父愛從未缺席

By+Milena+Canizares+譯/張玲

Every morning at approximately 8:48 a.m., I pass it—the brick building that I visited many times as a child and that once seemed so grand, now a miniature playhouse in my mind.

My father used to live there, along with 549 other inmates. When Id visit, as I often did, wed chat and laugh—through a glass wall, telephones in hand.

For me, it was normal. It was all I knew. And I relished connecting with him. It was one of the most important relationships in my life, and still is today.

Experts say the years before you turn 5 are the most important. I must be lucky then. The day he was arrested on drug-related charges, the day I smiled at the policeman in our home, the day that everything changed was six months before my sixth birthday.

Over the years, the weekly commutes to visit my father became rituals. Eventually, after several years, we were allowed real visits when he was moved to a lower-security facility—the kind of visits where you can hug, where a conversations connection doesnt depend on the distorted and crackly voice coming through the telephone, where words can be freely exchanged without the clock ticking, reminding you that time is slipping.

Weve always shared a sense of understanding, my father and I. We can look at one another and know what the other is thinking. We get each other.

Youd think his absence would have prevented him from making rules, enforcing discipline and participating in the day-to-day of my childhood, but that wasnt so. He wrote me every week, and I often go back and read whats left of the folded, disintegrating letters.

In person, wed talk, not just speak. His life lessons, never cliché but always earnest, struck a chord with me and I soaked up every word. He told me that not having a father had been a detriment to his ego and that hed overcompensated by feeling infallible well into his 30s. He spoke of the shame hed caused his family and how there were times when he almost cracked, being isolated from his family, from love, from who he used to be.

Other children looked forward to Saturdays, long stretches of time when their fathers would take them to the park for a walk or for an ice-cream cone. I could barely sleep with anticipation, getting up as early as 5 a.m. to hop in the car for the two-hour drive ahead.

The ice cream I was missing paled in comparison with the sweet joy of simply“being” with my dad. To have our chats, to share outdoor barbecues with my father and other families who would gather. Most children have school friends and neighbourhood friends. I had those too, but I also had my jail friends, the girls and boys with whom I would run around and play tag, not truly comprehending why these individuals probably understood me and my life far better than anyone else.

My mother would often ask me about my feelings, trying to uncover some inadequacy I felt, pressing for details and expressions that might make sense. How could I be okay?

But how could I not? As a child, the word jail means nothing.

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I was 11 when my father finally came home. I learned all about responsibility when he signed me up for a part-time job serving ice cream at the beach. I acted excited, though like most 11-year-olds, I wanted to park myself in front of the television all summer long. But I wanted to please him, wanted to earn those extra smiles, all the ones Id missed.

I still live at home, but so does every other twentysomething I know. They still enjoy home-cooked meals, pristinely arranged households and all bills paid for by their parents.

When I think about moving out, I know its not time yet. Its not the conveniences that come from living a life almost free of responsibility. Im not ready to give up the small inner burst of joy I get every morning when my dad pops his head into my bedroom and says, “Morning, Mini”, a nickname Ive kept far too many years.

每天早晨，大約8點48分的時候，我都會路過那棟磚砌的建筑。小時候，我曾經多次造訪過那里。那時，那棟樓看起來是那么威嚴宏大，可如今它在我心里就像一個微型的玩具小屋。

我父親就曾住在那里，和其他549名囚犯生活在一起。我常常去探望他，每次去時，我們都有說有笑——只不過我和他之間隔著一堵玻璃墻，手里都拿著電話。

對我來說，這種交流方式很正常。因為我所知道的交流方式就是這樣的。我喜歡這么和他聊天。那時候，和父親的交流是我生命中最重要的情感寄托之一，直至今天也是如此。

專家說，每個人五歲之前的經歷對其成長是最為重要的。要這么說的話，我肯定是幸運的。因為就在父親因毒品案被捕的那一天、我沖著那個闖進我家的警察微笑的那一天、我的生活從此完全改變的那一天，我已經五歲半了。

那之后許多年，我每星期都會坐車去探望父親，這已經成為一種習慣。終于，在幾年后，父親被轉到一所防衛不那么森嚴的監獄，我們這才被允許“真正”地探望他：我們可以互相擁抱；可以直接對話而不再依賴電話里那種有些失真又沙啞的聲音；可以自由地交談，沒有時鐘在一旁滴滴答答，提醒我們時間在一點點溜走。

父親和我之間一直都有那么一種默契。我們看著對方，就知道彼此心里在想什么。我們心有靈犀。

也許你會覺得，既然父親不在家，他肯定沒辦法給我立規矩或管教我，在我的童年生活里，他肯定也沒辦法天天陪著我，但實際情況卻并非如此。他每個星期都會給我寫信，那些留著的信現在已經折痕累累、支離破碎，但我還時常會回過頭去讀一讀。

見面的時候，我們會傾心交談，而不僅僅是閑聊瞎扯。他會和我分享他的人生經驗，句句真摯中肯，從不老生常談。他說的每一個字都讓我深感共鳴，我把這些話牢記心間。他告訴我，他從小沒有父親，這讓他的自尊深受傷害。而三十多歲時，他又走入另一個極端，過于自信，覺得自己永遠是正確的。他還談到自己的所作所為讓家人蒙受的恥辱，他說他好幾次近乎崩潰——因為遠離家人，遠離關愛，無法做回曾經的自己。

別的孩子們都盼著過周六，期待在那長長的閑暇時間里，他們的父親會帶他們去公園里散步或買冰激凌甜筒。而我每周五晚會因滿心期待而難以入睡，周六早上我會五點起床，跳上汽車，然后坐兩個小時的車去探望父親。

只要能和父親“待”在一起，我就感到甜蜜而快樂，相比之下，沒吃上冰激凌就顯得微不足道了。我可以和父親聊天，和父親以及其他周末在這個地方相聚的家庭一起在戶外燒烤。大多數孩子的朋友是學校的同學或附近的鄰居。我也有這樣的朋友，但我還有一幫在監獄里結識的伙伴。這些伙伴中有男孩也有女孩，我們一起東奔西跑，一起玩捉人游戲。那時我并沒有真正理解為什么這些孩子可能會比其他人更能理解我和我的生活。

母親總是問我對父親入獄這件事有什么感受，盡力尋找每一個可能有意義的細節和表情，試圖證明我是感覺受傷害了的。她想不明白：我怎么可能一點兒事兒都沒有呢？

可我為什么就不能感覺良好呢？對于一個孩子來說，“監獄”這個詞沒有任何意義。

我11歲那年，父親終于刑滿回家了。他給我報名，讓我去應聘了一份在沙灘上賣冰激凌的兼職工作，這份工作讓我徹底了解了什么是責任。我當時假裝很激動，但其實像大多數11歲的孩子一樣，我想整個夏天都坐在電視機前度過。但是我想讓他高興，想多看到他笑，想把我錯過的那些笑容都補回來。

我現在還和父母住在一起，但我認識的其他二十多歲的年輕人也都和父母一起住。他們還是很喜歡吃家里做的飯菜，喜歡家里一切都收拾得整齊干凈，更喜歡父母幫他們付清所有的賬單。

我也考慮過搬出去住，但我知道還不是時候。不過，這并不是因為這種幾乎不需要負任何責任的生活給我帶來了很多便利。我不愿意搬出去住，是因為我還沒有準備好放棄每天早上父親突然探頭到我的臥室，沖我喊“早安，米妮（一個我叫了好多年的小名）”時，我心里迸發出來的那點小小的快樂。

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