Fathers and Angels Wes stared back at me after I'd asked my question, letting a moment pass and a smirk flicker across his
face before responding.
-1 really haven't thought too deeply about his impact on my life because, really, he didn't have one."
Wes leaned back in his seat and threw an even stare at me.
"Come on, man," I pressed on. "You don't think about how things would have been different if he'd been
there? If he cared enough to be there?"
"No, I don't. The lower half of his face was shrouded by the long beard that he'd grown, an outward sign
of the Islamic faith he'd adopted in prison. His eyes danced with bemusement. He was not moved by my
emotional questioning. "Listen," he went on. "Your father wasn't there because he couldn't be, my father
wasn't there because he chose not to be. We're going to mourn their absence in different ways."
This was one of our first visits. I had driven a half hour from my Baltimore home into the woody hills of
central Maryland to Jessup Correctional Institution to see Wes. Immediately upon entering the building,
was sternly questioned by an armed guard and searched to ensure I wasn't bringing in anything that
could be passed on to Wes. Once I was cleared, another guard escorted me to a large room that
reminded me of a public school cafeteria. This was the secured area where prisoners and their visitors
came together. Armed guards systematically paced around the room. Long tables with low metal dividers
separating the visitors from the visited were the only furnishings. The prisoners were marched in dressed
in orange or blue jumpsuits, or gray sweat suits with "DOC" emblazoned across the chests. The uniforms
reinforced the myriad other signals around us: the prisoners were owned by the state. Lucky inmates
were allowed to sit across regular tables from loved ones. They could exchange an initial hug and then
talk face-to-face. The rest had to talk to their families and friends through bulletproof glass using a
telephone, visitor and prisoner connected by receivers they held tight to their ears
Just as I was about to ask another question, Wes interrupted me.
"Let me ask you a question. You come here and ask me all these questions, but you haven't shared any of
yourself up with me. So tell me what impact did your father not being there have on your childhood?"
"I don't know-"I was about to say more when I realized that I didn't really have more to say
"Do you miss him?" he asked me.
"Every day. All the time." I replied softly, I was having trouble finding my voice. It always amazed me how
could love so deeply, so intensely, someone I barely knew. I was taught to remember, but never question.
Wes was taught to forget, and never ask why. We learned our lessons well and were showing them of to a
tee We sat there just a few feet from each other, both silent, pondering an absence.

(1)Where is this conversation taking place?

(2)Who are the 2 people talking?

(3)What do they talk about in their conversation?