so many men
Going through my box-o-things last evening I was reminded that I have received my fair share of correspondence letters from California Department of Correction inmates. There is of course Daddy, then there is my older brother, my cousin (one of many, many), my brother’s friend M, my friend E from the church choir (who went in for the murder of an old woman. A crime I can neither believe or comprehend) and an ex (again, from church), K.
As I’m reading these missives to the young-girl me, I’m wondering what my parents were thinking when prison mail was arriving for their daughter at fourteen, fifteen, seventeen and eighteen. I’m wondering now, as a mother sitting in this pile of sorted memories, if they ever thought to shield me or if they even knew. I imagine that when I got this mail I felt special. I always did when someone (especially men) paid even small bits of attention to me.
The messages were pretty much variations on the same theme. Daddy would always ask about school and whether I had talked to my grandma (his mom). Whether I was still pretty and always whether I still loved him. Because he still loved me.
My brother, only two and a half years older than me, sounded distant, either perched real high or tucked down too low; regretting in one particular letter, a life barely begun. His friend M said he would follow me to Georgia since that’s where I would be going to college. Although I recall vividly being in love with him (the way only a sixteen year old could be with a 21 year old), I don’t recall offering or thinking this was good.
Both my church friend and ex wanted love letters, time, attention; things that no teenage girl with her own gaping holes can afford to frivolously spend on far-off men.
My cousin, he just wanted to say “Hey”, to anybody, anywhere and on that week’s mail run, tried me.
I can not imagine being in a physical prison; the bricks and the bars, the cots and the cuffs. But somehow between the dates those letters were written and the day they reached me, a thread was formed. Maybe after all this time I still have these letters because I felt like those boys - those men – somehow knew me, and that together, even though we would be no less alone, when we pressed pen to paper, we would feel much less lonely.
As I’m reading these missives to the young-girl me, I’m wondering what my parents were thinking when prison mail was arriving for their daughter at fourteen, fifteen, seventeen and eighteen. I’m wondering now, as a mother sitting in this pile of sorted memories, if they ever thought to shield me or if they even knew. I imagine that when I got this mail I felt special. I always did when someone (especially men) paid even small bits of attention to me.
The messages were pretty much variations on the same theme. Daddy would always ask about school and whether I had talked to my grandma (his mom). Whether I was still pretty and always whether I still loved him. Because he still loved me.
My brother, only two and a half years older than me, sounded distant, either perched real high or tucked down too low; regretting in one particular letter, a life barely begun. His friend M said he would follow me to Georgia since that’s where I would be going to college. Although I recall vividly being in love with him (the way only a sixteen year old could be with a 21 year old), I don’t recall offering or thinking this was good.
Both my church friend and ex wanted love letters, time, attention; things that no teenage girl with her own gaping holes can afford to frivolously spend on far-off men.
My cousin, he just wanted to say “Hey”, to anybody, anywhere and on that week’s mail run, tried me.
I can not imagine being in a physical prison; the bricks and the bars, the cots and the cuffs. But somehow between the dates those letters were written and the day they reached me, a thread was formed. Maybe after all this time I still have these letters because I felt like those boys - those men – somehow knew me, and that together, even though we would be no less alone, when we pressed pen to paper, we would feel much less lonely.
posted by A Girl Again at 10:27 AM
9 Comments:
beautiful.
i know i feel less alone when i receive letters from my beloved & i pray that through my words, and carefully selected paper & pens, he feels the love and the absence of loneliness, too.
wow. i could feel the emotion there. i cant imagine the feeling of having people so close to u taken away fro year at a time.
im going to read thru yr blog some more. im sure u must have relationship issues--considering the fact that all the men in yr life--as a small child--were littlerly locked away from U
again, wow
I couldn't imagine what it was like walking in your shoes -at such a young age- and dealing with the things you've had to deal with. You are brave to share and through your sharing you will be healed and made whole again.
Wow - incredible insight.
Thats so deep about going through the box-o-letters.
I remember, in a letter, my brother was in 'Rita, and he left me "everything that belonged to him".
I wish I still had that letter.
It solidified a crystalized a closeness that we have today.
Even though he a crazy gemini.
Crazy. I can only hope that you get some kind of cathartic release when you write about this cuz you deserve it honey.
wow...
this was so touching.
i too remember letters at a young age-
my uncle and his friend. than you for this post.
There is something very physical and heart wrenching about revisiting old letters.
It can be like watching a train wreck.
I still remember, a letter my brother wrote me, from Rita, where he left me all his wordly possesions.
Its significant, b/c it included his 79 chevy nova.
To this day, I find the fact that he did that endearing.
Brilliant.
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