IN SUNSHINE STATE, CONDEMNED TO DARKNESS

The heavy doors slam and lock behind me. I am assailed by the
brightness of the sun on this beautiful winter day in Florida. I rush
to my car, eager to put on my sunglasses. You are only allowed to
take one pair of glasses into the facility; when I entered at 7:30
this morning, it was barely light.

I follow my usual routine when leaving. I have been holding back the
tears, so in the safety of my car, I let them flow. Tears for the
grown man in that building, tears for the child he was and will
always be to me.

My son was born into a home with a very young mother, a sister two
years older and a father who left before he turned 1. During
sleepless nights, over and over in my head I play the "what if" game.
What if his father had been there? What if I was home more instead of
working two, sometimes three jobs to make ends meet? What if I had
waited until I was older to have children?

It is in the dark times, and there are many, that I go there, blaming
myself. My son tells me over and over that it was his problem, his
addiction, that I was a wonderful mother. But even though my rational
mind understands that, I will always blame myself for not being able
to save him.

The man I left behind this morning, the man whom the prosecutor and
victim laughed about not seeing daylight until he was 62, is my
child. He is a son, a father, a brother and an uncle. He is not a
worthless piece of trash who deserves to be locked away for the rest
of his life. He is a drug addict who needed help.

It is prevalent now to be tough on crime, to lock them up and throw
away the key. This is how the law that is taking my son away from us
for 30 years came to be. It is called minimum mandatory sentencing.
No time off for good behavior. You must serve every day the judge
sentences you to. Many of these people are addicts.

My son, very likely in a psychotic episode due to methadone
withdrawal, walked into a drugstore and robbed it, with the only
thought in his mind being to end the pain once and for all. I fully
acknowledge the terror and fear the pharmacist must have felt. No one
was physically injured.

While sitting in court waiting for my son's case, the judge gave 30
years to a man who beat an 80-year-old woman nearly to death. In his
next breath he gave my son the same sentence.

I will continue to visit. Inmates are placed as far away from home as
possible to discourage visitation, and it works. Each way is eight
hours, but the drive is not the hardest part. The hardest part is
walking away into the sunshine, knowing that my beautiful little
blond-haired, blue-eyed boy will be an old man and I will probably be
long dead before he has the chance to hear those doors slam behind
him and at long last walk out into the sunlight.