My father went to jail on my 15th birthday, January 16, 1996. I have
never asked what happened, and to this day I still don't care to know
the sequence of events. However, a prison sentencing for a family man is
a sentence for his entire family. We were an average Long Island family
and we were made to endure the 51 months my father would be imprisoned.
All we could do was wait. During this time, my mother, my two brothers,
and I quietly wondered about his return and the people we would come to
be at the end of these 51 months.
In my father's absence my mother was simultaneously mother and father
to not only myself, but to my two younger brothers. While maintaining
three jobs and caring for three children, she remained loyal to my
father. Every weekend she would drive ten-hours roundtrip to Allenwood
Federal Prison Camp. My mother kept the family together and, even now
that we live apart, she still does. Taylor, my youngest brother, was too
small when my father went to jail to fully realize the transition. At
first, he thought the visiting room at Allenwood was my father's new
office. As he matured, Taylor began to understand the reality, but he
never made any accusations. He was as he is today, quiet and accepting.
Even as the youngest child, Taylor made it a priority to make sure
everyone else was happy, and always looked for his older brother to lean
on. My brother Grant is two years
younger than me, and several years wiser. Grant watched over me, and was
the calming force in our family. There is no one I admire more.
I travelled through these 51 months behind my camera. There is no
explanation because there was no decision. Making photographs is what I
knew. In the end, there exists this diary of absence. Looking at these
photographs nine years later, I realize each image is an invitation to
revisit this vulnerable time. Many of these images propel you into a
moment or an event and help to complete my story, but the images that
have stuck with me are those of detail. These images are what filled the
void my father left behind and represent the passing time and our sense
of loss. The details are our daily emotions, everyday surroundings, and
they are my personal experiences. I can feel the green-blue carpeting
pressed against my feet, the changing seasons through my basement
window, and the sound of my brother's video games coupled with a nearby
train. I can still feel the touch of my mother's beautiful bony hands
after she applied her moisturizer or see the three lines around her
neck. I can recall the speed at which Taylor turned from a child into a
teen, and Grant from a boy into a man. I remember my father's initials
around my mother's neck and the mail that continued to come after he had
gone. Alongside these brief details exist memories of prison visiting
rooms, and my father lifeless and scared. These details and my love for
my father are my story.
My Father's Statement
When I was found guilty of my crime I never could have known where my
life would go. It was like a bad dream, a black abyss. All of my life I
worked hard to build a successful business. I loved my family and my
work, but perhaps not in the right order. I was guilty of my actions,
but I think the judge was harsh with his sentence. Instead of a possible
twelve-month sentence, I received five years. I was handcuffed and
escorted out of the courtroom by an officer and it was at this moment I
realized my life was no longer my own. The officer began the most
inhumane search, as he inspected every part of my body. I was in shock.
When they placed me into a holding cell I realized I was not going home.
While waiting to be escorted from my cell to the bus outside, I recall
pacing, allowing my feet to touch only the white tiles and never the
black lines. I did this in the hospital awaiting the birth of both my
sons.
I could not believe what I saw when the bus pulled up to
the prison—the gun towers, razor wire fences, and the noise. Awful noises. The
sound of the metal doors closing behind you, cutting you off from the
rest of the world, is a sound that I will never forget. At that moment,
you must leave personal matters and your lifestyle behind and readjust
to life in prison. Up until this point in my life I was always in
complete control, but once inside I had to become a B.O.P. [Bureau of
Prisons] robot. They tell you when to eat, when to sleep, and when to
move. You quickly learn that you must divorce yourself from the outside
world and concentrate on survival.
I will not talk about the events that I saw and encountered during my
incarceration. Good people should not be exposed to the horrors of
prison life. Yet, I will say that the emptiness can kill you if you let
it. The first thing you learn in prison is to keep to yourself. I went
four months without speaking to another inmate. I began talking to
myself just to ease the pain and loneliness. I began to count
everything: years, days, hours, minutes, laps, and reps. I ran 10-20
miles every day. In rain, snow, and sub-zero temperatures, I ran and ran
just to keep my head clear. You try to do the time and not let the time
do you. You pray for your loved ones, but try not to think about them.
That was the hardest thing to do. I felt absolutely helpless. I love my
family and was paralyzed in not being able to help them.
As the seasons and years go by you become very stale. You exist but
are not living. You long for the day you can go home to your loved ones.
You lay awake at night worrying about re-entering the real world. You
start to doubt all your abilities. The last year of my stay, every
Sunday my son Taylor and I would draw a card from a deck. I slowly
watched the cards disappear until I was able to go home.
At the end of 51 months, my belongings fit in one average cardboard
box. I returned to my family, but to a strange house. I had lost
everything while incarcerated. We could no longer afford to live in the
beautiful homes we once lived in together. I was skinny and weak, and
hoped to regain the success I once enjoyed. When I walked through the
door, I remember the warmth I felt when my youngest son and I hugged.
His acceptance was invigorating. Over the years I felt he missed and
suffered the most. I could feel the distance between my oldest son and
me, and I hoped to regain his respect. Carrie was attached to her
camera. I did not want her to take any pictures, but I didn't want to
refuse her. These pictures are one half of my apology to my
daughter.
Looking over these images, I recall how awkward it was to lie next to
my wife and not worry about insane inmates. These pictures make me
remember what it felt like to eat a meal in my own kitchen without
prison rules. The freedom felt good. Throughout these photos I find it
obvious that I wear my feelings on my face and that I felt enormous pain
and disappointment. While away, I decided not to cut my hair to serve as
a reminder of the mistakes I had made. To this day, I have not yet cut
my hair. God only knows that I will never go back and that each day
since I wish my family never had to experience my imprisonment.
