No one wrote to me
more faithfully during my nearly six years of incarceration than my father. I remember
his first letter shortly after my arrest. He was shocked and heartbroken, not
able to reconcile my criminal actions with my true character. He said he was horrified
by what I had done, but that the real Doug would never have done such a thing. He
attributed my crimes to addiction.
I took his words as a sign of grace
and generosity. He had forgiven me the moment he heard the news. In truth, he probably
blamed himself.
My father had left
our household while I was still a child. Years before, his own dad had
abandoned his family, and his mom later married an abusive man who tormented
and bullied my father throughout his childhood. My father carried unhealed wounds
into adulthood, so he never felt completely at home in his own skin. When I was in the 6th grade, he removed his wedding
ring and moved into a small one-bedroom apartment across town.
His departure was so devastating,
that I also carried unhealed wounds into adulthood. Like many children of
divorce, I blamed myself. I wore the anguish visibly, making me an outcast
among my peers. Adolescence was an internal prison, worse than any of the 109
facilities scattered across Texas. When I discovered drugs and alcohol, life
seemed to improve. I had no idea that I was watering a toxic seed that would
one day lead me to real prison.
I never met a man in prison who
didn’t also carry childhood wounds related to fatherhood. At the mere mention
of fathers, men grew serious. Otherwise hardened men talked of abandonment,
disappointment, or abuse. Even those whose fathers were consistent and loving
shared feelings of deep shame for having disappointed their dads so gravely.
Talking of fatherhood also reminded men of their own children.
More than 68 percent of the men
in Texas prisons are fathers, and there is little question that incarceration
has a terrible effect on the well-being and healthy development of their
children. The loss of financial support increases the likelihood that children
will live at least a portion of their childhood in poverty. Also, a significant
number of the incarcerated parents actually lived with their children at the
time of arrest, disrupting their lives in ways that have lifelong consequences.
I was often shocked by the number
of men in prison who had children serving time in other units. On the unit
where I served most of my time, at least two men shared cells with their fathers.
I will never forget the tears of my cell mate when he learned that his adult
son had committed his third felony and was being sent back to prison on a life
sentence as a habitual offender.
He didn’t blame his son, nor did
he blame a system that fails to adequately rehabilitate men during early
interactions with the criminal justice system. Instead, he blamed himself and
his own failings as a father.
I came to understand that there
was a difference between taking responsibility and taking the blame. Taking the
blame is a helpless response that originates in shame. Heaping shame upon
oneself or another denies the possibility of change.
Probably the most tragic element
of the criminal justice system in Texas is the extent to which it is steeped in
shame. It is a system that refuses to acknowledge the problems at the root of
criminal involvement, and allows us to write people off as irredeemable. It
allows the officers of correctional control to dehumanize incarcerated
individuals, often entrenching them in destructive mindsets.
The men that I met in prison were
not irredeemable. They carried the unhealed wounds of childhood, and cycled in
and out of the courts as they encountered a state jail and probation system
that set them up to fail.
The men who overcame this viscous
cycle were those who cast off the shame and took responsibility for their own
rehabilitation. They began taking classes or volunteered in the Chapel. Along the way, they met unlikely allies -
usually fellow inmates - who helped them to see that they were more than the
worse thing they ever did. These men became like father figures to those who had never known a father.
I gravitated to these people from
the start, following their example. I volunteered as a peer educator, working to end the culture of
violence inside prison. I volunteered in the Chapel and in the 12-Step
meetings, becoming a mentor and ally to others. I felt as though my life were
starting over, and I began to see that I could one day be a decent father to my
own daughter.
My father celebrated whenever he received
a letter from me. He saw me taking responsibility for the crimes I committed and becoming a man on whom others could rely. Midway through my fourth year in
prison, my father came to visit me. He had lost weight and appeared frail, but
his face lit up when he saw me. During that two hour visit, he looked me in the
eye and said, “Doug, I’m proud of you.” I never saw him again.
One year later, my father died. I
was still in prison and unable to leave for a funeral. The Chaplain allowed me
to call my Step-Mother, and she shared the news with me. I walked out of the
Chapel numb, holding back tears until I could reach my bunk.
I berated myself for not being
with my father during his battle with cancer. I thought of how I was depriving
my own daughter of a father in her life, and shame welled up inside. It
occurred to me that I was repeating the toxic pattern. After a day on my bunk,
I got back to work doing the things that had made my father so proud. Six
months later, I was paroled.
Today, I get to be a father to a
beautiful daughter. I never use the language of shame with her, either toward
myself or anyone else. I don’t even use
that language toward the system itself. I believe people can change, even those
who want to keep the criminal justice system exactly as it is.
