Vagabond Multilingual Journal Spring 2014 | Page 37

The last promise

“Your dad’s in jail,” my mom told me, while we stuffed pink envelopes with invitations for my
quinceañera. There were only two weeks left until my fifteenth birthday celebration, and as if that wasn’t
already stressful, this news made things even worse. Three months had gone by without hearing from
my dad. The last I heard was that he was in Hawaii on a business trip, according to him. This wasn’t my
dad’s first time in jail. It’s been several times; too many to count. That same Sunday my mother and
I went to go visit him. The jail he was being detained in this time was different; this one was farther
than the usual one. When we finally got there, I was surprised by the building; it didn’t look like a jail.
It looked more like a community center, or something of that sort. As soon as we walked in, we were
greeted by an officer who registered us, and escorted us to an outdoor patio. There were tables and
benches spread all over the yard. We waited for about fifteen minutes until I finally spotted my dad
across the courtyard. He was walking towards us in a light green jump suit, smiling and glossy-eyed.
All of a sudden, I got a bad feeling, and I could see that hidden in his smile was something devastating.

I was only five years old the first time I visited my father in jail. I remember thinking it was
normal to visit relatives in jail at my age; after all, there were other kids my age there too. It was a Sunday
morning, almost seven, when my mom woke me up to get me ready. Hanging on my closet door was
a beautiful pink dress, with a ribbon that tied around my waist to create a huge bow. I felt like a princess
in that dress. My favorite part of this outfit was my pair of shiny white shoes, which had just enough
heel to make me feel taller than my friends. Those shoes were a birthday gift from my mother. I would
only wear them on special occasions, which made them look brand new. While my mom combed
my hair, I saw myself in the mirror, and I remember thinking to myself, I hope my daddy thinks I
look beautiful. After finishing with my hair, my mom said, “Ready, my love! Just like a princess!”

We took three busses and a train in order to be one of the first visitors at the jail. But,
once we got there, there was already a long line outside of the building and around the block.
Without exaggerating, we waited there about four hours just to get a fifteen-minute visit with my
dad. My dad has always been an indecisive person; sometimes he’d live with us and other times
he would live who knows where. My parents liked to argue a lot, and in turn would separate
almost religiously. But, whether they’d be together or separated, my dad would never forget
about me. He would take me to the park, buy me ice cream, and play hide-and-seek with me;
we’d be happy together. It would mean the world to me when he’d tell me he loved me, and
that he would always love me no matter what. In spite of what he may have done to land him
in jail, he would always be my daddy, the one who pampered me and loved me unconditionally.

We finally reached the front of the line, and after being cleared by security, we were escorted
to a waiting area where I was finally able to sit down. After standing in line for four hours, I did not
want to leave my seat. “Mommy, are we going to see daddy now?” I asked her. “Yes, just a little while
longer,” she assured me. After another agonizing hour of boredom, our number was finally called
out, and my mother, myself, and twenty other visitors got up from our seats. We formed a line in
front of a green door, and the guards announced that the door would shortly open. Fifteen minutes
later, a loud siren went off and the door finally opened. We all walked into a spacious room with
about ten cubicles. Each cubicle was divided in half by fortified plexus-glass; on one side of the glass
were the prisoners in bright orange jumpsuits, each handcuffed and accompanied by a police officer.

37