My Statement
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.
