Fatherhood Beyond Bars

By: Fernando DiazA convicted arsonist, burglar and two murderers each take turns in the classroom. For the next several minutes, each will leave his uniform, the walls and the barbed wire of the Central Illinois prison where they are serving time. For a few brief moments, they will return to the places they are known as father, dad, daddy or uncle. It’s bedtime, at home, with their kids at their side.

At Logan Correctional Center in downstate Lincoln, these men are among about 40 others who will read a story into a small, black tape recorder on that Saturday morning in early February. They will put some thoughts down on the inside cover of the book they have chosen and enclose it with the tape in a manila envelope.

In a week’s time, the children they left behind will hear the men’s voices once again, telling them how much they love them, how much they miss them and how they can’t wait to see them again.

Anthony Crum, 27, knows it’s not much, but the package means the world to his two kids in Mattoon, Ill. He reads a book about fire engines and ambulances.

“I miss you, buddy. I love you. I hope you have a good birthday. I hope to see you soon. I love you, buddy,” Crum says at the end of the tape.

Crum’s eldest son celebrated his ninth birthday five days after the recording was made. His youngest son turned 4 in March. Crum has been locked up for about three years and is looking at another six months before he is released. The Storybook Project, an effort organized by Lutheran Social Services of Illinois, keeps him and the other men in touch with their children in ways that the phone calls, letters and visits can’t.

Every month, volunteers record these brief moments for men and women, mostly fathers and mothers, at about 16 prisons across Illinois.

“There’s more that can be done,” according to Gail K. Beard, director of the Storybook Project. Volunteers cart the boxes of books, work the cassette tape recorders and assemble the packages.

Rodney J. Strohmayer, 25, agrees. He hopes there might be a chance to establish a male version of the annual Mom and Me Camp at Lincoln Correctional Center, the women’s prison next door.

“It really don’t matter what book I read to them, they love it to death,” said Strohmayer. His 4-year-old daughter and 3-year-old son in Sterling, Ill., have been getting tapes for the past four months. His daughter walks around all day and night, “playing this tape over and over again,” Strohmayer said. This time they will get Dr. Seuss’ “Green Eggs and Ham.”

The program doesn’t just help the children; it has had a profound effect on Strohmayer himself. His incarceration helped him understand how much his children mean to him, and knowing that he has a family to go home to makes it easier.

The tapes have been one of the few, and at times, only ways, Tyrece Vance’s daughter and niece in Chicago have been able to hear his voice. Locked up in 1996 at 18 for murder, Vance, now 29, said he has given his life to Jesus Christ. Other inmates call him “Preacher,” among other things. He opens his two books, one for each girl, with prayer.

He chooses uplifting books, those with lessons, and imparts his own wisdom after he’s done reading. Saturday’s choice was about a little girl growing up in the Jim Crow South who makes her way to a library.

Vance’s 11-year-old daughter is in sixth grade. Vance last saw her on Father’s Day in 2006. “When I hugged her it was almost like I could have melted in her arms,” said Vance, who hadn’t seen his daughter in seven years before that moment.

“This program has really, really kept me in communication with my daughter and niece,” said Vance. “They enjoy the books, enjoy hearing my voice. Both can’t wait ‘til I come home.” But they’ll have to wait a few years. According to the Illinois Department of Corrections, Vance’s projected parole date is not until 2016.

Zilzah Trotter has spent most of his life in prison. At 32, he doesn’t have children of his own, but appreciates the program because it allows him to send books to his nieces.

He chose to sing a book about Jesus that Saturday. “Those are the other children out there that people don’t tend to pay attention to,” Trotter said. The mother of a boy in his family was killed by the child’s father, he said, “I have a place for people like that, that don’t have anybody.”

“When you look at prison on TV, some people get a misconception of what it really is,” said Alex Dawson, assistant warden for programs at Logan Correctional Center. “There are some passionate offenders who made some mistakes but they’re fathers, they’re uncles. This gives them something positive to think about.”

The Storybook Project is one of several programs for fathers the Illinois Department of Corrections makes available to inmates.

At Sheridan Correctional Center, the state’s drug treatment prison, some inmates participate in InsideOut Dad, a program to mentor fathers on how to fulfill that role in a child’s life. Officials implement the National Fatherhood Initiative curriculum, which coaches fathers through the acts of asking their children about their friends, favorite colors and other things.

“The waiting list is extremely long,” said Jessica Witkowski, a family therapist with the Westcare Foundation, which administers the program. About 40 inmates are currently in the 12-week program. At least 100 have completed the program since it was established in 2005, according to officials.

“The only thing you can do is hope and pray that your family can get your children to come out and see you,” said Vance.