Looking out: Forgive them

Forgive them

A prison visiting room can be a source of information and learning for anyone who enters one. Segmented titbits and even entire lifetimes are often on unintentional display. Recently my visitor and I encountered the usual audible and visual expressions of hope, despair, joy, pain and sorrow that one would expect to find in a busy death row visiting room. The young man who occupies the cell next to mine was visited by a man in a wheelchair. My visitor and I were seated at the end of a row of wooden stools as the young man and his visitor approached. After the routine introductions we understood that they were father and son. On the son's face there was the look of subdued yet genuine pride in his father's presence. Nevertheless both men seemed lost for words. It was not an awkward silence, but a strange one. The son, not wanting to sit, was crouched on the floor while the father was positioned directly in front of us. The silence was broken when I asked the father what he thought of his son's writings. A look of surprise came over his face as he made it clear he had not seen or read any of them. His expression and body language suggested that he had no faith in anything his son had ever endeavoured to do. It was a very telling moment. I explained that I had read some of his essays and, while they were often peppered with the wordiness of youth, many were interesting. I paused to let my opinion sink in. The father looked like he didn't understand why we were talking about this. The silence was awkward. Mindful of the need to press on, I noted that I too write a lot, and had been sharing ideas about writing with his son. The father made it clear that he was less than impressed with his son's new found talent, and/or my opinion of it. I began to wonder how long he had been so disinterested in his son. I later learned that my mention of the son's writings — and the father's subsequent reaction — could easily have been a metaphorical statement on their life together prior to the son's imprisonment. Recently the son showed me a 15-year-old photograph of which he is both proud and ashamed. It shows him at about seven, with a contorted face, and tears in his eyes, bent at the waist and knees. Across his shoulders is a barbell with 21 pounds locked into place at each end. His father had forced him into total and brutal exhaustion. Half of the father's face, back and wheelchair are also in the photograph. The agony and tears on his son's face obviously meant nothing to the father. The photograph caused a flashback: there were traces of that same look on the son's face in the visiting room. One wonders if prison — even death row — has turned out to be a pleasant respite compared to his home life. One must wonder too, if the son can ever forgive his father.