Don’t be jealous but...

I got a handmade birthday card from my jailed deaf dad today.

Lessons from Dad

"No!" Dad signed after he swatted my hand. "That's dirty!" He continued with a disapproving scowl. Until that day, I didn't know it wasn't acceptable to eat boogers.

I don't remember how old I was -- two or three years old -- but it is my first vivid memory of a lesson taught by Dad.

His usual approach of teaching me the right way was to first show me the wrong. Like when I was five he gave me the same disgusted “don’t eat your boogers” look after I took a swig from a two-liter bottle of Pepsi.

"No, don't do it like that!" He took the bottle and demonstrated how I had done it wrong by putting my whole mouth around the opening. He shook his finger “No” and then showed me the right way by putting his upper lip inside the opening and creating a vacuum like effect to prevent backwash.

I didn't know why that was "right" but once I got the hang of it, I thought it was the most brilliant piece of advice.

When I was seven, we moved to the woods of Montgomery, Texas. That's where Dad taught me most everything I know about life, mostly through hard work.

"Don't do this," he signed before he haphazardly banged a nail into the deck we were building. "Wrong," he instructed as he deftly pried out the bent nail. Then he swiftly drove in a new nail straight with only two or three strikes and signed, "Right." I watched intently before I took over the hammering duties. With his instruction, I helped build an awesome porch that lasted longer than the trailer it was built for -- it got repossessed just a few years later.

With his right way / wrong way method, he taught me how to build a fire, till a garden, use a level, dig a culvert, drive a car and eat a chicken leg without missing any hidden meat, all by the age of 9.

As I got older, Dad still used this tactic to teach me how to smuggle new prescription glasses in to his jail, fold paper money into a square tiny enough to fit into the hiding place in his shoe, and -- ahem -- maintain relations with men.

-- "Don't hide them, instead wear them like they're your real glasses then we can swap."
-- "Don't try to fold it too many times or it's too thick. See? Fold it this way instead."
-- "Don't trust with men who are neat personal But They can fool you with aids. You better care with dating with men. (use condoms!) [Read more.]

With fifteen years to go on his prison sentence for attempted murder, I don’t know if he’ll ever get the chance to show me the right way of that wrong. But I suppose this quote is the best start: "Don't try adultery, drunkenness and dopeheads."

Juicy Fruit Part V

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V of Juicy Fruit

The rest of the visit was thankfully non-eventful but I cut it short anyway. Christian was waiting in a rental car in the parking lot and the idea that Dad was almost certain to get busted with his hidden sticks of gum was weighing on my mind.

“Okay, Dad, I have to leave now so we can get to the airport,” I signed.

“Okay,” he replied, “But be sure to pick up the bag I left for you with the guard.”

Inmates are only allowed so many papers in their cell due to fire safety regulations. Rather than throw the stuff out, he bagged them up in an empty onion sack and authorized me to take possession.

“Sure, no problem,” I said but I was thinking otherwise. How long would it take to get this bag? How far into the strip search would it be before I could leave?

The woman guard couldn’t have been nicer but she couldn’t have been slower either. Never had I felt such an intense difference between my current New York state of mind and the Texas way. She was hospitable and pleasant and slow and I was brusque, impatient and hasty.

With each step (filling out a request for the bag, her going to retrieve the bag and me signing a receipt for the bag) I envisioned where Dad was in the strip search process. “He’s got to be in the room now. He’s probably undressing. He’s definitely being searched by now.”

After an excruciating three-minutes I headed out to freedom with Dad’s sack of possessions. The curiosity of its contents was surpassed by my urgent desire to get off the prison grounds. Since running across a prison yard isn’t prudent, I walked as quickly as I could so as not to draw attention by the guards in the towers.

I got in the passenger seat of the rental car my fiancé Christian was driving and quickly said, “I think I'm busted. Let's get the fuck out of Dodge!"

Christian had been patiently waiting in the car, passing time reading the paper, writing in his journal and listening to music. He wasn’t in the same frame of mind I was and was moving in Texas time.

"Seriously!” I shouted. “Start the car we have to get the fuck out of Dodge, NOW!"

“Okay, okay!” He shouted back and drove us to the main prison gates. The car inspection went quickly and we were on our way.

With my illegal escapades safely behind me, I told Christian about the visit. I told of the guy with the shot off face, the new tattoo Dad was sporting, Dad’s overwhelmed reaction upon tasting the gum, him stashing sticks of gum in the hiding places in his shoes and getting caught chewing gum by the warden.

“The guards are sure to search him more thoroughly now. Right now he’s either in trouble or really happy. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

A few weeks later, we received a letter from Dad.

“After you left. Surprised? I still have them because I know sure it’s safe with mine. I keep one, 4 things I tried offer one for 4 stamps But they say too much, then I offer two stamps for one stick. Only one of them got it. Other three I decided to give 2 inmates for I owed them. Good paid.”

He wasn’t caught, made a few cents, paid off some debts and had another stick left over to enjoy. Success!

As for next time, there will be no gum from me. He’ll have to settle for a What-A-Burger. Now where can I stuff that?

Juicy Fruit - Part IV - The Gift That Keeps on Giving

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V of Juicy Fruit

Dad let the sweet pleasure sweep over and we resumed our conversation. It was only a few minutes later that his mind was back on the gum.

After deciding the coast was clear, he quickly slipped off one of his Chuck Taylors and slid two pieces between the cushion and sole of the shoe before replacing it on his foot. He then quickly did the same to the other. Enough pieces to make a few dollars without being too greedy.

“They aren’t very well hidden,” I worriedly thought. But Dad didn’t seem fazed.

The Texas heat soon took hold, so we moved inside to the main, air conditioned contact visiting area. The tables were arranged to form a large rectangle. The prisoners all sat on the inner circle of the tables with the visitors assigned to sit on the outer periphery. Instead of one guard there were several.

We resumed our visit and got lost in conversation. Dad smacked his gum next to a beefy Hispanic guy with horrifying facial disfigurement visiting quietly with a middle aged woman.

"What's he in for?" I asked.

"He shot his wife and kids then shot himself in the head," Dad matter-of-factly replied.

Suddenly, a loud, angry shout broke the hum of quiet conversation around the room.

“YOU!”

I jumped in my seat and looked around but couldn't figure out who had said it. No one seemed to be looking at anyone in a demanding fashion.

“YOU!!!” He called again.

I looked over again. A tall white man in beige slacks and white shirt with a tie seemed to be looking at us. I raised my eyebrows and pointed at Dad. “Him?”

“YES, YOU!!!” The irate noise was definitely coming from him

The official forcefully curled his index finger back and forth beckoning Dad to “Come here, NOW!”

“I don’t want to be here,” I thought. I didn’t want to see Dad treated like an unruly child. What did he do anyway? We’re just sitting here.

Dad strutted over, cool as a cucumber.

“WHAT’S IN YOUR MOUTH?’ He demanded loudly, over emphasizing each word so Dad could read his lips.

Dad opened wide and showed a beige mound of chewed gum resting on his tongue.

“WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?” He yelled.

Dad quickly pointed to me sitting politely next to the disfigured prisoner and his guest. I tried to act disinterested and unfazed by the exchange. I stared ahead and never made eye contact with the intimidating white man.

“Oh my God! Holy shit! Oh my God!” My head spun. Not only were we busted but Dad was willing to rat me out quicker than a wink.

The man held out a garbage pail and pointed into it. Dad spit his wad of gum out and calmly strutted back over to his seat. Feeling the watchful gaze of the angry man on me, I pretended as though I hadn’t heard every word.

“What’s wrong?” I asked with the most innocent face I could muster.

Dad played along and signed back, “Not supposed to have gum.”

“Sorry,” I replied with my own over-exaggerated mouth movements to make sure that the man could see that I was “innocent”. My hands were shaking and my heart was beating down the walls of my chest.

Dad started laughing, "You're shaking! You're scared? HAHA! Pussy!"

Uh, yeah, I guess being scared about having My Jailed Deaf Dad convince me to smuggle in gum then rat me out when he gets busted chewing a piece while he has four pieces "hidden" in his shoes while knowing a strip search is on the horizon makes me a pussy. Thanks for pointing that out, Dad!