LJ Idol Season 11: Open Topic Sudden Death Write Off
Having a father in jail, I have discovered, becomes a child’s deepest, darkest secret. It was mine for the longest time. When everyone else around you seems to have the perfect family, you begin to feel as if you’re the only one in the world with such a life. You begin to wonder what exactly is wrong with you that you don't have the family that everyone else has. What did you do to deserve this becomes a recurrent question in your mind and not a pleasant question at that. It eats at your soul as you wonder about the unfairness of it all and the secret digs itself deeper and deeper inside of your skin clawing at you trying to escape. You realize even if you wanted to talk, who could you even talk to? Who would be able to understand what you were going through? You can talk to your mom but she doesn’t truly understand the fears coursing through you about how you’re afraid that you might turn out just like him. She doesn’t share his blood. Your extended family knows but to them it seems to be a joke something to be talked about flippantly and laughed at or they may be the type to be afraid to talk at all in front of you about him. Maybe they want to pretend that he doesn’t exist. Your friends wouldn’t get it - they have normal families. The isolation envelops you more and more.
The worst is when the people around you start assuming that because your father is in jail, you’re going to turn out exactly like him. I’ve heard my own family member say to my mother: “watch out for Hillary - the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You think she’s a good girl but just wait until she turns on you because she will.” You want to scream on the top of your lungs that you are not your parent - but no one listens. I’ve also heard, “Oh, Hillary just got lucky turning out the way she did despite having a father in jail.” My determination, hard work, and perseverance didn’t count for anything - just luck it seems.
Everyone else seems to know better than you about who you’re going to turn out to be. Many of my life decisions when I was younger were made (either consciously or subconciously, I'm not sure) for the fear of what people would say - from not getting a second piercing in my ear or a tattoo, to the clothes I wear, to even not traveling to Puerto Rico when I was 18 with my boyfriend at the time despite his offer of paying for me even though I wanted to travel so badly. God forbid someone was going to speak negatively about me! I wouldn’t be surprised if other people with a parent in jail base their own life decisions around the actions of their incarcerated parent.
I never felt truly comfortable as a child or young adult talking about him and his past and in turn, my childhood, as one intertwines with the other. My friends in school would ask why I didn’t live with my father and I’d tell them, “oh, my parents are separated and my father lives in Baltimore.” They would frown, sympathy on their face as they would quickly change the subject uncomfortable with the idea. To this day, there are very few of my friends who have met my father. Some have not met him due to timing and circumstance - my father and my friends rarely had a chance to interact. I can probably count on one hand the friends I have today that have met my father. Others, it’s a matter of trust. For me, introducing you to my father is a complete trust issue - if I can’t trust you with the little things, how can I trust you not to judge me once you meet my father or worse yet, judge my father by his actions and thus give him a cold shoulder and in turn, turn on me. Now sadly, with my father having been deported to Israel, any chance of introducing my friends to my father is gone.
The friends I have introduced him to though have adored him to my surprise. In 9th grade, a good friend of mine at the time happened to have met my father without me being present. He was over at my parents’ friend’s house as he was best friends with my parent' friend's son and my father came by to visit. That night, I received an instant message from him exclaiming how he met my dad and how cool he seems to be. Shocked, I asked why is that? "It’s the clothing," he told me. That day (as I had seen him earlier), he was wearing a grey and white striped shirt with a yellow Old Navy jacket vest, red pants, sneakers, and a red hat. It had been the same outfit he had been in all week. My Aba, as he lived a nomadic lifestyle going from hotel to hotel, never had a place to keep his clothes and thus buys clothes, wears them for about a week or so, and then discards for a new outfit. I casually mentioned that fact, oddly trying to provoke a response of disgust or horror. I paced as I usually did while talking to my friend online waiting for a response. After a few minutes, he typed back, “no big deal as long as he’s comfortable with what he’s wearing and he gives the impression that he doesn’t give a damn what you think about him. That is what is so cool about him, Hillary.” That utter acceptance of who my father is by my friend astounded me. That is what I search for when I take that chance to introduce my friends to my father.
A couple of years ago, I had a friend travel to Israel to visit her family in the city of Ramla. Before she left, I gave her my father’s contact information along with some clothing he requested (he has a love for all things Puma) and pictures that he wanted from me of the family. While she was there, she contacted him and he traveled from Tel Aviv to Ramla (about 25 minutes away from each other according to Google Maps) to visit her. They had lunch and made the gift exchange: she gave him what I brought and in return, my father sent a few gifts for my mom, sister, and I. After their lunch, my friend returned to her grandmother’s house and Facebook chatted with me and proceeded to tell me how awesome he is and how talkative he is. It’s nice to know that some things never change!
The first time my friends began to reveal their own life stories about their fathers; one father was released from jail after serving more than ten years for robbery and manslaughter, another who knew their children were being molested by a family member and did nothing about it, to another who had her father who abused her mother and brother and then walked out on the family when she was 5 years old, all I could remember is feeling is a sigh of relief. Not for what they went through as I wouldn’t wish that on anyone but that relief that I was not alone. A weight had been lifted off my shoulders as I realized that there was no such thing as that perfect family. I was not the only one in the world who kept secrets. My mother and grandmother both taught me a valuable lesson as a child about how you never know what goes on behind closed doors. What might seem perfect on the outside may not be so much on the inside. For the first time, as my friends, one by one, revealed their stories, I was genuinely able to see what was meant by that saying.
I realized though as I thought about their stories in depth about how much it took for them to come out to me about their parent’s troubles how much I was not alone. Slowly I began to open up about my father to my friends. I tell his story, all the reasons he ended up in jail over the years, sometimes with a laugh because if nothing else, my life was never boring with him. Sometimes I tell it with pride because I have to admit, I have some amazing stories about my father that make me proud to be his daughter. Besides, I am proud of what I overcame with my father. Sometimes, I tell his story flippantly daring someone to judge me and my life and in turn, judge him. There are times I tell his story to friends who don’t think I could have a father crazier than theirs - for awhile, it was a recurring competition to see who has the best story about their father! My father wins hands down. Other times, such as when I sat with a student of mine who also had a father in jail, I told his story honestly in fear of watching my student go down our father’s paths. And yet other times, I tell his story in manner of: “You too? I thought I was the only one with a father like this!” And while it may appear simple enough to think logically and rationally to recognize that I'm not alone, emotions tend to be much more powerful and overwhelming. It took me years to truly feel comfortable in my skin to tell my story and to truly recognize that I am not alone. But if it has taken me so long, how many other people have felt alone like me? How many others are keeping their secrets like the proverbial skeleton in the closet afraid of it jumping out and scaring people? If by telling my story, and his, helps one person feel more comfortable with their past and helps them come to terms with their parent’s actions and behaviors, if it makes one person feel less alone, then I’ve achieved my goal.
The worst is when the people around you start assuming that because your father is in jail, you’re going to turn out exactly like him. I’ve heard my own family member say to my mother: “watch out for Hillary - the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You think she’s a good girl but just wait until she turns on you because she will.” You want to scream on the top of your lungs that you are not your parent - but no one listens. I’ve also heard, “Oh, Hillary just got lucky turning out the way she did despite having a father in jail.” My determination, hard work, and perseverance didn’t count for anything - just luck it seems.
Everyone else seems to know better than you about who you’re going to turn out to be. Many of my life decisions when I was younger were made (either consciously or subconciously, I'm not sure) for the fear of what people would say - from not getting a second piercing in my ear or a tattoo, to the clothes I wear, to even not traveling to Puerto Rico when I was 18 with my boyfriend at the time despite his offer of paying for me even though I wanted to travel so badly. God forbid someone was going to speak negatively about me! I wouldn’t be surprised if other people with a parent in jail base their own life decisions around the actions of their incarcerated parent.
I never felt truly comfortable as a child or young adult talking about him and his past and in turn, my childhood, as one intertwines with the other. My friends in school would ask why I didn’t live with my father and I’d tell them, “oh, my parents are separated and my father lives in Baltimore.” They would frown, sympathy on their face as they would quickly change the subject uncomfortable with the idea. To this day, there are very few of my friends who have met my father. Some have not met him due to timing and circumstance - my father and my friends rarely had a chance to interact. I can probably count on one hand the friends I have today that have met my father. Others, it’s a matter of trust. For me, introducing you to my father is a complete trust issue - if I can’t trust you with the little things, how can I trust you not to judge me once you meet my father or worse yet, judge my father by his actions and thus give him a cold shoulder and in turn, turn on me. Now sadly, with my father having been deported to Israel, any chance of introducing my friends to my father is gone.
The friends I have introduced him to though have adored him to my surprise. In 9th grade, a good friend of mine at the time happened to have met my father without me being present. He was over at my parents’ friend’s house as he was best friends with my parent' friend's son and my father came by to visit. That night, I received an instant message from him exclaiming how he met my dad and how cool he seems to be. Shocked, I asked why is that? "It’s the clothing," he told me. That day (as I had seen him earlier), he was wearing a grey and white striped shirt with a yellow Old Navy jacket vest, red pants, sneakers, and a red hat. It had been the same outfit he had been in all week. My Aba, as he lived a nomadic lifestyle going from hotel to hotel, never had a place to keep his clothes and thus buys clothes, wears them for about a week or so, and then discards for a new outfit. I casually mentioned that fact, oddly trying to provoke a response of disgust or horror. I paced as I usually did while talking to my friend online waiting for a response. After a few minutes, he typed back, “no big deal as long as he’s comfortable with what he’s wearing and he gives the impression that he doesn’t give a damn what you think about him. That is what is so cool about him, Hillary.” That utter acceptance of who my father is by my friend astounded me. That is what I search for when I take that chance to introduce my friends to my father.
A couple of years ago, I had a friend travel to Israel to visit her family in the city of Ramla. Before she left, I gave her my father’s contact information along with some clothing he requested (he has a love for all things Puma) and pictures that he wanted from me of the family. While she was there, she contacted him and he traveled from Tel Aviv to Ramla (about 25 minutes away from each other according to Google Maps) to visit her. They had lunch and made the gift exchange: she gave him what I brought and in return, my father sent a few gifts for my mom, sister, and I. After their lunch, my friend returned to her grandmother’s house and Facebook chatted with me and proceeded to tell me how awesome he is and how talkative he is. It’s nice to know that some things never change!
The first time my friends began to reveal their own life stories about their fathers; one father was released from jail after serving more than ten years for robbery and manslaughter, another who knew their children were being molested by a family member and did nothing about it, to another who had her father who abused her mother and brother and then walked out on the family when she was 5 years old, all I could remember is feeling is a sigh of relief. Not for what they went through as I wouldn’t wish that on anyone but that relief that I was not alone. A weight had been lifted off my shoulders as I realized that there was no such thing as that perfect family. I was not the only one in the world who kept secrets. My mother and grandmother both taught me a valuable lesson as a child about how you never know what goes on behind closed doors. What might seem perfect on the outside may not be so much on the inside. For the first time, as my friends, one by one, revealed their stories, I was genuinely able to see what was meant by that saying.
I realized though as I thought about their stories in depth about how much it took for them to come out to me about their parent’s troubles how much I was not alone. Slowly I began to open up about my father to my friends. I tell his story, all the reasons he ended up in jail over the years, sometimes with a laugh because if nothing else, my life was never boring with him. Sometimes I tell it with pride because I have to admit, I have some amazing stories about my father that make me proud to be his daughter. Besides, I am proud of what I overcame with my father. Sometimes, I tell his story flippantly daring someone to judge me and my life and in turn, judge him. There are times I tell his story to friends who don’t think I could have a father crazier than theirs - for awhile, it was a recurring competition to see who has the best story about their father! My father wins hands down. Other times, such as when I sat with a student of mine who also had a father in jail, I told his story honestly in fear of watching my student go down our father’s paths. And yet other times, I tell his story in manner of: “You too? I thought I was the only one with a father like this!” And while it may appear simple enough to think logically and rationally to recognize that I'm not alone, emotions tend to be much more powerful and overwhelming. It took me years to truly feel comfortable in my skin to tell my story and to truly recognize that I am not alone. But if it has taken me so long, how many other people have felt alone like me? How many others are keeping their secrets like the proverbial skeleton in the closet afraid of it jumping out and scaring people? If by telling my story, and his, helps one person feel more comfortable with their past and helps them come to terms with their parent’s actions and behaviors, if it makes one person feel less alone, then I’ve achieved my goal.