January 20th: Thirty Years Behind Bars, A Lifetime of Waiting for Justice.
January 20th: Thirty Years Behind Bars, A Lifetime of Waiting for Justice
Today, January 20th, is not just another date on the calendar for my family. Today officially marks 30 years that my father has spent behind prison walls.
Thirty years of birthdays missed.
Thirty years of holidays celebrated through phone calls, letters, and visiting room conversations.
Thirty years of watching life move forward from the other side of a barrier that never seems to come down.
Every year on this day, I usually take time to reflect quietly on everything that’s been missed — the moments that never got to happen, the memories that exist only in our imagination. I sit with that heaviness on my own, because when I talk to my father, I try to make today a positive day for him. I try to bring light into a space that so often feels surrounded by shadows.
I think about the small, ordinary moments that should have been ours. Sitting in the stands at my school events, scanning the crowd for his face that was never there. The first time I became a parent and realizing how badly I wanted my son to feel his grandfather’s arms around him, not just see him in a visiting room.
I think about how I had to share the gender of my child with my father, by wearing a blue or pink T-shirt into a visiting room, trying to keep that fun, simple surprise as normal as possible when we walked in— even in a place where “normal” feels so far away.
I think about the meals we share — the specific vending machine chicken sandwiches that have almost become a tradition for our visits, standing in place of the home-cooked dinners we should be sitting down to together. What should be plates passed around a family table becomes wrappers and microwaved sandwiches, and even in those small, ordinary bites, I’m reminded of how different our “normal” has had to be. I’m also reminded of all the losses we’ve carried, especially my grandmother — and having to listen to my dad quietly mourn the loss of his mother through a phone call, because we couldn’t let it be known she had passed without him being placed on lockdown “for his own well-being.”
For my son, memories of his grandfather are shaped by stories and photos. He asks questions like, “What did Papa like to do when he was my age?” and “What will we do first when he comes home?” And I answer them with a mix of hope and heartache, trying to paint a picture of a man he deserves to know in real life, not just in pieces.
There’s a strange weight that comes with this kind of anniversary. People usually celebrate milestones. This one feels more like standing still while the world keeps spinning. My father has now spent three decades in a system that was supposed to serve justice, not take it away. And yet, here we are — still waiting. Still fighting. Still hoping.
But today isn’t only about grief and loss. It’s also about resilience.
It’s about my father’s strength to wake up every day in a place that was never meant to be his forever. It’s about my family’s refusal to let his name fade into a case file or a number. It’s about every person who has reached out, shared our story, asked questions, listened without judgment, and stood beside us in this fight for truth.
If you’re reading this, you’re part of that support system — and I don’t take that lightly.
Thirty years is a long time to wait for justice. But it’s also thirty years of proof that love, faith, and persistence don’t disappear just because the world gets heavy. We’re still here. We’re still speaking. And we’re not done.
Today, I honor my father — not as a prisoner, but as a man, a parent, and a human being who deserves to be seen, heard, and freed.
Thank you for walking this journey with us. And if you believe in second chances, in truth, and in the power of stories to change outcomes — I invite you to keep standing with us. This fight isn’t over. And neither is our hope.
