When the clock strikes
by Carlos Gonzalez
The Grand Hall is stale with the colors of white and grey. It’s missing its chandelier. A microwavable feast is laid out in front of us on the plastic see-through table, hot and ready for my father's arrival. I know the drill, so I bring the checkers, chess, and playing cards from the desk along the wall. Behind it stands a tall and burly blonde haired woman whose face is wrinkled by what seems to be a lifetime of discontent. Next to her stands an equally menacing-looking male counterpart. Both wear shades, I think to protect me from the power of their gaze. I know it’s rude to stare, but I can’t stop looking, trying to see behind their reflective lenses.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 1
My father emerges from a room hidden in plain sight, the door camouflaged against the white wall with no frame. His uniform is different from mine. I wear a white button up with a clip-on tie and corduroys, a black belt and black shoes. His looks a lot like the janitor's at my school. He wears a jumpsuit, but instead of dark blue, my father's is light brown and, instead of a name-tag he has numbers sewn to his jumpsuit.
A paralyzing fear blocks the signals traveling through my spine every time I think of college for this exact reason. Why would someone voluntarily live in a place like this? Why would anyone want to go to college if this is what it’s like here? I mean, with the scary security guards, all the security checks and the restrictions! So many restrictions…And every student looks so sad all the time. They also look much older than what I thought college people were supposed to look like. And why are there only men at this college? I thought women were allowed to go to college, too. I guess the fact that women aren’t allowed to study here explains why my mom doesn’t go to college. Still, she’s always stressing its importance, telling me and my sister that we have to go one day, too. I wonder if Vanessa is as freaked out about this as I am. I wonder if she’ll ever go; I know for a fact that if my mother did study here she would certainly put potted plants around the room to add some life to the the Grand Hall.
After all the fear and questions settle, I feel a blinding sadness at the thought that my father would prefer to stay here rather than come home with us. I look around at his classmates and see men crippled by age, glaring into the faces of their beloveds trying to look present. Sometimes I catch the same expression on my father's face when I talk to him. His eyes are fixed on me the whole time, but it's hard to tell where his mind has wandered. I like to think it’s because he notices how much I’ve changed since he’s last seen me in person. I mean I’m practically almost 8 now, and it’s been awhile since my last visit. College takes a long time, I guess. This must be hard on him too. I look up to him for having the strength to pursue his dreams even though it means being so far from his family. I hope I have that kind of strength one day, too.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 4
My father asks me if I would like to go to the playroom with all the other kids. In there, flowers are painted on the walls and a TV hangs up in the top corner of the room. The kids in there stare at it, quietly; it makes the children its prisoners. No, I refuse to travel 10 hours in an overcrowded van to spend time with my father only to be held captive by someone's mediocre attempt at fun. Besides, I’m old enough to stay here and be a part of the grown up conversation. I understand what everyone is saying… most of the time… some of the time. Maybe I should see what’s on TV…
No, I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 6
My father and I have a game of chess. To my surprise, I beat him. The next game he beats me in less than 10 moves. He explains that a foolish man will show all his cards the first time around, and a patient man will exploit them the next time around... Since when are cards used in chess? This must be the type of things he learns in here; I’m starting to see why my ma says school is so important now. Anyway,I refuse to be the foolish man when we play again. I’ll be smart, too, I think, like my dad.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 7.
Roll Call! My father lines up with the rest of his classmates. One by one their names are called. They walk up to the desk along the wall; , each walk is different. Some are fast; some are slow; my father's is proud, at least, it seems to be. I always heard he had difficulty expressing any emotions other than pride and anger, both of which he expressed very well. "You are a Gonzalez," his voice echoes in the farthest corner of my mind whenever I feel scared. He recites his numbers to the scary blond woman and walks back to us. If you’re proud, no one can take anything away from you, my father has shown me.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 8
Everyone is tired. The conversations hold little volume. He must have seen our expressions of defeat as we tried to come up with things to share with him. He tells us it’s time to go and not to let too much time pass before our next visit. He turns to me and says, "Take care of your mother and sister. Daddy has to go now." I know I should do what he says, but I start to panic.
"Why?” I explosively whine. “Why can't you just come with us? It's only school; you can take a few days off."
"Hijo, cuando tu creces entiendaras porque es que no me puedo ir contigo, yo solamente espero que no me odies.".
Growing up with a Colombian mother ensures my understanding of the words coming off his tongue with rehearsed execution;
I just don’t understand why he’s saying these words. I’m proud of my father; why would he think I will hate him one day?
He says his goodbyes and takes his slow, proud trek back to the door hidden in plain sight, looking back at us every few steps. His face looks more agonized than the last time. I look up to see my mother and sister's eyes pink with the pain of absence. I rarely see them cry. We rarely ever see him. That’s when they cry, when we see him. But I try not to cry. Dad never cries.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 8:05
He's waiting outside the camouflaged door leading to places unknown to me. We're waiting near it, about 50 feet away, leading to the brisk air of higher altitudes, when I'm blinded by watery sadness; I can’t help it. I can't remember much of the time we had before the Grand Hall days, but this unshakable sense of attachment has its white-knuckled grip around my father and me. My throat swells and my legs fill with restlessness. His door opens and it’s time for him to go back to class, I know. I know I have to let him go, but I can’t. I just can’t. I run to him, showing him I'm not ready to be the man of the house yet; I’m not ready to take care of my mom and sister like he said. I run, showing my father that I am not ready to leave without him, not ready to do the things he needs me to do. I crash, into his chest where underneath I hear lungs searching for the brisk air. I crash, into his arms where strength meets tenderness. I crash, into a broken man embracing his broken son.
But then he says I have to go. Have to be strong and proud. I have to be a Gonzalez.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 8:15
We are finally past the last security checkpoint. My head hangs low as we reach the final door leading outside. My legs feel heavy, and the square, rubber-interlaced mat on the floor right in front of the door slows them down before it brings them to a complete halt. This is always the first mat that greets me when I come and the last to say goodbye when I leave, yet this time, it looks different. I guess I was never smart enough to notice it before. Well, I’m a lot wiser now, like I said, I’m almost 8 and I know how to read now, so I take a second to absorb the letters. I see a black border and inside, the color grey takes up most of the mat. A bald eagle spreads its wings in the middle; it holds a stem in one talon and a scroll in the other; a crest surrounds it and on the bottom are the letters. I sound out, “Fed---“Fed---Federal Correct—Correct. Correctional Facility," I somehow figure out. I’m not quite sure what that is, but somehow, I know it’s not school. Somehow, I suddenly know that my entire life has been a lie. I crash, onto my knees—onto the words, onto the mat filled with the knowledge that everything. Everything has been a lie.
“SCHOOL? This isn’t a school!” I yell, as I’m dragged out by my arm and into the brisk air of freedom. In the parking lot, I keep screaming.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
Ten years later, the clock strikes 12:14 AM
I run passed the Mandarin Oriental on my way to my first day at John Jay College of Criminal Justice and see a man emerge from a door camouflaged as a wall. He’s taking a cigarette break, and he looks both proud and bleak, but he is not my father.
I walk into the school, no mat on the floor to slow down my pace, which is good, since I’m late, and I approach the security desk to explain that I don’t have an ID yet. She is nice; there is no menacing blond demanding my identification number or grilling me though her shades, like I’d always imagine there would be.
I hurry up to get to class on time and find myself waiting outside the door. The paralyzing fear that blocked the signals traveling through my spine all those years ago has suddenly struck again; it’s stopping me from walking through the door, into my class, into my seat, into my next big stage of my life. I take a deep breath as everything I felt that day so many years back hits me—hard—like an express train. The next stop is the psych ward where Carlos is admitted for having a nervous breakdown before entering his first college class, I hear inside my head as I continue to wait outside, physically unable to take the next steps inside. But then, then I hear an even louder voice. “You are a Gonzalez,” it booms. And suddenly, I find strength. I find the strength to step forward, the strength to start college, and the strength to remind myself that…
I refuse to be my father.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 1
My father emerges from a room hidden in plain sight, the door camouflaged against the white wall with no frame. His uniform is different from mine. I wear a white button up with a clip-on tie and corduroys, a black belt and black shoes. His looks a lot like the janitor's at my school. He wears a jumpsuit, but instead of dark blue, my father's is light brown and, instead of a name-tag he has numbers sewn to his jumpsuit.
A paralyzing fear blocks the signals traveling through my spine every time I think of college for this exact reason. Why would someone voluntarily live in a place like this? Why would anyone want to go to college if this is what it’s like here? I mean, with the scary security guards, all the security checks and the restrictions! So many restrictions…And every student looks so sad all the time. They also look much older than what I thought college people were supposed to look like. And why are there only men at this college? I thought women were allowed to go to college, too. I guess the fact that women aren’t allowed to study here explains why my mom doesn’t go to college. Still, she’s always stressing its importance, telling me and my sister that we have to go one day, too. I wonder if Vanessa is as freaked out about this as I am. I wonder if she’ll ever go; I know for a fact that if my mother did study here she would certainly put potted plants around the room to add some life to the the Grand Hall.
After all the fear and questions settle, I feel a blinding sadness at the thought that my father would prefer to stay here rather than come home with us. I look around at his classmates and see men crippled by age, glaring into the faces of their beloveds trying to look present. Sometimes I catch the same expression on my father's face when I talk to him. His eyes are fixed on me the whole time, but it's hard to tell where his mind has wandered. I like to think it’s because he notices how much I’ve changed since he’s last seen me in person. I mean I’m practically almost 8 now, and it’s been awhile since my last visit. College takes a long time, I guess. This must be hard on him too. I look up to him for having the strength to pursue his dreams even though it means being so far from his family. I hope I have that kind of strength one day, too.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 4
My father asks me if I would like to go to the playroom with all the other kids. In there, flowers are painted on the walls and a TV hangs up in the top corner of the room. The kids in there stare at it, quietly; it makes the children its prisoners. No, I refuse to travel 10 hours in an overcrowded van to spend time with my father only to be held captive by someone's mediocre attempt at fun. Besides, I’m old enough to stay here and be a part of the grown up conversation. I understand what everyone is saying… most of the time… some of the time. Maybe I should see what’s on TV…
No, I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 6
My father and I have a game of chess. To my surprise, I beat him. The next game he beats me in less than 10 moves. He explains that a foolish man will show all his cards the first time around, and a patient man will exploit them the next time around... Since when are cards used in chess? This must be the type of things he learns in here; I’m starting to see why my ma says school is so important now. Anyway,I refuse to be the foolish man when we play again. I’ll be smart, too, I think, like my dad.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 7.
Roll Call! My father lines up with the rest of his classmates. One by one their names are called. They walk up to the desk along the wall; , each walk is different. Some are fast; some are slow; my father's is proud, at least, it seems to be. I always heard he had difficulty expressing any emotions other than pride and anger, both of which he expressed very well. "You are a Gonzalez," his voice echoes in the farthest corner of my mind whenever I feel scared. He recites his numbers to the scary blond woman and walks back to us. If you’re proud, no one can take anything away from you, my father has shown me.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 8
Everyone is tired. The conversations hold little volume. He must have seen our expressions of defeat as we tried to come up with things to share with him. He tells us it’s time to go and not to let too much time pass before our next visit. He turns to me and says, "Take care of your mother and sister. Daddy has to go now." I know I should do what he says, but I start to panic.
"Why?” I explosively whine. “Why can't you just come with us? It's only school; you can take a few days off."
"Hijo, cuando tu creces entiendaras porque es que no me puedo ir contigo, yo solamente espero que no me odies.".
Growing up with a Colombian mother ensures my understanding of the words coming off his tongue with rehearsed execution;
I just don’t understand why he’s saying these words. I’m proud of my father; why would he think I will hate him one day?
He says his goodbyes and takes his slow, proud trek back to the door hidden in plain sight, looking back at us every few steps. His face looks more agonized than the last time. I look up to see my mother and sister's eyes pink with the pain of absence. I rarely see them cry. We rarely ever see him. That’s when they cry, when we see him. But I try not to cry. Dad never cries.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 8:05
He's waiting outside the camouflaged door leading to places unknown to me. We're waiting near it, about 50 feet away, leading to the brisk air of higher altitudes, when I'm blinded by watery sadness; I can’t help it. I can't remember much of the time we had before the Grand Hall days, but this unshakable sense of attachment has its white-knuckled grip around my father and me. My throat swells and my legs fill with restlessness. His door opens and it’s time for him to go back to class, I know. I know I have to let him go, but I can’t. I just can’t. I run to him, showing him I'm not ready to be the man of the house yet; I’m not ready to take care of my mom and sister like he said. I run, showing my father that I am not ready to leave without him, not ready to do the things he needs me to do. I crash, into his chest where underneath I hear lungs searching for the brisk air. I crash, into his arms where strength meets tenderness. I crash, into a broken man embracing his broken son.
But then he says I have to go. Have to be strong and proud. I have to be a Gonzalez.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
The clock strikes 8:15
We are finally past the last security checkpoint. My head hangs low as we reach the final door leading outside. My legs feel heavy, and the square, rubber-interlaced mat on the floor right in front of the door slows them down before it brings them to a complete halt. This is always the first mat that greets me when I come and the last to say goodbye when I leave, yet this time, it looks different. I guess I was never smart enough to notice it before. Well, I’m a lot wiser now, like I said, I’m almost 8 and I know how to read now, so I take a second to absorb the letters. I see a black border and inside, the color grey takes up most of the mat. A bald eagle spreads its wings in the middle; it holds a stem in one talon and a scroll in the other; a crest surrounds it and on the bottom are the letters. I sound out, “Fed---“Fed---Federal Correct—Correct. Correctional Facility," I somehow figure out. I’m not quite sure what that is, but somehow, I know it’s not school. Somehow, I suddenly know that my entire life has been a lie. I crash, onto my knees—onto the words, onto the mat filled with the knowledge that everything. Everything has been a lie.
“SCHOOL? This isn’t a school!” I yell, as I’m dragged out by my arm and into the brisk air of freedom. In the parking lot, I keep screaming.
I refuse to be a prisoner.
Ten years later, the clock strikes 12:14 AM
I run passed the Mandarin Oriental on my way to my first day at John Jay College of Criminal Justice and see a man emerge from a door camouflaged as a wall. He’s taking a cigarette break, and he looks both proud and bleak, but he is not my father.
I walk into the school, no mat on the floor to slow down my pace, which is good, since I’m late, and I approach the security desk to explain that I don’t have an ID yet. She is nice; there is no menacing blond demanding my identification number or grilling me though her shades, like I’d always imagine there would be.
I hurry up to get to class on time and find myself waiting outside the door. The paralyzing fear that blocked the signals traveling through my spine all those years ago has suddenly struck again; it’s stopping me from walking through the door, into my class, into my seat, into my next big stage of my life. I take a deep breath as everything I felt that day so many years back hits me—hard—like an express train. The next stop is the psych ward where Carlos is admitted for having a nervous breakdown before entering his first college class, I hear inside my head as I continue to wait outside, physically unable to take the next steps inside. But then, then I hear an even louder voice. “You are a Gonzalez,” it booms. And suddenly, I find strength. I find the strength to step forward, the strength to start college, and the strength to remind myself that…
I refuse to be my father.
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