This past Saturday, I was on the phone with my mom talking about my biological father. This is a chapter of our lives from 30 years ago and I think both of us realized the ride we have been on since then.
In the beginning, I idolized her. She was beautiful, popular, stylish, strong and rebellious in her own right. I was clearly her little man. She raised me as an adult and as a best friend. When I look back, I think it worked for us. At the same time though, I was still able to take heed when she was putting on the proverbial “mother” hat.
As she developed a relationship with the man I was to call my father, I still came first in everything. When he died, it served to reaffirm the bond that she and I had.
When it came to acceptance, she was the best. She supported my
modeling, my homosexuality and whatever else I chose to do. We socialized
together regularly in comingled social circles as well as individually and it
worked.
Coming to prison changed the dynamic in ways that made the both of
us admit that some things became pretty difficult. It was no longer a team
effort. I needed her, but could no longer be there for her. At the time, I was
too stunned at my circumstances to truly realize what my incarceration had
done. Over the years though, it has become clear that she stopped living her
life, almost as if she had come to prison with me. She immersed herself in her
work and has remained there since. Sometimes the pressure, and yes, the guilt of
that is too much for me to bear. On a rare occasion, I can motivate her to go
out and do something. When she does, she shops for clothes and shoes but
unfortunately goes nowhere to wear them.
She has refused to leave Arizona until I am released and that – is
final.
Understand that the realization of this only began to sink in
about 4 years ago. It was at that time that I began to see a change in roles.
It was as if my maturity had skyrocketed and I evolved metaphysically into a
parental position. The irony in this is that I have had to readjust my
behavior, my expectations etc..
I try to think how our lives would be if I hadn’t come to prison
because I know this incarceration has had such an impact on our relationship.
I see her now at visit and she is still beautiful, strong, popular
stylish and rebellious. Behind the designer shades though, her eyes are sad and
tired. That is from my doing, I am no longer her little man. I am her
incarcerated son; her child. It took 33 years to form that aspect of our relationship.
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