Daddy's day at Tower Street

Mel Cooke, Gleaner Writer

THERE IS a pause in the flow of visitors from the sports ground to the Brickyard along Tower Street, as water pours from the sky in the mid-afternoon on Friday. Gusts of wind make the blue tarpaulin over the prisoner/visitor meeting area strain at its anchors, a wobbly basketball hoop doing sterling duty in keeping the water-laden covering from flopping onto the brown folding metal chairs below.

The rain eases and preparations are hastily made at the heavily guarded area to host the next batch of visitors of about 20 inmates. The chairs are wiped off and arranged in triangular trios, inward facing for best eye contact, and three backdrops against which family pictures are to be taken.

And the prisoners appear, the location of the tunnel from the Tower Street Adult Correctional Centre still a mystery to The Sunday Gleaner, the men having obviously paid painstaking attention to their appearance. There are quite a few white jeans, and even shoes, their hair is well groomed and, as they eagerly choose a seat and sit to listen to a warder's instructions, (including not to have their big daughters sit in their laps), many clutch evidence of preparation of another sort.

A dreadlocked man counts sweets in gold wrappers over and over again; another man has four dripping-cold drinks, and a plastic bag with snacks at the ready.

Hugs and a kiss

The visitors - children and adults - make their way up the driveway from the high, full metal gate, which stands between the Brickyard and Tower Street. There is a rush as they spot the person they are coming to and a flurry of settling in. "Whe Shaggy deh?", one woman demands. "Kiss you madda!", another woman instructs. One inmate squeezes in a full-blown kiss, tongue and all, with his lady, while a large, loud woman announces to all that she is with her "one son. Is once a year I come from New York to see him." Some sons are taller than their father, some babies are so young they will have no recollection of Children's Day 2010.

Memories are committed to megapixels in short order, as families take pictures against the available backdrops. The kisser, along with a young man who appears to be their son, suspends the woman between them, her hands draped over their shoulders and feet towards the camera.

There seems to be some degree of familiarity among some of the regulars. "Jerks, a yu family dis?", one inmate asks another, who confirms, "a mi ol' lady." Large and loud from New York tells an inmate, "Ricky, come tek a picture wid me."

Tears and goodbyes

A warder gives the seven-minute warning, and all too quickly, the 15 minutes of contact time are up. The visitors are asked to stand while the inmates remain seated, then the prisoners are instructed to stand also and gather to one side, while the visitors go. The only audible crying is from 12-year-old Tamara, Anthony Taylor's elder daughter, although he says there are times when it is 11-year-old Kamoy who lets the tears flow.

Alwin Stone has to literally look up to his 14-year-old son, Akeeno, The Sunday Gleaner noticing the height difference between the two earlier, as they hugged. This is the teenager's third Christmas visit to his father, who says that, "when he came earlier, this year, he was a bit taller than me." Now the difference is appreciable.

"I look forward to it every year," the elder Stone said. "It give me a sense, a feeling, to interact with him. It give me a chance to relate to him. When he comes, he is sad at times. He does not relate to me much. He is introverted and does not relate to me that much."

Akeeno tells The Sunday Gleaner that he misses his father at home, but when he is with him, "is just that some people express them feeling but me keep it to myself. When me by myself, me cry. Me no like talk bout it."

And Nadine, who accompanied Akeeno on the Children's Day visit, says with Akeeno, "everything is all about daddy". That includes hooking up speakers to the television and saying "this is how Daddy used to do it." The Sunday Gleaner asks her who makes a better system, father or son, and Nadine laughs, refusing to judge between their efforts.

The Sunday Gleaner asks Alwin what he misses most about Akeeno, and he says, "when I come home from work in the evening, he is always there to help me take off my shoes." Alwin is slated to finish his sentence in three years, when Akeeno is 17. The Sunday Gleaner asks him if he will still help his father take off his shoes, and with a smile, he shrugs.

Tamara's tears have dried up, but she is still sniffling, Taylor holding both his daughters, when she tells The Sunday Gleaner that she misses going around with her father. So does Kamoy and the sisters' favourite stop with Daddy was at Kool Runnings Water Park in Negril.

Taylor is in the third year of his sentence, and has two more years to go, although he will get out earlier if his appeal is successful. "When I was out there, we had a lot of fun times. In the last year,we did not live together, but in the holiday, I look forward to them spending time with me," he said.

His strongest memory of his daughters comes from a beach trip they made together.

And, looking forward to his release, Taylor said there are so many things he looks forward to doing with his children. "I just want to go out and try to fill that gap that is there. First of all, trying to help them with their schoolwork, take them to places they dream to go, and have fun with them," he said.

Marcia, who accompanied the children to see their father - she says "no family member is available" - says that Taylor manages to generate income for his children from behind bars, through his matchstick creations, which she takes from him and sells. She said when Tamara and Kamoy were coming to Children's Day at the Tower Street Adult Correctional Centre on Friday, they asked her if they will be coming back next year.

And Marcia replied: "Pray that you don't have to come back."

• 'My kids always bring Christmas cheer'

Also playing the music at the Brickyard is Michael Williams. He has been at Tower Street for five Christmases and is slated for five more, although he is eligible for parole next year. He scans the crowd at the sports ground occasionally, and wonders why his two sons - 17-year-old Avel and 13-year-old Xavier - have not yet arrived. He is not expecting his 12-year-old daughter, Micashay, this time around.

"My kids are always there," he said. "They are on their way now."

Williams says every time he sees his children, there are changes apart from the obvious physical ones.

"The reasoning ability change. They are more inquisitive. They tend to ask a lot of pertinent questions, which I openly speak to them about. They are asking like, when I will be able to leave this place," he said.

He smiles as he says they give him stern counselling, but is sombre as he speaks about their reaction to seeing him as an inmate.

Initially, they were extremely emotional, but Williams says, "over time I would not say they have got immune, but they get stronger to the emotional side."

Not so strong that they do not hug their father, though.

He says, "Xavier tends to be the more emotional one where all of this is concerned. It is kind of holding him back. It is not that he is rebellious or of a lethargic attitude, but stubborn in a sense."

When they visit, he says, "I make them feel welcome and still loved. If I have to bring across a point based on discipline, I try to be reassuring but firm."

Williams says he was separated from his wife, who was abroad, and was a single father, the children now living with their mother's relatives. He believes the pre-incarceration bond, along with his military background, has helped him maintain good standing with his children.

"The respect is still there. Straight up 'Daddy' or 'Dads'," Williams said.