ENCOUNTERS WITH FATHERHOOD: MR. JAMES MUHAMMED TAYLOR

          The group sessions I attend three times a week in the Deputy’s Complex consist of a mix of 18 men Black, White, and Hispanic, ranging in ages between 21 and 70 with varying attitudes and opinions on a variety of subjects.

          This day the inmate facilitator, addressing the issue of Fatherhood, asked the group:  “What would your school age children say when asked by the teacher what their father’s occupation was?”

          As prisoners, and absent fathers from our children’s lives, the question caught us all off guard.  The question registered the thought in my mind that if we really loved our children as much as we claimed, then what were we doing in prison, but what’s more, what would be our intentions with  our children upon release.  That’s just the way I took it mainly because it had been true in my case.  Prison has a way of bringing out the best of intentions in fathers with respect to their children.  Like some of these guys, I’ been released before as a young man with love in my heart for my sons, yet had been guilty of the neglect implied.  I imagine many of us in the room felt as I did, to one degree or another.

          Everyone looked around the room at each other with a sense of embarrassment and guilt, waiting to see who would answer first.  In my mind, it wasn’t that many of us in the room hadn’t had jobs before.  The implied meaning I felt by the question was the responsibility of providing for our children as a father from that job, which I suspect, was not the case in most instances. 

          I remember being asked what my parents’ occupations were In open class.  I was in the sixth grade.  My parents were hardworking people but I felt a sense of shame in saying in open class that my mother worked as a cleaning woman for the British Embassy and that my father worked as a laborer for the electric company.  That being the case for me, I wondered how my sons felt about me and what answer they gave as my employment as an absent father from their lives?  No.  I wanted to be a good father.  But the truth of the matter was that I was not.  And the reality is that, because of the risky lifestyle I lived, my sons were better off without me.  Even knowing that, I resented the idea of another man marrying my ex-wife and being the father to my sons that I should have been.  Yet, the fact remains that my sons turned out okay with another man in the role of stepfather.

        Anyway, no one in the group answered the question about what their children would say their father’s employment was.  Was the question intended to be answered, or raised just to make a point?  But if that question was difficult, then I’d say the next one was a dagger in the heart of a father’s responsibility toward his children when the facilitator asked:  “How many of you have attended a PTA meeting with your children?”

          In other sessions we talked about “manhood” and how, even in our criminal lifestyle, we managed to provide “material” things for our children.  But this question was an indictment of the real concern we held for our children.  

        As a child, I lived a half block from Mott School.  PTA meetings were held in the school auditorium at night so I got a chance to see how many parents attended.  I felt bad that my parents never attended.  I was a failing student and remember specific requests by the teacher for my parents to attend those sessions to discuss my behavior and grades, in particular.  I told my mother this, but she worked nights and couldn’t make it.  My father was never considered.  Today, I can only imagine how many minority school age children of incarcerated parents are affected in this way by the large number of Black men represented in prisons across this nation.  

         My sense was that a father was a man his children runs to greet when he comes home from work.  It wasn’t like that with me.  Much of the time I spent avoiding my father for fear of being spoken to harshly and having my feelings hurt.

          I used to like visiting my oldest sister Shirley’s house because of the way her husband showed affection for his children.  I wished my father would relate to me like that.

          I never stopped looked for a father figure in my life.  A Father teaches and corrects the perception in a child when he goes wrong.  Tack Ross served as a father figure for me in prison as a young man.  He taught me things about life.  I asked questions that he gave helpful answers to. 

        Years later I witnessed another situation in prison that points to the importance of fatherhood.  To protect the identity of the father in question I’ll just say his name was Ali.  He was a Lifer and a very good friend.  Ali’s young son is the person I’m talking about.  He was around 19 or 20 years old.  Looked just like his father.  I don’t know what was going on in his life on the outside, but it seemed he had a need of actually being with his father, even if it meant coming to prison to serve time.

          Ali 's son never had much time to do.  And of all the prisons in the state, he always managed to get to Graterford and live on the same block as his father.  They were constant companions for the six to nine months his son would be here.  Even when Ali was at work, his son was in his cell watching television, waiting for his return.  Ali was a wise father and I know he was feeding his son whatever it was he needed from him.  I saw admiration and contentment on that young man’s face when he was with his father.  Twice I saw Ali’s son come to Graterford to be with his father like that.  Ali died years ago and his son has not returned since.

        I’ve witnessed many father-son relationships in Graterford.  To me, it is an indication of fathers failing their sons as I have.  On the other hand, like Tack Ross, I’ve been regarded as a father figure to some of the young men here.  I give them the benefit of what I know.  Of what I missed and wished I’d had from my father.

          For some reason, my ex-wife Viola made sure our sons remained in my life in spite of my imprisonment  here in Pennsylvania.  I called and talked with them on a regular basis.  When the boys were about 9 and 10 years old, she would let them come to Philadelphia and stay with friends of mine who brought them to the prison for visits two or three times a year.  I once remember asking Viola why she allowed the boys to remain in my life in face of all the changes I’d taken her through.  She said: “So that one day you could make them proud of you.”

          Deserving nothing from her, it is for that reason I could never stop loving her in my heart and soul.  I look at life from this place at times, hoping for an opportunity to talk with her just as badly as I want my freedom.  It is important for me to let her know how much I’ve always appreciated her and want to apologize to her for letting a good woman down.  

          I had another son out of wedlock, David.  I hadn’t heard from his mother for many years.  She gave birth to David in 1961.  Marcus and Orlando had heard about this half-brother of theirs, but never met him even though they live close by in Washington, D.C.  And it was in the early 1980s that Mary Beavers, David’s mother, found out where I was through my mother.  Mary wanted David to know his father and made it happen.

          When my sons came of age and were married with families of their own, the three of them got together and came to see me.  When I learned of this I was happy about it, but at the same time unsure of how the visit would go.  What had their mothers told them about me?  What did they feel about me?  What did they want to know?  What would I say to them?  All these questions ran through my mind.

          On the day of the visit I opened myself up to them, letting them know they could ask me anything they liked.  It was on a Sunday, a day when the visitors room was most crowded.  Back then, the visitors room was more visitor friendly in that the chairs could be arranged in a tight circle where we could face each other, not like they are now -- on an immovable straight line, making it hard to talk to more than one person at a time.  David, being the tallest of us, got his height from his mother.  One could see he was a Taylor in all other respects as far as looks went.  As it turned out, it was a visit where we got a chance to share many experiences with one another.  Marcus had gone into the Navy, came out and got married.  Orlando finished school, got a good job, and got married.  David had more of an experience like mine in that for a period of time he ran the streets selling drugs, drinking, and living a risky lifestyle until he woke up and turned his life around after being busted.  He said:  “The thought of doing the same thing to my children that my father had done to me was the thing that turned my life around in that jail cell.”

          Each of them wanted me to meet their wives and children.  They wanted my grandchildren to know me.  Since that visit the relationship with my sons has remained strong. 

           I was fortunate enough to win a new trial and make bail on this case in 1977.  While out on bail, I visited my parents’ home in Washington, D.C.  Everybody was glad to see me.  But if my father was the same, I expected some kind of criticism or admonishment from him.  At one point during the evening he came downstairs to the living room and told me to come upstairs.  He wanted to talk to me alone.  In his bedroom, he sat down on his bed and took my hand, guiding me to sit right down next to him.  My father turned to me and asked:  “Did you do that?”  Meaning, did I kill someone. 

         That was to be decided in court, so for the sake of my father, I said, “No.”

          Then my father did something I never expected.  He never showed tender affection for me.  He took out his wallet and gave me a twenty dollar bill.  I knew what it meant.  And when we stood, he embraced me for the first time in my life. Tears came to my eyes and I knew that this man that I thought didn’t care that much for me, loved me all along.  I left that room knowing that I would cherish that moment for the rest of my life.

          I folded that twenty dollar bill and placed it in a separate slot in my wallet.  When I got back to Philly it was out of respect for my father as a working man that I went to a thrift shop and bought a used jumpsuit to work in on my job at the gas station.

          My sons are well aware of the work I do with the men in this prison to help guide their lives on the right path.  On February 11, 1998, a young man I had befriended over the years dropped a note in my cell on the morning of his release, expressing the value of my relationship to him.  On it he wrote, “My dear brother, my friend, mentor, and also in many ways, my father figure.  I know that Allah forbids us to call those who are not our fathers that.  But he also knows that is the description that can best describe the love I have in my heart for you.  I wonder if your boys really know how much has been taken from them and what a wonderful Dad they really have.”

         I call my sons long distance once a month.  Recently, after talking to my oldest son Marcus, I would ask about his teenage son.  I picked up from him that some things were going on with his son, but he was reluctant to suggest that he might need some outside help.  He had already told me enough in previous conversations for me to know what the concerns were.  My instincts came into play.  I didn’t press it.  Instead, recently when I called I made sure I spoke with Marcus, his wife, and my grandson, which was their only child.  I told him I would write to him.  He said he’d like that and would write back.

          I recently received my first letter from him.  In response to a comment he made about where his head was at seventeen, I wrote:  “Man . . . I’m thinking back to where my head was at seventeen.  My priorities were very confused at the time My current situation in life can be traced back to that period. What I needed back then was a mentor to help me understand a lot of stuff I was dealing with.  I was not close with my father, even though I grew up in his house, under his care.  Hindsight is 20/20 vision.  My father was a  good man and I totally missed the cues he offered for me to interact with him and the chance to know him better, to learn from him.”

         I told my grandson, “I am feeling some deep stuff for you.  I want you to know me.”

        No one in the family knows me  . . . really.  I seem to be appreciated by the younger men I interact with here and it is natural that I would want to benefit my own blood.  That is why I told him I want him to visit me alone.

          The last time I called, his father said, “Your grandson told me you wanted him to come see you.  Thanks, Dad.”

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MR.  JAMES  MUHAMMED TAYLOR  IS  a Reentry and Criminal Justice Reform Thought Leader, published freelance journalist, poet, and Contributing Editor TO  IN SEARCH OF FATHERHOOD.