Happy Deadbeat Dad Day in Prison

 This morning after breakfast, I returned to the housing unit and checked my email as I often do. An email from my girlfriend wishing me a Happy Father's Day reminded me what day it is. I was aware that the day was approaching, but I often try to forget the day because it's it's just a painful reminder of my worst failures in life. 

As I stood up from checking my email, I realized that nobody was standing in the phone line. Yes, it was six-thirty in the morning, but on Mother's Day a dozen people would already be waiting in line to call their moms. 

Someone walked past me and said, "Happy Father's Day, Bryan!" I thanked him (trying to be gracious), and wished him the same. A young man on the phone asked me, "Is today Father's Day?" It's sad, but there are several reasons why Father's Day isn't normally a happy or significant day for us in prison. 

The vast majority of prisoners either do not know who their fathers are or had no meaningful relationship with him. A few of us were fortunate to have good dads (thanks, Dad!), but like me, many have lost theirs while in prison. Either way, we're burdened with a sadness over what we've lost or over what we never had. An even smaller group of men in prison are very close to their dads, yet prison dampens that relationship. 

The other stark reality is that most of us men in prison were not very good dads. In fact, I'd argue that none of us were, since we were separated from our families by our selfish choices. Obviously, there are some exceptions, but they are few and far between. 

When someone wishes me a Happy Father's Day, I know they mean well. I know they are acknowledging that I have children, but I don't feel like much of a dad. Instead, I feel like a fraud. Prison has a way of waking us up to what's important in life, and nothing I have done or ever will do will compare to being a dad. It was my greatest joy in life. I only wish I had been the kind of dad I had always dreamt of being. 

Every dad in prison is in some way, a deadbeat dad. Some are fathers as best they can be from prison, but to be a good dad, you've gotta be emotionally and physically present in your children's lives. I could have, and should have, done much, much better. 

Frankly, I'd like a do over, a mulligan. But it doesn't work like that. I don't get to pick up the ball and try again. The damage is done. The bell can't be un-rung. I'll have to carry around for the rest of my life the knowledge that I failed as a father. The only thing I can do is pray for forgiveness and healing--something I pray for nearly every day. 

It's not much of a consolation, because nobody can replace my own children in my heart, but I've been pretty fortunate to be able to be a father figure to a few young men in prison. It's nothing I've sought, and I feel reluctant even stepping into this role. Yet, I count it a privilege any time I've been able to give fatherly advice to a young prisoner who had no father to guide him. 

If at this point in my life I have any wisdom to share with young prisoners, it's only wisdom that has come at a tragically steep cost. But nothing compares to the price I'd pay for a second chance to be the kind of father my children (and every child) really deserved.