By Anthony Casson

I just spoke to my father on the phone–literally 3 minutes ago.

Instead of a strong “Hey, Antonio!”, my dad relayed a message to me via a reader connected to one of my dad’s prison mates: “You’re slacking.”

This is true. I haven’t been logging his 400- to 600-word letters.

All excuses aside, my father is obviously passionate about something, and it seems that “something” is public opinion towards people like him. Rarely does he pass the normal “How are things goin'” type questions.

This article got the ball rolling in legitimate fashion.

Before I continue, I need to say something: Anything my father says is of his own personal opinion and does not necessarily reflect the views or beliefs of my own.

Readers may scoff at that, but they should know I’m a student journalist, and I plan to make it a career. There is no sense getting myself into trouble, and so I write something simple to eliminate potential issues.

He told me today, “This isn’t just about collecting material for a book. This is about showing people what’s happening and changing public opinion.” As a reporter–even if just a sports reporter–it is not my job to persuade people to view something a certain way; I’m not in PR, and I’m NOT a legal activist. My line is drawn. Now readers know.

After a few quick minutes of chatter, we agreed I would finish logging the pile of letters he has already sent me, and I will make the decision whether or not I want to continue.

I’m a storyteller only. I think my dad has an interesting story and can one day write some sort of memoir–the market is saturated, but people want more.

I only hope that a story continues, and that it doesn’t turn into a gotta-fix-society blog–views from an insider. If it does, my time is finished.

Dad, I love you, and I love to help you, but please don’t make this a need-to-exit situation.

By Anthony Casson

I dare not look at the last post date. Painful the feeling of the present; irresponsible the label of the self.

Obviously there exists no hint of storytelling of my father’s life behind bars, and that is all on me. It’s a strange feeling today, realizing that my dad is gone for a few years, and I’ve done very little to keep his presence afloat in our hustling, bustling lives. In my defense, however, there is far more going on than any of you can know.

No longer am I constantly burdened with the painful reality that my dad is on a “trip”. Well, maybe not “no longer”; perhaps the better thing to say is that I’m desensitized to the whole situation–a far cry from my post weeks and weeks ago.

The reality of my parent dilemma is simple: prior to my dad’s arrest, he was away in Florida for a few years–distant and without much opportunity to chat–and I lived in the Northwest; after my dad’s arrest, I still live in the Northwest, and I still experience enormous lengths of time without speaking to him. They (my parents) were confident about communication staying open when they forced me to leave Texas in 8th grade for Washington–funny…it seems the kid was right all along; communication sucked well before all of this legal nonsense.

Next to my laptop lies a stack of letters from my father–ones for the blog and one marked for my eyes only (father to son). Am I in a hurry to re-purpose the letters for your viewing pleasure? Nope. Am I a lazy person? Now THAT is hilarious!

I blame my lack of posting on college, women, career planning and my obvious lack of intensified interest.

I’m a very passionate person–when I find something I really enjoy, I put everything into it. It’s then only logical that I must not have a burning desire to constantly add my father’s stories. All he can do is write and hope I’ll post them. Prisoners, remember, do not have rights; that includes having a personal blog.

This story is unique, interesting, intriguing, and all the other things required to draw readers closer. I love to write for my father, but only sometimes. When your career focuses solely on being a writer, it’s difficult to squeeze in more time to put words together for someone else (even if that person is your father).

What exactly is the POINT of this post? I honestly cannot say. Maybe I’m frustrated, irritated, tired, and I’m trying to express that to you. Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to slice open another white envelope and type the words as I read them from my father’s letter.

Everything you have read, and everything you will read on this blog isn’t easy to produce. There should be no hurry, though. We’ve got 4 years to kill…

Spring evenings in Corvallis, Oregon, can sometimes direct my thinking towards more emotional states of being…admittedly, a breeze diffuses throughout my small, college-style apartment, and I’ve already entered a somewhat depressing mental abyss.

Missing your father, at least if you’re like me and that figure represents someone more than the one who helped conceive you, is a lot like losing your baby blanket.

The warmth of its presence helps bring your mind to relaxation; its “security” wraps you in a comfortable dream—and with short warning, if any, it’s gone.

It’s rare I write on such occasions—the ones when I could care less what people think of me, and all I need to do is say what’s attached to the forefront of my mind, my heart. Please, don’t get used to it.

But I feel no less compelled to continue. The expressing is far too addicting… Continue reading “Occasional breakdown” →

By Anthony Casson

I’ve watched the blog views oscillate the past few weeks based on posts. Because readership is growing (steadily), I want to get your input.

There’s nothing I hate more than throwing stuff out there blindfolded!

And, please, feel free to add comments regarding the blog itself; the more input, the better (that includes aesthetics…).

To non-family readers, thank you for your interest! My dad loves it.