Prison Daughter
by Olive Paige
I was watching a re-run of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air after school when my father pushed open my bedroom door. “Come on, I’m taking you to your granny’s,” he said. He may have even carried me to the car because I can’t remember putting on shoes. I wish I could say I saw them—the FBI agents with their stereotypical dark suits and no-nonsense attitudes. I found out later, by listening to conversations around me, that they were two men; they talked to my parents until midnight, and then they left. I don’t know what my parents didn’t want me to hear—all of it, perhaps. They were trying to protect me from “it”—every family has one the big IT—the secret, the unraveling, the crime. It may be more likely they didn’t want me getting in the way. One more thing I never asked about because, in our family, you just didn’t.
Soon after the FBI’s visit, Daddy sat my sister and me down in the living room. Let me say that to declare my father as a man of few words is an understatement. I don’t know what else he said, how he started the conversation, what was in the middle, if there was a middle. I can’t say if we were sitting or standing, or if Mama was there or not, but what has imprinted itself in my memory is his final sentence: “We’re trying to keep out of the pen.” Those eight words held so much weight, hope, denial, and loss. He never mentioned Mama’s name, separating himself from her. It’s possible that so early on in this process he thought he might be indicted too. I like to think his statement was one of hope and reassurance to us, that any and all would be done to keep our family together no matter the costs—and, there were costs, both physical and mental. I gained weight and pulled out nearly all of my eyebrows. It wasn’t until my early 20s that I could afford to be professionally diagnosed with major depression and trichotillomania stemming from these unresolved issues. Yes, I do think it was his way of keeping us whole, even for the moment and in his own shorthand; I’d never heard a reference to “the pen” except in a movie.
The investigation and trial soon followed, which brought on a considerable amount of stress. I faced eviction from the private school I’d grown up in (the end of my eighth grade year would be my last, because we could no longer afford to pay). I also testified against the local cable news show because members of their crew broke into our garage to film its contents. Lastly, my sister and I were in a car wreck. These traumatic events occurred over a period of about four months.
The FBI had not only frozen my parents’ assets but also confiscated much of our belongings. One day I came home from school (to the house I lived in all of my life), was shuttled into another car, and taken to my great-grandmother’s home. She’d been relocated into a nursing home facility in town months earlier, so her house sat empty until we moved into it. Without a word spoken by either of my parents, this was my new home.
Family members and friends stopped—quit us and me. Phone calls stopped. Rides to church, the movies, and invitations to visit—didn’t happen. Newspaper reporters, the ones not camped at the end of our driveway, haunted the doorsteps of neighbors, close family, distant relatives—all of whom denied knowing us at all. Friends and teachers (though a few did write me amazing and supportive letters all of which I still have in my possession) I’d known my entire life stopped talking to me, or, for that matter, seeing me. I ceased to exist for many people. I was an embarrassment simply because of the controversy surrounding my mother.
I often wonder if today’s technology (social media in real time) would have made things worse. Or, are we, as a society more forgiving, or at least, more sympathetic to children these days because of it? After all, I had done nothing wrong. I was merely a casualty of circumstance. I think about the other children too, past and present prison children facing not only the trial and then incarceration of their parent, traumatic enough, but also facing ridicule and/or neglect as well. Consider this haunting statistic from the 2016 PEW Stateline article “Having a Parent Behind Bars Costs Children, States” by Teresa Wiltz: “More than 5 million children, or one in 14, in the U.S. have had a parent in state or federal prison at some point in their lives (Casey Foundation).”
I think, too, about those friends and family members, some of whom I’ve reconnected with. I think about their attitude and motivation at the time, and wonder if maybe, they didn’t know what to say or do, so they decided saying nothing and doing nothing would be the preferable course of action. I think we all do that to some extent. I’ve long forgiven, for my own sanity, those with whom I have never spoken to again. Though, sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still see him or her or them, turning their eyes from me when I walk past.
What also must be discussed here is the fact my parents stopped, too. When I say I was shuttled from one home to the other that is what I mean. No explanation and no chance for me to mourn the home I’d lived in my entire life (though I had the feeling something was happening, so I did dig a small hole in my closet and insert a few of my favorite things—a page from an Archie comic for one). There was no conversation surrounding the last day of school and the fact I’d never attend that school again. There were no questions by my parents, or anyone for that matter, asking me “Are you OK?” or “How do you feel about this [fill in the blank]?” For us, we did what we did, what we had to, then it was done. No more, no less.
So, because we are the family we are, complete with our quirks and secrets like most families, I suppose, this is all I know. Mama was charged in some fashion, in federal court, for embezzlement, found guilty, and served a 48-month sentence. This story, my story, is not one of defense or even a discussion of the case except when it serves to explore and define my experience as a prisoner’s child. No, that story belongs to a different time and voice, probably not even my own, as I have no desire to suffer through the literal thousands of documents involved in her case to attempt to distinguish who did what to whom and when and who was involved and did the attorneys fulfill their duties, and should the judge have recused himself in a conflict of interest (all bits and phrases I picked up on during and after her trial). I’m not even here to argue for innocence or guilt—my story is not about those things. Because when it comes down to the simple truth, the simple truth is all the child knows, and all I knew was that my mother was going to prison, and she would be separated from me.
After all, it’s never just “the trial” then “the sentence,” it’s everything and everyone and every event around and in-between that exacts its force upon the child. A force, I must say, that will break you and reshape you—at least that’s the way it worked for me. The totality of the experience creates barriers for the prison child, not simply the concrete walls.
It is out of respect for my family’s privacy that I’ve chosen not to include names nor offer my real name. I am one voice, a prisoner’s daughter, with time and privilege to sit down and write—with the conviction that by getting to know one prison child, at least briefly, will help readers better understand and connect with all prison children. More importantly, I hope telling a portion of my story will encourage others as well. I’m proud to be in this exclusive and resilient group, and let me be clear, we have nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about despite what anyone says.
Olive Paige is a mother, writer, teacher, and advocate for children separated from their parents. She holds an MFA from Converse College. She lives in the Midwest.
by Olive Paige
I was watching a re-run of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air after school when my father pushed open my bedroom door. “Come on, I’m taking you to your granny’s,” he said. He may have even carried me to the car because I can’t remember putting on shoes. I wish I could say I saw them—the FBI agents with their stereotypical dark suits and no-nonsense attitudes. I found out later, by listening to conversations around me, that they were two men; they talked to my parents until midnight, and then they left. I don’t know what my parents didn’t want me to hear—all of it, perhaps. They were trying to protect me from “it”—every family has one the big IT—the secret, the unraveling, the crime. It may be more likely they didn’t want me getting in the way. One more thing I never asked about because, in our family, you just didn’t.
Soon after the FBI’s visit, Daddy sat my sister and me down in the living room. Let me say that to declare my father as a man of few words is an understatement. I don’t know what else he said, how he started the conversation, what was in the middle, if there was a middle. I can’t say if we were sitting or standing, or if Mama was there or not, but what has imprinted itself in my memory is his final sentence: “We’re trying to keep out of the pen.” Those eight words held so much weight, hope, denial, and loss. He never mentioned Mama’s name, separating himself from her. It’s possible that so early on in this process he thought he might be indicted too. I like to think his statement was one of hope and reassurance to us, that any and all would be done to keep our family together no matter the costs—and, there were costs, both physical and mental. I gained weight and pulled out nearly all of my eyebrows. It wasn’t until my early 20s that I could afford to be professionally diagnosed with major depression and trichotillomania stemming from these unresolved issues. Yes, I do think it was his way of keeping us whole, even for the moment and in his own shorthand; I’d never heard a reference to “the pen” except in a movie.
The investigation and trial soon followed, which brought on a considerable amount of stress. I faced eviction from the private school I’d grown up in (the end of my eighth grade year would be my last, because we could no longer afford to pay). I also testified against the local cable news show because members of their crew broke into our garage to film its contents. Lastly, my sister and I were in a car wreck. These traumatic events occurred over a period of about four months.
The FBI had not only frozen my parents’ assets but also confiscated much of our belongings. One day I came home from school (to the house I lived in all of my life), was shuttled into another car, and taken to my great-grandmother’s home. She’d been relocated into a nursing home facility in town months earlier, so her house sat empty until we moved into it. Without a word spoken by either of my parents, this was my new home.
Family members and friends stopped—quit us and me. Phone calls stopped. Rides to church, the movies, and invitations to visit—didn’t happen. Newspaper reporters, the ones not camped at the end of our driveway, haunted the doorsteps of neighbors, close family, distant relatives—all of whom denied knowing us at all. Friends and teachers (though a few did write me amazing and supportive letters all of which I still have in my possession) I’d known my entire life stopped talking to me, or, for that matter, seeing me. I ceased to exist for many people. I was an embarrassment simply because of the controversy surrounding my mother.
I often wonder if today’s technology (social media in real time) would have made things worse. Or, are we, as a society more forgiving, or at least, more sympathetic to children these days because of it? After all, I had done nothing wrong. I was merely a casualty of circumstance. I think about the other children too, past and present prison children facing not only the trial and then incarceration of their parent, traumatic enough, but also facing ridicule and/or neglect as well. Consider this haunting statistic from the 2016 PEW Stateline article “Having a Parent Behind Bars Costs Children, States” by Teresa Wiltz: “More than 5 million children, or one in 14, in the U.S. have had a parent in state or federal prison at some point in their lives (Casey Foundation).”
I think, too, about those friends and family members, some of whom I’ve reconnected with. I think about their attitude and motivation at the time, and wonder if maybe, they didn’t know what to say or do, so they decided saying nothing and doing nothing would be the preferable course of action. I think we all do that to some extent. I’ve long forgiven, for my own sanity, those with whom I have never spoken to again. Though, sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still see him or her or them, turning their eyes from me when I walk past.
What also must be discussed here is the fact my parents stopped, too. When I say I was shuttled from one home to the other that is what I mean. No explanation and no chance for me to mourn the home I’d lived in my entire life (though I had the feeling something was happening, so I did dig a small hole in my closet and insert a few of my favorite things—a page from an Archie comic for one). There was no conversation surrounding the last day of school and the fact I’d never attend that school again. There were no questions by my parents, or anyone for that matter, asking me “Are you OK?” or “How do you feel about this [fill in the blank]?” For us, we did what we did, what we had to, then it was done. No more, no less.
So, because we are the family we are, complete with our quirks and secrets like most families, I suppose, this is all I know. Mama was charged in some fashion, in federal court, for embezzlement, found guilty, and served a 48-month sentence. This story, my story, is not one of defense or even a discussion of the case except when it serves to explore and define my experience as a prisoner’s child. No, that story belongs to a different time and voice, probably not even my own, as I have no desire to suffer through the literal thousands of documents involved in her case to attempt to distinguish who did what to whom and when and who was involved and did the attorneys fulfill their duties, and should the judge have recused himself in a conflict of interest (all bits and phrases I picked up on during and after her trial). I’m not even here to argue for innocence or guilt—my story is not about those things. Because when it comes down to the simple truth, the simple truth is all the child knows, and all I knew was that my mother was going to prison, and she would be separated from me.
After all, it’s never just “the trial” then “the sentence,” it’s everything and everyone and every event around and in-between that exacts its force upon the child. A force, I must say, that will break you and reshape you—at least that’s the way it worked for me. The totality of the experience creates barriers for the prison child, not simply the concrete walls.
It is out of respect for my family’s privacy that I’ve chosen not to include names nor offer my real name. I am one voice, a prisoner’s daughter, with time and privilege to sit down and write—with the conviction that by getting to know one prison child, at least briefly, will help readers better understand and connect with all prison children. More importantly, I hope telling a portion of my story will encourage others as well. I’m proud to be in this exclusive and resilient group, and let me be clear, we have nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about despite what anyone says.
Olive Paige is a mother, writer, teacher, and advocate for children separated from their parents. She holds an MFA from Converse College. She lives in the Midwest.