I Saw Them Take My Father’s Life on Death Row
I was two years old when they took my father away.
Once a month, without missing a date, my mother would take me to see him in prison for an hour-long visit. Fifteen years later, the only father I could get to know was a man in a white jumpsuit behind a bulletproof screen. I spent 180 hours of my life trying to get to know the man who birthed me. Unlike most kids, I’d always look forward to going to prison; after all, that was the only time I got to spend with Dad.
I’d finally get to touch the man who had always been a figure behind bulletproof glass. For the first time in my life, I would get the chance to hold my father’s hands, look him straight in the eyes, and tell him I love him — even though it would only happen once.
I was 17 years old when they took my father away for good. The grim atmosphere of the “Death House” is one I felt from the moment I stepped through the doors that fateful night. It was a surreal experience, one that I can’t possibly put to words. While I knew that my father’s life was about to end, the condemned were allowed a…
