpassable. We snap a lasting Polaroid, and go for a walk in the “yard.”

I try to be open and nice, but somehow, our time would be as strange as an alien encounter, and about as rare. Not really knowing what to say, the conversation stayed on the subsurface of life, he would use quips and jokes to break the tension, these all have since become memorized old hats.

“Wanna see my dog bone? Here feel my shoulder” I uncomfortably and unfortunately respond to this unconventional attempt at bonding by reaching to touch his collarbone, where he then proceeds to bark at me, so loudly that others turned their attention, momentarily he laughs pleased with his moment he blurts out.

“Wow, that hair is dark and… short. What are you going for?” Ultimately, the angst of my youth guides as cold as a winter day, glaring back at him as if to say it’s none of your concern how I keep my hair. He mindlessly continues to dig himself a hole large enough to bury his dog bone, blathering on about his disapproval of my ‘look.’ In the end, both of our defensive walls that I had hoped would crumble during this trip only tightened their security. The final blow came through ego and bitterness,

“I’m still your father, I do have a say…” these words increase our divide wider than the Grand Canyon. He tried, but our time together seemed as empty as the days between our last visit. Maybe we had simply grown too far apart…

“Not really you don’t,” I respond, “You gave up that say when you signed away your rights to me.” This last verbal sting stuns him into silence. We walk side by side yet worlds apart back to the waiting matrons.

“Inmates, visiting hours are now over.” The voice calls over the speaker. After all this build-up, the final result would feel entirely shallow, leaving me with more questions than when I came. The whole time went so quickly. We are escorted out of the corridor. Time for the long drive home, to reflect on if I should regret my words or not, and get back to that drawing of the portrait of the father I would always want and never have. The headlights of the Lincoln at long last hit the security of familiar streets, pulling back up to the comforts of our home I decided to let it go and just wait on the next “cell-made” card, or long-distance collect phone call.