Lancaster County Jail Narrative

I hunched over my desk, eyes scrutinizing the thorough biology notes, when our house phone rang. Immediately, a machine asked “Would you like to accept Carlos Carrillo’s phone call from the Lancaster County Prison?”. Wide-eyed, I recognized my father’s name, accepted the call and handed the phone to my sister. Already panicked at having the prison call our home, she hung up with a face displaying utter perturbation.

“What happened? Why did they say Dad’s name?”

My father had been arrested. That night, after years of being told not to show weakness, I lay next to my mother and fell asleep to her muffled sobs. The next day, I learned that my father had violated his probation by not participating in his psychology meetings, “a rehab for rapists and sexual predators”. My father had not been able to contribute gruesome details of sexual abuse, as he had been falsely accused. However, this is not his story or a cry for criminal justice reform; it is the reality I faced which allowed me to grow from frightened child into brave young adult.

The following week, in the spring of my sophomore year of high school, I received an F on the biology test I took time to prepare for: the test interrupted

In the gritty green visitation room I sat across him for the first time in a month when a prison guard barked that I was not to hug my father. We all pretended nothing was wrong, until my father callously made a rude remark to my mother. I was resigned yet disappointed; I had really believed jail may have enlightened him to his boorish behavior. Perhaps it was in this moment that I separated my situation from his; I had been incarcerating myself. The next day I mustered all of the hope I could, revealing bloodshot eyes as I asked my teacher if I could retake my tests. She agreed: “I never expected anything less from you.” Choosing to study rather than sleep, I managed to ace each test I