Prison Talk: What Do My Parents Think?

I often wonder what it’s like for my parents when they come to visit me. I frankly don’t know; nor can they fully comprehend what prison life is like for me. I can tell them and assure them that all is going well. But I’m their son, the youngest of their four children; leaving me here in prison can never be normal. It can never be comforting.
I often wonder what they talk about on the way here. What do they feel upon entering the prison yard and viewing the barbed-wire fencing and tall watchtower manned by an armed guard? Pulling into the prison parking lot is far from pulling into a stadium or an apartment complex.
“We’re going to visit our son this weekend,” would be a typical statement from my parents throughout the years as they regularly visited Anthony at Mercyhurst College in Erie, Pa., Mike at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Md., and yours truly in Philadelphia at Temple University. They often traveled far distances to watch Anthony play during his professional soccer career, and they had just begun doing the same for me. My parents are well traveled.
Those must have been much anticipated trips, with many proud moments; and upon the visit’s completion, they left us where we were supposed to be—where we worked to be. They left us free as we all know freedom. Free to pick up the phone. Free to check in at any given time with a call or a text. Free to follow them home if we so chose.
But not these weekend trips to prison. The same way they came, they must certainly go. Upon entering this place, they must stand patiently in a single-file line as they wait to walk through the metal detector. They are required to leave all personal items in their car, and then they are inspected through a routine frisking and pat-down.
They leave the visiting hall when commanded. And that departure time varies week to week, depending on the number of prisoners that need to be body-checked and cleared after a visit’s end. All of these infringements must be a constant reminder that they are in a different world—not of their choosing.
“Visitation ended,” shouts a corrections officer. All the visitors must move to the front of the hall, while the inmates must line up against the wall. Young children immediately begin crying and cleaving to their imprisoned father. It must appear chaotic and unnatural in their minds. Fathers don’t leave their children.
It’s time to go. No questions asked. No more small talk. No additional time allotted. My parents must leave their son—their youngest child, who once had such a bright future. It can’t be like leaving a college campus or a sporting competition. It can’t be.
I don’t know what it’s like for them. And they don’t know what it’s like for me. But I can tell you this: My future is still bright with hope because my faith is well. My parents may feel sick in their stomachs when they have to leave me here, but they are leaving me in a freedom that would never have existed had I not been here.
I attempt to consider my parents’ journey as they come and go on these weekend visits, that I may cause no more pain. Yes, my parents are certainly well traveled—and on a path that they never could have envisioned.
(ED. NOTE: The author and professional athlete of Court House is serving five-and-a-half years in state prison after pleading guilty in October 2009 to manslaughter and driving while intoxicated. His blogs have been read by over 500,000 people in every state, 121 countries, and in 67 different languages. You can learn more at www.themattmaherstory.com.)