There Are Worse Things in the World

Thoughts From the Road

I don't write much about my other children, not because they're lives aren't as interesting and meaningful to me as my eldest's but because they did not ask for any of this. I have permission to share about one son’s experience in prison— I do not have the same liberty in regard to the other three.

This week, however, we're on a summer break road trip with our youngest and I think he would want the world to know. He has a goal to see all 50 U.S. states before he graduates high school— We only have 11 years and 41 states to go.

We packed up last weekend and headed out with a plan to eat the healthy snacks I brought instead of gas station junk and to keep the 7-year-old off of screens— you know, an old-fashioned, Gen X road trip.

After 5 days, I can report that we have eaten the healthy snacks but I will lose my mind if I am asked, “Mom, can I see your phone?” one more time. I have thrice envisioned myself throwing said phone out the window to make a point— if only I didn’t need it for maps and Substack.

Nevermind that I packed 20 small, gift-wrapped, road-tested gifts to be doled out like stocking stuffers over our 2000 miles. And nevermind that he has a Yoto with headphones and books and Dry-Erase activities and art implements and coloring for days and an Etch-A-Sketch and fidgets and trivia and Travel Bingo and word finds and an ergonomic travel desk and two parents answering every question into infinity and playing his music more often than we'd like—

In the end, I'll just be remembered as the meanie who won't let him watch YouTube.

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That reality aside— I'm never fully on vacation. Ever. While we're out here free-wheeling in the summer air on the open road, I'm wearing a 1000-mile tether to a prison cell back home. In spite of my blessings, I catch myself thinking about what my oldest doesn't get to see in this world and I am tortured by the vision of him on a bunk. In spite of plans to enjoy the Finger Lakes area of upstate New York, the drive through turned out to be rather disconcerting.

First, it was the signs for Attica.

I once read all 752 pages of Blood In The Water— after I suggested it several years ago for book club (they still haven't forgiven me). It details, and I mean details, the deadly riot at Attica Prison in 1971 where 43 men died. The then Governor Rockefeller convened a commission to investigate what went down and what went down was (in their words), “The bloodiest one-day encounter between Americans since the Civil War, with the exception of the Indian massacres in the late nineteenth century.” 39 men were killed during the “retaking" of the prison yard by New York State law enforcement. They even killed ten of their own guards. With bullets. If you want to wreck a summer evening, give the documentary a watch.

With summer road construction in full bloom, we got rerouted several times making a six-hour drive between states more like nine. A detour guided us through the beautiful backroads of Oneida County— and right past the sprawling campus of two more New York prisons: Oneida (which is now shuttered) and Mohawk Correctional where business is booming. Tucked up in the trees on a small hill behind miles of razor wire, the compound looks like the wide angle opening of a 80’s horror movie.

A quick Google search revealed the grounds were originally called "The New York State Custodial Asylum for Un-Teachable Idiots.” Opened in 1893, it served as a custodial home for those deemed unfit for education— many poor, many orphaned, and many with mental and physical disorders. Not much has changed, with the exception of one notorious inmate. Until last year, Harvey Weinstein had been held there in the ‘special housing’ unit.

We merged back onto the highway and I kid you not— 11 miles later was the exit for Marcy Correctional Facility which made national news six months ago when a man named Robert Brooks was kicked and punched to death in a medical unit. I wrote about the Corrections Strike back in February in the State of New York and the odd timing of the walk out— a mere three days after 10 officers were indicted for Brooks’s death. I passed the exit in silence.

When can we stop for ice cream, mom?

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If the external reminders weren’t enough, my center console screen lights up once a day for the personal call coming from a correctional facility. We silence the summer road trip Spotify playlist and stop the chit-chat and accept the charges on speaker phone—

The talk this week has been of the heat wave smothering the northern half of the eastern U.S. and if you thought it was bad out here— none of our prisons have air conditioning. My son does not have a fan (those cost money) nor ice nor can he open his doors or windows. Temperatures inside of cells can reach over 100 degrees so he is using washcloths to try and cool himself enough to sleep (and avoid heat stroke).

Meanwhile, I was standing in front of the oversized fans in the line at THE Ben and Jerry’s in Vermont where I snapped at my youngest son because sweat was dripping in places I hate it dripping and ice cream was dripping everywhere else and I was really not having any fun. Back in the air conditioned car, I quietly apologize to God for my ingratitude, to my youngest for my impatience, and later to my oldest for my insensitivity.

They only get ice cream twice a year in prison— the 4th of July is coming, he said. That little plastic cup of corn syrup and chemicals will be a sweet taste of freedom next week and I am, sadly, excited for him.

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As we pulled into our long-awaited destination, my dash lit up again. I picked up the call and sat there in the passenger seat while my husband and adventuring son went in and got on with vacation. I will forever remember my first moments in Bar Harbor, Maine. I spent them reminding a man in prison that he is loved, that he is always with me wherever I am, that he is going to come home soon, and that the best years of his life are ahead of him. I always tell him that I am glad he called— and I am, even when it sucks.

He tried calling yesterday but I was on a lobster boat so I missed it.

Later, I was walking along a boardwalk toward a narrow street of more ice cream shops and t-shirt stores when I heard someone yell my oldest son’s name. He’s here! Someone said and they all ran to greet him. Wouldn't that be something, I thought. I guess the universe just wants me to stay connected or go crazy or have more writing material. But— when 30 minutes later three cop cars, with lights on, pulled up in front of the park where we were throwing a Frisbee, I thought of my son’s arrest in a public place and looked at my husband and I told him I thought we should go back to the cabin and rest.

So, we did.

And the youngest got to watch YouTube because some days you choose your battles and anyway, there are worse things in the world.