Dear Daddy (Yes, Daddy 11)

1

Josi

“And your final paper must include one living breathing reference that you personally interviewed.” I continue drawing unicorns in the upper right hand corner of my notepad until I hear my teacher, Mr. Byrd, clear his voice above me. “Do you understand, Ms. Lawson?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, quickly slapping the binder shut so he can’t see what I was doing, although we both know it’s too late. Mr. Byrd just hovers over me, his eyes narrowing as they rake over the turquoise colored crayon I have in my hand and the salmon colored one next to it. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he continues, walking through the aisles of the classroom with his hands behind his back, the back of one hand resting in the palm of his other. “I’d like to remind you that next year many of you will be off to college, so it’s time to start acting like adults sooner rather than later. In other words…grow up,” he finishes off his little lecture pointedly. But I know he’s not directing it to everyone in our class, just me. It seems his face constantly pinches whenever he looks in my direction, which is exactly what happens to my stepfather’s expression when he graces me with anything even remotely resembling the fact that he’s acknowledging my existence. And unfortunately, I can’t even remember the last time my mom smiled my way. She likes to constantly remind me I look more like my dad, who she despises to this day despite the fact he ran out on us eighteen years ago, exactly when he found out my mom was pregnant with me.

A few of my classmates point and snicker at my knee-high striped socks and ruffled skirt dress. I don’t care, or at least that’s what I tell myself. Nobody really seems to get me and I remind myself that all I need to do is get through this last semester and I’ll be a high school graduate, and combined with my eighteen years of age that means I’m free to do what I want. Unfortunately, my parents want me to go to college, or at least that’s what they say. Considering they haven’t shown a single bit of interest in where I go or what I study, only suggesting that schools out East are the best choice, it seems they’re more interested in me getting as far away from where we live here in California than actually getting an education. The fact is punctuated by the constant reminders that I shouldn’t look at the ‘expensive colleges’ and I need to apply for all the scholarships I can. In other words, don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya. They want me gone. Pronto.

The bell rings and I stuff my things into my oversized backpack that’s shaped like Kermit the Frog, opening his mouth and sliding my binder and textbook inside before carefully putting my crayons back inside their case. So what if everyone else takes notes with their electronic gadgets or at worst, pens and pencils. Not me. I’m beyond low tech. I’m no tech, preferring the touch of something in my hand, reminding myself that writing and penmanship are a lost art. I love to write, draw, and more than anything, get mail. That being the case maybe this assignment for my psychology class will be a blessing in disguise.

No way am I going to do a sit-down interview with someone. The idea of a face-to-face interaction with someone in the penal system frightens me as much as driving a car does, and that’s one of my biggest fears in the world and exactly why I skipped driver’s ed and don’t have my driver’s license.

But what could be fun is writing a letter to a lawyer or someone like that.

I step out of the school building, popping a big bubble thanks to my Bubbalicious gum, the grape flavor is so good it should be illegal. Then it hits me. What if I write someone who deals with people who do illegal acts and gets to see their psychological transformation over the course of a few years or more? Not a lawyer, because that doesn’t seem as interesting.

But what about someone that works in…a jail. A corrections officer could be interesting, as maybe he or she would be willing to give an insight into not only their psychological process in dealing with people convicted of violent crimes but also a first hand account of the offenders. Knowing Mr. Byrd he’ll actually check references, not that I ever plan on cheating. Cheating is bad and I’m a good girl, a good student.

As soon as I get home I Google some information about San Quentin State Prison, which lies north of San Francisco. I read a few pieces about inmates rioting and see some statements from a corrections officer by the name of Jackson James. Well, if he likes giving statements to news outlets then maybe he’ll be okay with answering a letter from the daughter of two tax paying citizens.

Sitting down at my desk, I carefully move my Simba the lion stuffie from my desk and set him on my bed, where he likes to sleep and watch over me while I’m doing my homework. He ‘guards’ my bed, reminding me I can’t come in and snuggle up with him until I’m done. At least that’s what I tell myself to motivate myself to finish.

I slide out the drawer underneath my desk and remove my stationary with the multi-colored hearts around the edges. It’s not professional by a long shot, but I hope that will actually work to my advantage. I need this letter to be seen and to get opened. That being the case I pull out the brightest pink envelope to go with it.

Thinking about what I want to say I realize a quick sugar rush could help me power through the right words. I pull a chocolate cupcake from the mini-fridge in my room and generously apply some sprinkles to the top before scarfing it down.

I slide into my Wonder Woman pajamas and wait for the sugar to reach my brain. Not five minutes later and the words are flowing.

Dear Mr. Jackson,

Thank you for taking the time to open and read my letter. I promise to keep it short as I know your time is very valuable.

My name is Josephine Lawson, but everyone just calls me J

osi. I’m an eighteen-year old senior in high school not far from where you work and as part of my final semester psychology class, I have to personally interview someone who is interesting from a psychological point of view and report back to my class on it. I was thinking that would be you! (I hope you take my thoughts the right way.) My guess is that you must experience a lot of psychological ups and downs in your job, and surely your inmates do too.

If you don’t mind and have a few minutes, would you mind sharing some interesting experiences that fit with my school paper? I’m enclosing a self-addressed stamped returned envelope so you can just drop it in the mail without having to buy stamps or anything that takes too much time out of your day or makes you stand in line at the post office.

Oh, and in the spirit of fairness, I should share a little bit about myself, from a psychological standpoint…

Some people seem to think I need to ‘grow up’, but personally I love keeping the free-spirit and enthusiasm of a child. I just love how they view the world with open eyes and open arms. It amazes me how the smallest things are so big in their eyes, and that’s how I often feel myself. I’m not really sure why I see the world this way but I do. My stepdad and mom have suggested I see a psychiatrist, but so far I’ve been able to avoid it. I agreed to sign up for psychology as an elective course, and that appeased them for now.