YOUR FATHER, THE FUGITIVE
When your father is a fugitive, it doesn’t matter what he did. He didn’t do it to you. You want him home. Your mother won’t tell you what he’s been running from until you are in middle school, when his picture is in the local newspaper with the words APPREHENDED plastered across his face. You always just assumed he was running from you.
When she tells you that he was a fugitive you make up an outlaw narrative. You tell all your white classmates. They laugh, and so you think they perceive you to be interesting, and edgy, and cool. But you are the butt of their joke. You are a stereotype. Your trauma amuses them. They call someone over and command you to tell them, too.
Hey, so and so, listen to this. You gotta hear this.
When your father is a prisoner, he writes you letters. He calls you princess. He blames the bars for the distance. You believe him and you do not believe him. To you, he feels mostly foreign. Your mother takes you to see him, but he is only allowed two visitors, and you have a brother, and the two of you require adult supervision. You let your brother and your mother go. You cry, alone, in the ugly painted waiting room. The guard watches. She tells you to smile. You can’t. Your trauma amuses her.
When you are back in the car, your brother tells you that your father is wearing a makeshift cast. He tells you…
