During my trial, while I was being escorted to the courtroom by two officers, I looked up and saw my 2-year-old niece’s face. Her chin was resting on my sister’s shoulder, and her expression was blank.
I realized that she didn’t recognize me at all.
My only sister’s only child, Jaxon, was born just a few months after I was arrested for murder. How could she recognize someone who had never even held her?
I was at a low and emotionally vulnerable place, and there was something about seeing my little niece that represented hope for me. I wanted this baby girl to recognize me. I wanted to be part of her life.
After being sentenced, I was sent to a prison about four and a half hours away from my family in Seattle. They still came to visit, and brought Jaxon along. I got to see her grow up in that visiting room. I felt like I knew her, but I wondered what she knew about me. Did my niece only know her uncle as an inmate?
At one visit, when Jaxon was about 5 or 6 years old, she asked out of nowhere, “Are you in prison?”
The visiting room was full of tables that sat four people each. All prisoners must sit facing the guards, who watch closely. At that moment, it felt like the visiting room had shrunk to the size of my cell.
My mind was flooded. Should I tell her what I’m in prison for? Will she look at me differently? Do I tell her how long my sentence is?
My face flushed red, making it obvious that I was overwhelmed by this little girl’s innocent question. I stuttered, mumbling out some version of my answer. “Yes. I am in prison, Jaxon.”
To my relief, her follow-up question wasn’t one I feared.
“Do you sleep on a bunk bed?” she asked, excitedly.
When I told her that I slept on the bottom bunk, she seemed disappointed. I understood where her question was coming from because, when I was a kid, I knew how important it was to be on the top bunk.
I didn’t know it at the time, but this innocent question was the beginning of a deeper relationship and understanding between the two of us. She understood much more than she was being told by her family, so after that I began to share with her small bits and pieces of the lighter elements of my life on the inside.
When she first started visiting me, Jaxon used to play with the large foam building blocks and do cartwheels. Now, she is 16 years old. We talk regularly on the phone. She tells me when she gets into trouble, but I don’t yell at her and get mad, so there is some trust built up between us. When she visits, she runs up to me and gives me a hug. I’m very grateful to be part of this little girl’s life.
