I’m 31 and came to prison at 15, so I’ve been here for half my life and my dad has visited me more during the second, difficult half of my life than some fathers ever see their kids in the first half of theirs.
My father has visited me in prison over 800 times.
It hasn’t just been the driving an hour each way to spend time with and maintain a relationship with a son who’d messed up. I can also call him on the phone, he offers to send me books, he volunteered his time for a while at some advocacy groups he thought could help me. He got involved with a prison arts project that I had worked with before. He wrote me almost every day for my first few years, and tried to keep me up with, and a part of, his family as much as possible.
Something people don’t think of when they commit a crime is that you ransom part of the lives of the people that love you. The stress you put them under, the help that you accept, their worry. While he helped me with his time and money on the one hand, he endured a divorce on the other. He always tried to pretend like everything was as okay as possible when he talked to me, but I knew it wasn’t and yet couldn’t stop contributing to the strain by then.
When I came to prison, he was there for me. He still tried to parent his now adult-convict-prisoner-son, telling me he wouldn’t buy me soda anymore when he visited if I got any more tattoos. He sent me books to continue my education, to help my time go by. He drove an hour each way to visit me every week, to spend that time with me.
I actually never felt closer to him than after I came to prison. He showed me through the hardest times that he was there. We’d talk for two straight hours each of those times. A lot of people don’t do that anymore, with anyone, very often. We’d talk about light things and deep things, what was going on with his -our- family, what was on the news, philosophy. Sometimes he’d vent to me. More often, I’d be the one venting. I know that sometimes I burdened him by doing that. There were times I spoke to him out of some kind of swirl of frustration, fear, and sadness that I wish he didn’t hear me say. There were times I used prison-slang I wish he hadn’t heard me use. There were dreams of his for me that he had to change. There were plans of his own that he changed.
My Dad retired from a long career shortly after my incarceration. He was also newly-single. He dated around a bit, some relationships became serious. There was always a point where the subject of kids would come up, and he would have to share that his son was in prison for 25 years. Surprisingly, most women were accepting, but not universally so, and even when they were, that initial reveal was difficult. With his approval, I am still close with one person he formerly dated, and hear sometimes from another. But he struggled to meet “his” person, and I know that I contributed to the difficulty.
In retirement, he looked for things to do. He was Superman for awhile, with rounded interests that ranged from volunteering to flying private airplanes. Some of those things, he did because of me or in relation to me. He spent some time with some advocacy groups, hoping there might be a way to ease the length, or the conditions, of my sentence. There was not, and I worried that he would feel let-down (because I knew from the time I already served that there wasn’t much that was going to change about this fate I had created for myself), and I fretted sometimes about what to do with him… because I was also so grateful.
He was a man who worked helping care for others, as a chiropractor, for over thirty years. A businessman and provider, he knew what he was doing and he worked hard and often, usually 60 hours a week or more. Shining his brightest at work, he knew how to talk to people, and how to fix their ails.
Sometimes he struggled to know what to do outside of work, or how to do it. He wasn’t always sure how to express himself, or emotions, well. And I’m ashamed that, as a child, I judged him at times for it. As a young adult, I sometimes knew him better than anyone, but other times wasn’t sure exactly how to process him, and I wonder at the times I failed him because of my failing in that. We’re different… but I wish I could be more like him. He tries harder than anyone I’ve ever known, and loves more than anyone I’ve ever known. I worry that he’s overextended himself at times. But because of that, he is also the bravest man I’ve ever known.
I’ve nearly lost my father twice now, having been hospitalized on two different occasions a few years apart. And he can’t have me be there for him, because I made a terrible choice years ago and put myself here. After all he’s done for me, I can’t do anything for him but watch from the sidelines. I can call, I can write, I’ll draw things for him and coordinate with his other loved ones… but I can’t be there for him like he’s been there for me. My father, he’s the best person I know, and I can’t do anything to truly help him.
I’ve continued to mess up at times throughout the second half of my life that I’ve spent in prison, but he has made me want to do better, to be better… and I owe it to this man to do everything I can to do right by him. My incarceration was not in any way his fault. But if I have, or ever do, anything of any value: he deserves credit for it.
Chris Dankovich is serving 25-37 years in Michigan for killing his mother when he was 15 years old.
One Comment
That was a very moving piece. Your father sounds like an incredible man, and I hope he’s had the opportunity to read this. Best of luck to you both.