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
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