Every few weeks, I would wake up at 5:30 in the morning on a Saturday to drive an hour and a half to go visit my dad in prison. I would barely sleep each night before, riddled with a fear of missing my alarm and I remember feeling the anxiety in my body. The night blended into the morning while I would drive in the dark, trying to listen to the radio to calm my nerves while the rest of the world was sleeping. I would drive almost two hours, then pull off into a paid parking lot, and stash my belongings under my seat. Then I would walk through downtown Miami up to the massive brutalist structure where hundreds of people were imprisoned with little more than slit windows to connect to the outside world.

Me and all the other visitors would stand in line outside the building, waiting for hours. We couldn’t sit down or use the bathroom. All there was to do was look up at the imposing building and those slit windows. Finally, a guard would come outside and let us in. We would go through a series of metal detectors and demoralizing pat-downs. Once I was rejected from going any further because I wore an underwire bra and had to turn around and go home. 

After waiting in line, we would have to sign a bunch of papers and show identification before being allowed to go any further. This process would take a long time, with a guard looking us in the eyes sternly as he confirmed our identities matched the pictures. This additional waiting game seemed to be at the whim of all the guards, who joked with each other and played on their phones and seemed to not care how long we would stand there. Some guards were mean and would yell at us to get into a better line formation. Everyone would jump a little every time one of the giant doors slammed, why would the doors slam so many times?

Finally, they might let us into the visiting room. When I saw my dad in there waiting for me, I would usually just burst into tears. The whole process was so scary and the only reason I was there was to see him. We were allowed to give a hug once when we got there and once before we left. I would shove my face into his jumpsuit and see the wet spots from my tears for the rest of the visit. We were able to sit for 45 minutes across a metal table together. Usually I would ask the guard if he would please let me use the bathroom because I needed to be sick. They wouldn’t let you lock the door.

Sometimes we would talk about school. My dad would typically spend at least half of the time apologizing to me that I had to go through this just to see him. He would ask about my mom and my friends and sometimes mention some plans for when he got out. He wouldn’t give me any details about his case as the commanding tower in the center of the room watched down on us. Guards walked up and down the aisles of tables and would occasionally stop to listen to our conversation. I remember just being so scared. I wanted to have a relationship with my dad and that was the only reason I put myself through this. Periodically, I would look over at the families who I waited in line with and see them looking over at the clock like me. Always wondering how much time we had left and when the guards would command that visits were over. 

We would stand up for a brief hug and then I would be on my way. My dad would hold back his tears usually, but I could not. Then I would be out on the sidewalk and walking to my car and driving home and then get home and suppress all of that horrible experience. My mom would ask how it went and I would tell her fine and then I would change the subject.

No one should ever have to go through this. I am 27 years old and writing this still brings me back to how hard this was for me. Becoming an adult did not make it easier. The criminal justice system replicates trauma, not only for the folks inside, but also for their loved ones. Their kids. All the levels of the criminal justice system stoke fear. I wish that I had someone to walk me through this process. I remember searching for support groups and spending hours online trying to find resources to make it easier, to try to feel seen and supported.

The only way we can get through the harm the legal system causes is with care from one another. My dad being gone for so long prevented us from repairing harm in our relationship and from us talking about how it impacted our family. Kids should not grow up with their parents locked away, no one should have a loved one forced away from them, and no one should be in a cage. No help comes from being stolen and alienated from your community, the people you care about, and any path towards healing and repair. 

‘Til every cage is empty.

My zine, “When Your Loved One is Arrested in Florida: A Supportive Guide,” seeks to help with the arrest process for the folks on the outside. Wondering where your friend or family member is can be intense and scary. It also includes a basic overview of the ways you can advocate for a loved one in detention in our state. The last page contains resources that helped me that I want to share with others.

Me and my dad