How to define family, or as we call it, a roadtrip through Arizona

I’m 41 years old. At last check I was 5-foot-7, or so I’d like to think, and 203 pounds, even though I’d rather that wasn’t the case. I’ve worked in college athletics for most of my adult life and have been fortunate enough to do it with some great people while getting to travel the world. There’s really not much I could ask for that I haven’t been able to do. I’ve been lucky in life and love. I have a wonderful Sugar Mama, er, wife, and a great house, two fucking cats (including one whose name is F’ing) and a strange, large, nose-breathing dog. It’s pretty much a wonderful life.

I don’t know of anyone who’s had the support system I’ve been lucky enough to be a part of. I have crazy, oddball relatives who fall into what resembles more of a flowchart than a family tree. We’ve had our ups and downs, and we’ve gone our own ways at times, but it’s still my family and I wouldn’t trade it. Well, unless we’re talking really big dollars. No, no, I wouldn’t. Well, maybe for really, REALLY big dollars. But still, they’re mine. Half the population of Rockford. Which makes me think I could trade some for dollars and still have plenty of them left. Hmmm.

On top of that, I also still get to see some of my best friends from way back. High school? Sure a lot of people see one high school friend 25 years later, but I’m talking 8-10 guys I went to middle school with, and a few that I went to elementary school with. We get together at least once, if not a couple times a year. We have been best men in each others’ weddings, we’ve been there for kids’ birthdays and helped each other through divorces, being laid off, weight loss (or lack of) and dealing with loved ones dying. All these things and so many more little moments with each of them all these years later are what I remember and think about daily. Those memories are the nuggets of life that probably make me who I am more than anything.

Still, it wasn’t until Wednesday, May 22, 2013, around 9 a.m. local time in Safford, Ariz., that I really understood how important family is — and that blood isn’t needed to be ‘family’.

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The Asshole Hypothesis

Waiting is not easy. I’m fairly impatient in most circumstances. Many times, the bad part is when it’s something I can control. I just want to get it over, and yet I’m holding myself up. When it’s something that I have to wait on because of others, then it’s even worse. But dealing with the state department of corrections, you really don’t have a choice. You have to rely on the prison system to determine what and when and how you do something; choice is not an option even if you’re the one on the outside. It’s out of your hands, and when you’re like me, that means just having to suck it up and wait.

That wait was finally nearing an end as I boarded a flight from Atlanta to Chicago. It had been more than 18 years since I had seen one of my guys, one of those ones I’d played sports with since eighth grade. I tried and tried and tried to think of the exact last time that I saw him. I really can’t remember though, even now. I remember what may have been the last couple of times we hung out together, but the exact last time I saw him eludes me still. Even the times we partied together before he went in, I don’t remember so well; go figure. It doesn’t matter though. At least that’s what I told myself. He’s still one of my guys.

Through the years I’ve tried to keep up with him. He’s been in prisons in Arizona and moved at times to Texas and Indiana. I’m terrible at writing consistently — sort of like blogging, I’m sure a few of my “friends” would say — but in recent years I at least tried to write once or twice a year, many times more often the former than the latter. I felt guilty every time I sent one because it wasn’t often enough or recent enough since the last one, as least in my mind. But I could always count on a reply letter. As he often said, he could write back at any point because what else was there to do with his time? Sugar Mama and I always got a Christmas card from him too, even when I had failed to send a single card to anyone, as was the case for probably each of the 18 years he was away.

I felt, too often, like I was letting him down because I wasn’t writing enough. I felt like I was just a bad person because I should have done more. Here I am with the ability to do anything — I’m a middle-aged, white, educated, American male; you might as well just change my middle name to “Owner of the Land of Opportunity” right now — and I know that one of my guys would get some great enjoyment out of just one or two pages of me telling him what’s going on in life, asking how he was, inquiring about his well-being. Yet, I couldn’t — or just plain didn’t — take 25 minutes out of a day very often. Not often enough for me to not feel guilty.

My only response when I think of this: I’m an asshole.

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Questioning the Road

Sometimes I felt stupid because I’d put it on my to-do list to write him and then it’d just keep getting pushed down. Life moves on, bills are due, dogs need feeding, lawns need to be mowed, right? Right? I felt wrong.

As I left on the trip, I didn’t know what to expect and I couldn’t let the fact go that I wasn’t a good enough friend while he was in. To some degree, I really wondered if I was worthy to go. I didn’t feel like I had done enough to warrant me actually being there at the end when I wasn’t there enough in the middle and especially because I wasn’t around at the beginning. I can’t stand people who don’t do shit and then swoop in at the end to try to get the glory. Was I doing that here? Did I really belong here? Check the last word of two paragraphs ago and you’ll see what I thought of myself.

I didn’t ask anyone else how they felt about those questions. It may have been the only question I didn’t ask. I peppered my guys — there were six of us who went out to meet his family when he got out — about everything else once we hooked up in Chicago. The flight to Phoenix and then the ensuing drive to Tucson that afternoon was filled with ‘whats’: What do you think he’ll want to eat for his first meal? How much current news do you think he’s seen? What do you imagine it’s like to have never seen the Internet or a smartphone? What does he know about 9/11? What are the chances he was in many fights and didn’t tell us? What was solitary like? Or the questions everyone wanted to know: Was Law & Order life-like? Was Locked Up even more life-like?

Typical. It was all about my questions, thank you very much Mr. Self-Centered Asshole. It should have been about what he needed from us, not what questions we had for him. In the end it was a lot of both at the same time.

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Fun With Small Cars

After a long travel day Tuesday, we got up at 4 a.m. Wednesday and then made the final few hours’ drive to the facility in Safford. It was like it always is with us when we get together: It feels like we haven’t been apart 10 minutes, but most of us hadn’t seen each other since last June, and never at the same time. We fall into a routine pretty quick. I ask stupid questions and make fun of the fat guys; the fat guys make fun of me being short. That’s about it.

That filled our time pretty solidly until we got to the prison. It wasn’t what I expected. The “Tonto Unit” wasn’t as … I don’t know. It wasn’t as big as I pictured, that’s for sure. But it just didn’t seem that prisony. Sure there was the barbed wire, the people with guns, fences, dogs, orange jumpsuits labeled “ADC” but it wasn’t what I pictured. Damn you, MSNBC.

We got there too early and had to kill some time back in town. It felt surreal, as one of the guys said (even though I don’t totally believe he knows what the word means). Time was achingly slow, but considering this trip was 18-plus years in the making, it was racing by. Looking back, it went too fast. I love the times we’re able to hang out and bullshit and pick on each other. I wish it took longer for those of us at the gas station, but I’m guessing there was one guy that morning who would tend to disagree with me and say it took forever. Understood, pal, understood.

When we went back to the prison an hour later, we got there after his family and the guard didn’t really like us asking questions, so we were told we couldn’t go in. We had to wait outside because we “didn’t have a purpose for being there” as they said. Whatever dude. We parked and waited. I wasn’t looking, but it seems he came in in a prison van from the other nearby facility where he lived and worked, and the van stopped right next to us. I saw a picture of him on the state website a couple years ago, and he looked the same then as high school. Little less hair on top of his head, little more mustache, some age on the eyes and chin, new black, state-issued Buddy Holly-like glasses, but exactly the same as the guy I remember playing right next to — he was the center and I was the right guard — on the offensive line for years in middle school and high school.

Minutes later, after watching a detail of inmates clean up the parking lot, our wait came to an end. It was minutes after his wait ended, and it was surreal. The little blue car pulled up beside us and he got out of the passenger side, the first to make a move. Hugs ensued. As did an awkwardness, but not in a bad way. It was like you knew, ‘Hey, this is my guy, my guy from way back when, and while I haven’t seen him in forever, I know it’ll fall back in place in no time.’ With this group of guys, that always feels like the case. And it’s always right.

(Editor’s Note: Seeing him get out of a little car was perfect considering he’s like 6-foot-6, and he drove a car roughly the size of a Tonka toy in high school. What a perfect return to us.)

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The Surreal Tour Guide

With our group, the federal law that was broken on the way to Arizona made sense (and no, I’m not going into what it was), but we definitely didn’t mean to break Arizona state law when we first saw him. It seems that while the state is happy to have families and friends picking up their loved ones after they get out of the joint — in case you’re wondering, it really was not like Elwood picking up Jake or even when Worm got out — but what they’re not happy about is families and friends taking pictures of the joyous moment. At least not near the prison, as we found out from the guard who immediately came out and told us we couldn’t take pictures in the parking lot. We had to move off state property to get a shot of our guy in his first few minutes of freedom. So, what’d we do? What every red-blooded American would do: I took pictures of the facility from the back of the minivan as we headed to McDonald’s.

Once we left, it wasn’t like a rush to get away. You’d think after so long in the system, and about three years at this facility, that our guy would want to get back to a city or just away from the area in general. But no. He wanted to show us where he had been working. He’d told me in letters the past couple years that he was basically a cowboy, riding a horse and helping herd cattle, that kind of stuff that I’m too much of a pussy to do. It was his prison job and from the way he wrote, it wasn’t so bad. So he wanted to show us where it was. It was in the middle of no-fucking-where is where it was. In the mountains, in the desert, nobody nearby, nothing nearby. But it was…beautiful. Inspiring even.

He had ridden most of the land around us. He knew the history of the facility and area, which dated back to the 1800s. Literally, it was old-school in the Wild West variety. Billy the Kid was held at the fort and escaped the cavalry there by the Bonita grocery store, which is near where the Bonita Cemetery still is found, and where we talked in the desert sun for an hour. Cochise’s son was hanged there. He found arrowheads and Indian artifacts while out working and doing chores. I seriously think he could be a tour guide as informed his presentation was. And he obviously had time to research and learn the background. I really enjoyed everything he talked about, giving us guys and his family a virtual tour of his facility and daily life for the past three years from about three miles away. It was amazing because I would not have had the strength and serenity to go back. But he seemed to need to leave on his terms. Good for him.

We found out even more on the three-hour ride ahead as we headed back to Phoenix. I’m not going into much of that because those were moments and questions and thoughts and more that were for us, and only us in the van. It was us guys bringing one of our own back into the fold. Even though he never left in spirit.

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Moments Matter

After a long day and great dinner, everyone called it a night and when we reconvened for a few more hours of hanging out Thursday morning, we got hit with something we never expected. We just hung out in the lobby at the hotel and told stories; mostly prison stories about how things worked and what he learned. It was fascinating. Hopefully someone listened really well during the ‘blink and claws’ part, but that inside story will have to stay inside. Sorry.

He absolutely had an affinity for his horse Earl and talked quite a bit about him, and he talked about the things he brought with him during each move before he got to Safford. Things, objects, stuff. Those words don’t mean the same to us on the outside. What we consider just stuff may have had a completely different meaning in his world. Routine and little things meant everything. Precision and consistency. It helped those who wanted to get through to have something to hold onto. Our guy did that. And then he blew us away with the actual physical embodiment of routine.

We were nearing the end of our time there as the six of us had to fly back that day. It was fly in and drive Tuesday, get him out and drive back Wednesday, then fly out and drive home Thursday. Time wasn’t abundant, but the moments were precious. Yes, I said precious not because I’m a pussy and use wimpy words, but because I’m comfortable enough with me — especially after this trip — to know that life is about those moments and enjoying them and reliving them and embracing them. That moment came about 11:15 a.m. Thursday.

A lull had happened in the conversation and he stood up. As I looked up, he was digging in his jean pockets, pulling something out. He said, “I’m surprised no one asked me about it,” as he started to unfold a piece of paper. It was about three inches by two inches after being folded into quarters. It looked like all the old paper you’d find in your wallet after putting it away in a box for years because you got a new one but didn’t want to throw this one away. The edges were worn and it looked brittle.

“Seeing as no one did ask, I’ll just go ahead and show you. People a lot of times ask if, when you’re in, if you keep track of the time. The answer’s yes.” He gently threw the unfolded paper on the table. “That’s every single day. A mark for each day.” It has different marks for different things: end of a calendar year, visitation days, red marks for this, blue marks for that. It was intricate. It felt like I was looking at a priceless work of art that no one had ever seen before. We all crowded around, his family and friends. No one said a word at first. No one wanted to touch it. I asked if I could take a picture and he said yes. I picked it up and held it. He let us take in the moment and then came back and took it again. He flipped it over and told us it was his original paperwork when he first went in. He’d started tracking and figuring it all out how long it would be from Day 1. More than 18 years previous. Waiting for this moment to know he didn’t have to mark it anymore. Ever.

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Two Worries, No More

Seeing that paper and just what he had to say, that was the single most powerful moment of my life.

Read that sentence again and let it sink in. Repeat.

I do not have children, so I can’t talk for others who have been there when their child was born. But for me, I’ve never witnessed something so powerful. Important? No, marrying my wife was more important and more heart-filled. I’d never trade my wedding day for anything. But if I had to make a list of the days I’d never trade, that day, that moment, would be second. I was with my guys, and that single, powerful moment, one that puts not just life into perspective — literally it defined a life for 6,571 consecutive days — but makes you think about how small your problems are, how first-world we live, how much we take for granted, that moment I would not trade. It made me a better person knowing that I was there, that we were together, that he made it back.

He has a long way to go and it will be more immensely difficult than anyone can prepare for. But he served his time, owned the whole thing as his, and now he’s got a chance. He’s set himself up as much as he can and has a plan to start his life — not again, but to start it really for the first time.

Before we left, he took a moment and spent with each of us. A big hug, a couple quiet words. I had to take the time to tell him I was sorry for being such an asshole, that I wished I had written more and I had no excuse. I should have been a better friend.

He said, “When you go away for so long, you really only have two worries: First, that you lose your parents, which would be the worst possible thing when you’re not allowed to go back. And second, that you’re forgotten. I never felt forgotten. You guys never let me feel that way.”

Those words did two things for me: it made me feel like even though I thought I was an asshole, he maybe didn’t feel as strongly about my asshole-ness, and it made me understand why I am who I am. It’s because of the people around me. It’s my fucked up family tree. It’s my boys I’ve fought with, drank with, competed with, lived with and will die with. It’s who I was stuck with. I’m stuck in the middle with them and I’ve had no choice but to call all of them family for three decades now. I knew it before, but that dusty road trip to an Arizona prison made me understand more clearly how my ‘family’ makes me a better person.