How I Learned to Be the Best Dad I Can From Prison

In 1995, I shot and killed two men during a bar shootout in Kingston, New York. At the time, I had a 17-month-old son, LaMarr Jr., and had been dealing drugs to get by. I was arrested and eventually sentenced to 62.5 years to life. I was 22 years old when I was incarcerated. I will appear before my first parole board at 82.

As I aged in prison, I became aware that my son is also a victim of my crime. This realization forced me to work diligently to prevent him from ever being arrested and imprisoned like me. But I failed to understand my responsibility to him, and feel I failed as a father.

While I was away in prison, my son was on his own. I never had a chance to be a dad. I missed every birthday, the cap toss at graduation, and opportunities to give good advice when he needed it. His mother faced the problems many single mothers confront raising children on their own. We were both young. I lived a promiscuous life, our relationship faded, and I was arrested.

About five years into my sentence, I witnessed a father and son in the same prison. I hadn’t realized this was even possible, and so I began to fear LaMarr Jr. would follow in my footsteps. I could never imagine how that father felt or what the pair talked about as they circled the prison yard. I doubt it was anything near what my friends and I discussed back then, like who smuggled in a package of weed that we could rob. I’d watch that father and son, hoping that would never be LaMarr Jr. and me.

When he was around 12, I learned he was coming into contact with my old friends. I was concerned. They’d flash wads of cash, give him money, and tell him about me. I didn’t like that he was on a block where my friends sold drugs, but I knew he was a curious kid trying to learn about a father who wasn’t there.

I didn’t want to be “that” incarcerated parent who told his kid where he could and couldn’t go.  From where I was, I had no real control. I took a different approach. I told my old friends that I didn’t want my son involved with the things they were doing.

When I was a kid, my father beat me—broke my arm once—and always told me no one wanted me. He was a Vietnam veteran. My uncle told me the war changed him. I wish I could’ve had the pre-war dad. I got the one looking for the smallest reasons to give me a beating.

Before my arrest, I didn’t know how to be a father. I was a runaway kid who lived on the streets from the time I was a teenager until my arrest. My role models were older drug dealers and fellow gang members.

When I spoke to my son, I never glorified my street life or spoke about my crimes. It’s weird to think that some of us romanticize our sad, criminal lives to the younger generation. Thankfully, I didn’t have to deny the now-embarrassing stories he was hearing because he realized on his own that my old friends were liars. They never helped him visit me despite promising they would. 

Since turning 14, my son has always held a job. He now has a business selling custom jewelry and works as a kitchen manager at a four-star restaurant. He was a stay-at-home dad while his wife went back to school to become a registered nurse and launched her own home health care agency. Today, LaMarr Jr., at 31 years old, is a father to a 9-year-old daughter and 4-year-old son. He has grown into a better man and parent than ever I could’ve been.

I witness his interactions with my grandchildren on visits and phone calls. They take family trips to Disney, Legoland, the park—all things I deprived him of growing up. Perhaps absence is just as bad as abuse.

On quiet nights in my cell, I pull out old photo albums and look at images of my son. The aging polaroids that we’re allowed to take on visits are cracked and fading. I always smile when I recall how he used to call out, “Dad!”, run to me, and jump in my arms the moment he saw me on visits. I’d hug his body tight, slowly set him down, and let him lead me to the table we were assigned. We’d share White Castle sliders and cheese doodles as he’d tell me about how his life had been since we last saw one another.

I’d watch his animated facial expressions, enjoy his smiles as he’d look up at me with his shining brown eyes, and marvel at that little light-skinned version of me.

Of course, I wanted to break down every time I had to say goodbye. I’d struggle to keep a steady face when he’d look over his shoulder at me before disappearing through that steel door. It’s hard to fake a smile and fight tears. 

Thankfully, LaMarr Jr. and I circle visiting yards together instead of prison yards. I was able to accept what I had no control over as a parent, build a healthy relationship, and help provide the tools needed to break the chains of intergenerational incarceration.

ICYMI—From The Appeal

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