Editor’s Note: Tracy Lee Kendall gave us permission to print this personal letter to his long-lost son, Kaleb, in hopes he will someday read it.
Dear Kaleb,
I hope this finds everyone there doing well.
I am your father and I have been writing to you for the last sixteen years with no idea if you have been receiving my letters. The last thing I received from you was a crayon drawing of me you sent when I was lacked up. I still have it.
The reason I am in prison is because I was convicted of first-degree murder due to an altercation during which a man lost his life around two years before you were born. I was sentenced to sixty years aggravated. While I did not set out to kill anyone, the decisions I made put me in that position.
Why did I live a life involved in drugs and crime? It was a combination of things. I thought I wanted to, but in actuality, I didn’t really know what I wanted in life. I also refused to grow up and take responsibility in a lot of ways I should have. None of this is how I wanted things to end up, but for some insane reason, I did not foresee the results of the lifestyle I was leading.
I was a very selfish person who could barely see outside of myself and I justified so many things that my judgment between right and wrong was blurred. And from that, I hurt a lot of people. By the time I realized the impact of my actions upon others and myself, it was too late to da anything to take back the things I had done.
It is hard to know what to talk to you about because I have not heard from you, nor has anyone told me anything about you in so long. I have never given up trying to find out anything I could about you. I have always loved you and wanted the best for you. I hope you are on your way to living your dreams and I know you are more than capable of achieving whatever you set your heart to do.
I do not feel you are obligated to communicate with me and I understand if you do not wish to. I will always wonder why you decided not to respond to my letters, but I understand how things can be complicated. I want you to know that I have never stopped trying to reach you in sixteen years of incarceration. I also want you to know that I really want to be a part of your life in whatever way I can.
I’m not going to try justifying anything and there’s nothing I would refuse to answer and if you wish to confirm anything, I can tell you who to speak with or the public records to review. Even if you care nothing for me, I hope you base your decision upon the truth about me and I am extending an invitation for you to get to know who I really am.
If you do not wish to communicate with me, I understand and will not bother you anymore. Just know that I love and believe in you.
Love,
Your Father
Tracy Lee Kendall is serving 60 years in prison for murder.
2 Comments
I already wrote this whole comment, but I think it got eaten by the spam filter. Or maybe all the comments are just waiting on someone’s approval. If this ends up getting double-posted here as a result, whoops! Sorry about that!
Well, it’s many years later, and I have no idea how many people are looking at this page, but I feel like a lot of people who are reading this story want some resolution, or perhaps some lack of resolution.
After all, if the name above the field there didn’t give it away, this letter is addressed to me. I’m 28 now, I was 19 when this letter was sent just shy of 9 years ago (I shudder to think how long it’s been, I’m not old I swear), and I was recently talking with some friends about the time this happened, the time I was getting letters sent, and family members who have met with less than positive fates.
I never replied to this letter. Actually, I received several letters between the time of my (Maternal Great) Grandfather’s death and this one. True to his word, he stopped correspondence after this. I believe he sent one more thing, which was a flyer asking for charitable donations for children’s toys at Christmas, but it contained nothing from him directly. At the time, I was living in pretty abject poverty- the “no running water” kind of poverty- so I couldn’t do much with it, unfortunately. Never replied to any of them either.
Why not? I’m not sure. It’s one of those questions where the answers change every day.
At first, as strange as it might sound, I just straight up didn’t believe the letters were real. I understand that’s probably a very cynical thought, if not outright conspiratorial, but I was at least thinking it from a good natured perspective. Some employee had heard what went down with my family, heard about 14 or 15 years with no contact, and wrote me a letter pretending to be my dad. Maybe he’d talked to him in a cell or something, got a few bits of context or something, written a story around it. The first letter was about his side of the family- mostly a sort of clinical explanation of who they were. Never heard from any of them, honestly. Not even sure if they’re still alive.
I started writing a reply letter several times, I always got conscious about something. Sometimes I felt like what I was writing was insincere. Sometimes I felt like what I was writing was too self-serving, that I’d look like I was just blowing smoke. Sometimes I felt like I wrote too much, sometimes I felt like I wrote too little. Heck, sometimes I was just ashamed of my own handwriting (special thanks to a mild case of tremors for assisting with that one).
I felt like I didn’t have enough to say, most often. Honestly, my life has not been terribly great or enviable: I spent many years living with a step-father who was outright abusive to both myself and my family- stealing money and valuables, damaging property in a rage, engaging in crime. I’d love to blame him for everything. I still have him down for some things. He crashed my car without insurance. He smoked and drank away so much money I couldn’t even afford the down payment to secure a room at UNT, even with a fairly generous amount of scholarships and grants on top of the potential secured student loans. My Senior Year of high school, I was walking home with shoes and socks filled with holes in ’em. Some of the other students thought I was homeless. It got real, real bad.
But a lot of my lack of general progress in life is on me. Yes, I understand the irony of the fact that I’m worried about my dad, who is currently serving a more-or-less life sentence for murder, being ashamed of me for still living in that house right next to the one he lived in (which is now an abandoned property).
Some of you are probably naturally worried about what this means. I’ve never done anything criminal in my life- nothing more than the kind of thing you get a $10 fine for, anyway. Never stolen, never hurt someone, don’t drink, don’t do drugs. I’m sure this sounds like I’m blowing smoke to some degree, but I got character witnesses for that fact. It even annoys my mom. Sorry, Mom. I’m the kind of guy who can’t even do bad things in a video game. Simple as it gets.
I still don’t think I could really write that letter. A part of me still wants to visit. Hard as hell getting out there, though. Apparently Texas passed a law about sending criminals so far away from their residences, but that doesn’t appear to apply to existing convicts, and despite my fairly lax (work from home) schedule, my lack of funds and barely-held-together automobile haven’t really ever been capable of making the trip, and I’ve always felt guilty to ask someone else for it. It’s a long, long way, after all.
But then, I’ve always felt a little guilty at stonewalling my dad, too. Not his fault my car’s a junk pile and it’s hard to get out there, and I’m too nervous to write a letter. Sorry, Dad.
Well, it’s 7 years later, and I have no idea how many people are looking at this page, but I feel like a lot of people who are reading this story want some resolution, or perhaps some lack of resolution.
After all, if the name above the field there didn’t give it away, this letter is addressed to me. I’m 28 now, I was 19 when this letter was sent just shy of 9 years ago (I shudder to think), and I was recently talking with some friends about the time this happened, the time I was getting letters sent, and family members who have met with less than positive fates.
I never replied to this letter. Actually, I received several letters between the time of my (Maternal Great) Grandfather’s death and this one. True to his word, he stopped correspondence after this. I believe he sent one more thing, which was a flyer asking for charitable donations for children’s toys at Christmas, but it contained nothing from him directly. At the time, I was living in pretty abject poverty- the “no running water” kind of poverty- so I couldn’t do much with it, unfortunately. Never replied to any of them either.
Why not? I’m not sure. It’s one of those questions where the answers change every day.
At first, as strange as it might sound, I just straight up didn’t believe the letters were real. I understand that’s probably a very cynical, if not outright conspiratorial, perspective to hold, but I was at least thinking it from a good natured perspective. Some employee had heard what went down with my family, heard about 14 or 15 years with no contact, and wrote me a letter pretending to be my dad. Maybe he’d talked to him in a cell or something, got a few bits of context or something, written a story around it.
In hindsight, given the first letter was mostly about my dad’s side of my family, I probably should have realized that was a silly thing to think. Then, it became about a degree of nervousness. I didn’t know what to say.
I started writing a reply letter several times, I always got conscious about something. Sometimes I felt like what I was writing was insincere. Sometimes I felt like what I was writing was too self-serving, that I’d look like I was just blowing smoke. Sometimes I felt like I wrote too much, sometimes I felt like I wrote too little. Heck, sometimes I was just ashamed of my own handwriting (special thanks to a mild case of tremors for assisting with that one).
I felt like I didn’t have enough to say, most often. Honestly, my life has not been terribly great or enviable: I spent many years living with a step-father who was outright abusive to both myself and my family- stealing money and valuables, damaging property in a rage, engaging in crime. I’d love to blame him for everything. I still have him down for some things. He crashed my car without insurance. He smoked and drank away so much money I couldn’t even afford the $100 down payment to secure a room at UNT, even with a fairly generous amount of scholarships and grants on top of the potential secured student loans. My Senior Year of high school, I was walking home with shoes and socks filled with holes in ’em. Some of the other students thought I was homeless. It got real, real bad.
But a lot of my lack of general progress in life is on me. Yes, I understand the irony of the fact that I’m worried about my dad, who is currently serving a more-or-less life sentence for murder, being ashamed of me for still living in that house right next to the one he lived in (which is now an abandoned property).
Some of you are probably naturally worried about what this means. I’ve never done anything criminal in my life- nothing more than the kind of thing you get a $10 fine for, anyway. Never stolen, never hurt someone, don’t drink, don’t do drugs. I’m sure this sounds like I’m blowing smoke to some degree, but I got character witnesses for that fact. It even annoys my mom. Sorry, Mom. I’m the kind of guy who can’t even do bad things in a video game. Simple as it gets.
I still don’t think I could really write that letter. A part of me still wants to visit. Hard as hell getting out there, though. Apparently Texas passed a law about sending criminals so far away from their residences, but that doesn’t appear to apply to existing convicts, and despite my fairly lax (work from home) schedule, my lack of funds and barely-held-together automobile haven’t really ever been capable of making the trip, and I’ve always felt guilty to ask someone else for it. It’s a long, long way, after all.
But then, I’ve always felt a little guilty at stonewalling my dad, too. Sorry, Dad.
P.S. If any of you are thinking the same thing I was and, for some reason, doubt my veracity, send me an email and I’ll send you proof of my identity/relationship with the guy who wrote this.