When my husband began his incarceration in May 1996 for embezzling nearly 2 million dollars, I made the effort each Saturday to bring our three daughters to visit their father in the Connecticut state prison where he was serving six years for defrauding law clients.
These were our last months in our ranch home on Hilltop Road, and I commended myself for generously orchestrating the visits. I understood it was important for my then-16-year-old, 12-year-old and 8-year-old to see their dad, to confirm he was safe and be able to continue a loving relationship with him. But as benevolent as I was, I cursed his very existence through my teeth each time I pushed our rusted, 90-pound mower uphill over the rutted lawn.
I remember one summer day when we visited him. I parked in the visitor’s lot, and as we approached the entrance to Cybulski, I made note of the 12-foot fencing topped with rolled barbed wire that surrounded the institution. It served as an unmistakable reminder that we were on the outside and he, like all prisoners, was trapped on the inside.
After we entered the dimly lit waiting room, I approached the guard’s station while the girls sat on steel benches bolted to the walls. Though it was nearly 90 degrees in the blistering sun, the waiting room felt like a meat locker.I raised my voice to be heard through the speaker implanted in the glass barrier. “We are here to see prisoner 147942.” Names are too personal for prison life. I had memorized David’s number now that he’d forfeited his right to a name. The guard examined his list to find our prisoner’s request for Saturday visitation. He looked up and leaned into the mic. “I need to see some identification.”
“I felt like I had been convicted, too. But what was my crime?”
I fumbled through my purse, searching for my wallet, and then slid my driver’s license under the plexiglass divider. After comparing my identification with the information he had on file, the officer raised his head and surveyed my face to verify I was who I claimed to be. I was who I appeared to be based on my license photo: green eyes, brown hair, 5’3”. Beyond that, it was anyone’s guess. My identity as a housewife married to a lawyer and a woman who played tennis, hosted playgroups and volunteered with the PTA was gone. I wasn’t certain yet who would be occupying her place.
“Have a seat,” the guard said as he gestured toward the bench. “You’ll be called soon.” I felt like I had been convicted, too. But what was my crime?
I could confess to the crime of making bad choices and ignoring what I didn’t want to see. I was also guilty of fashioning my life into a competition, participating in a materialistic quest for a beautiful home, vacations at Disney and dinners at expensive restaurants. But my greatest crime was depending on my husband to take care of me, rather than taking responsibility for myself. I was willing to admit those things.
I also sensed the guard saw us as nothing more than lowlives he had to deal with. I was married to a number, and that made me no more than that number plus one. I was simply part of a system. When one family member goes to prison, the entire family goes with him.
After staring at inspirational wall posters like “Hang in There” or “Walk the Talk,” it was time. We were escorted, single file, into a visiting room that looked like an elementary school cafeteria with oversized images of Road Runner and Sylvester painted by the prisoners onto white cinderblock walls. The cartoons were likely intended to evoke comfort for children visiting their fathers, but I saw them as absurd reminders of the path I’d traveled that brought me to this surreal place.
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