Prison Father Sessions
by Reginald Sinclair Lewis
My relationship with Jennifer ended long ago-shortly after I came to prison-and
when Ameenah, our beautiful, mocha-colored 14-year-old daughter, was only
3. On time's winged chariot the years sailed by briskly.
Jennifer eventually found someone else, married, but throughout my harrowing
years of imprisonment her husband never attempted to sabotage or deliberately
diminish my role as Ameenah's natural father.
Tall and shapely and regal now, my daughter is at an age where ebullient
wild-eyed boys begin to test their zig-zagging hormones on innocent, unsuspecting
young females. An age where teenage girls are trusting and impressionable
and full of dreams. An age where a father's paranoia blossoms.
Ameenah resides in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, with her mother and stepfather,
Joe. And like most large urban cities in the United States, crime and drugs
and STD's and violence against females abound. As the father of a young
African-American girl, I am constantly tormented by the thought of my daughter
being vulnerable to any of these evil afflictions.
One afternoon I received a letter from Jennifer. (She would write to me
from time to time - long rambling expressions of her lingering love-hate
for me, sometimes about the status of my legal appeals and spiritual well-being,
but always about our daughter.) I remember the sharp, distinct aroma of
her perfume seeping from the floral-patterned stationery wafting through
the hot, gritty air in my cell as I unfolded the letter.
"I am having problems with Ameenah," she began in her looping
awkward scrawl. "Did you know she's missed days in school? Her teacher
told me that! Her school principal too! I think she's messing around with
boys, but I sure do know she's starting to wear make-up and tight skirts!
I asked her was she having sex but she wouldn't talk about it. Nor will
she listen to her stepfather. I wish you'd speak to her. She's just like
you! -Jennifer"
I stared at those words disbelievingly. Disappointment and confusion and
black rage shot through me all at once. Was she talking about my daughter?
My Babygirl? I wrote to Ameenah immediately-mentioning nothing about what
her mother had told me-and asked her to come visit me as soon as possible.
My rage subsided the moment she walked into the prison's visiting rom. She
looked fabulous. "Hi, Daddy!" she beamed brightly and gave me
a big hug.
"Hey, Babygirl!" I said.
We took the seats against the wall, and I found myself searching my daughter's
young face for discernible signs of drug usage - but there was nothing about
her that seemed different. She wore a long dark blue dress and a blue silk
ribbon in her hair, and there was nothing about the dress that was revealing.
If she was dressing trashy, as her mother claimed, she knew better than
to come around me looking like that. I got right to the point.
"So what's this I hear about you missing days in school, messing around
with boys, and talking back to your Mama?" I rattled off all in one
sentence.
Ameenah frowned. "I told her I went to the movies those times with
my girlfriend," she said.
"You have to cut school for that?" I asked, trying to contain
my anger.
"She wouldn't have let me go, Daddy. I mean, it's . . it's like I'm
in prison." The way she said it I believed her. Jennifer was an impossibly
strict warden.
"I dunno why she told you all that stuff. It ain't true."
"What isn't?" I asked seriously.
"'Bout boys. I mean like, I talk to them. But that's as far as it goes.
I'm not having sex if that's what you think," Ameenah said defensively.
She paused, then came back quickly, "And what's wrong with me wearin'
a little lipstick? It's the '90s. All the girls in my school wear it."
I didn't want my daughter to think that I was just another prudish adult
who didn't understand her fashion-conscious generation, so I shrugged and
said, "Nothing. Well, as long as you wear it modestly."
She grew quiet then. She had the piercing, dark-almond eyes I'd bequeathed
her. Her strong, assertive personality came from me too.
"I wanted Mama to stick with you, Daddy. I mean, he's not my father.
You are."
The pain in her voice told me what I always knew. Her mother had committed
an unforgivable act of betrayal when she married Joe and established a new
life for herself, Ameenah felt. And the silent rage she'd carried around
all these years was spewing forth in her rebellion. My daughter was also
crying out for attention. Which is why I never forget her birthdays, major
holidays, and why I write her long, intelligent letters and send her books
to build her self-esteem higher. I bear the onus and shame of being another
conspicuously absent African-American father, but throughout my years of
imprisonment I've tried to give my daughter more than love. Every month
I send home money earned from my article and short story writing, and my
monthly prison wages to help out with her basic needs and to put aside for
her college tuition.
I owe her that much. And as I listen to her voice and her dreams during
her visits, I realize that she'll no longer be my "Babygirl"-
she's rapidly blossoming into a strong, bright, well-adjusted woman.
-Reginald S. Lewis,, AY2902, Death Row,1040 E. Roy Furman Hwy., Waynesburg,
PA 15370-8090