Enrique Bautista describes the highs and lows of celebrating Christmas while incarcerated
Christmas was my favorite holiday growing up.
It was natural for me, as a little kid who still believed in Santa Claus, to feel “the Christmas spirit.”
The merriment of those days and the joy that only the innocence of a child can truly express were things that I anxiously waited for all year long. To me, the prospect of a few presents under the beautifully decorated Christmas tree in our living room and the anticipation of discovering what Santa brought us was enough to make me the first to go to bed on Christmas Eve, so tomorrow “would get here faster.” Shockingly enough, those were the very same things that kept me up all night, but I was happy and equally excited.
That little boy who loved Christmas has been gone for a long time. I continue to hope for tomorrow to get here faster, but now it is so that I can complete my prison sentence, and be free to be with my family. Those thoughts alone have been the only thing keeping my heart warm on the coldest of December nights here in the penitentiary for almost two decades.
I had stopped believing in the Christmas spirit and there was no joy anywhere in sight and all the things about the holidays that used to make me happy as a kid became nothing more than old memories from another lifetime, from another world. I just didn’t believe in Christmas anymore. This year will be my 19th Christmas in this place, away from my family and away from everything that ever made this time of year so special and magical to me.
As a child, the Christmas tree was always the main attraction in my happy little bubble. Everything about it, the shiny ornaments, the blinking little lights, all the colors and particularly the smell of pine. Setting it up with my mother and two little sisters became a thing for us every year. I was the man of the house so it naturally fell on me to set the big sparkly star at the very top of the tree once everything else was in place. “The final touch,” my mother would say with that look in her eyes that let me know she knew how special and important she was making me feel. To reciprocate, I would help her out in the kitchen and although I always did anyway, this was different, this was Christmas. When it snowed outside, my sisters and I would sit by the window and watch as the snow covered the whole world with a soft, white blanket.
I remember looking into the clouds, trying to figure out where the snow was coming from: “Was Santa up there? Was there a secret little door somewhere?” I wondered. I wondered why not a single falling snowflake looked like the ones on the greeting cards they sold at the store, but my conclusion was always the same, it was just magic. The magic of Christmas. My sisters and I would play in the snow, competing against each other to see who could make the perfect snow angel. Then, together we’d build the biggest snowman in our small backyard.
Those were the good old days and I relished every single moment because deep down I knew they wouldn’t last forever, and they didn’t.
I took a photo at my mother’s house in 2001, it was Christmas and I was 17-years-old. I had my own place at the time, but mom’s house was still the home base and Christmas was still magical to me. It was still my favorite time of year, but at that point, it wasn’t something that I’d boast about. In my head, I was already a man and the fact that I was holding my 5-month-old baby, and her mother, my then 17-year-old girlfriend, was sitting next to me confirmed that. By then I had a little 4-year-old brother as well and my little sisters weren’t so little anymore, one of them had a baby of her own. Our family was growing and my mother was happy to see it and to have all of us there. Needless to say, I was extremely happy for her and my little baby girl. In my mind’s eye, I could see her growing up spending every Christmas like this, surrounded by presents, food and family. But, that was the first and the last time we celebrated together as a family.
"My daughter’s letters to Santa went from scribbles in purple crayon to detailed, well thought out requests for Hannah Montana CDs or a Barbie dream house and requests for me to get out of prison so we could be a family again."
Just a few months later those precious mental images evaporated from my consciousness seemingly overnight and in that same breath a new tradition began: Christmas alone for the three of us. The first Christmas away from each other was the hardest, I was in the county jail facing up to 30 years in prison. A tough pill to swallow by all means but I had to make myself appear strong, for myself and my family. They were there to visit, my little girl in her mother’s arms in the dirty little visiting stall with handprints on the glass from prior visitors whose despair left behind I could almost feel, but seeing my family in their bright red Santa hats made my day. I tried to hold my head up high to seem confident in front of them, to make them feel better, but inside, I was a wreck. I was broken and defeated. I had failed them and our new normal was my fault.
Every year was the same, they were there for me. We never quite got used to being separated or to living like this but over time it all became more manageable. Every Christmas, I got flooded with photos, beautiful greeting cards and letters but the visits were the best part, with each hug I could feel a little bit of what I used to have. My daughter’s letters to Santa went from scribbles in purple crayon to detailed, well thought out requests for Hannah Montana CDs or a Barbie dream house and requests for me to get out of prison so we could be a family again. I couldn’t make that last part happen, but I did my best to get her whatever she wanted. Well, whatever she asked of Santa, of course.
I remember saving my money for months which I would then mail to my mother so she could buy the presents and deliver them for me. I used to make $32 a month wiping tables or in the serving line at the chow hall. One of the guys in my cell block told me to go to the chapel and ask for an Angel Tree form. I didn’t know what that was and I had no interest in going to church, but for my daughter, I will always do anything. I went to church on a Sunday and I got an Angel Tree form for the next 12 years. She received Christmas presents from me every year, but I never knew exactly how or why anyone would do something like that for me.
Eventually, I found out that Angel Tree is the prison fellowship that equips local churches through donations and volunteer work along with the power of the Gospel so the Christmas presents can be delivered to children on behalf of their incarcerated parents.
This alone helped me see things a little clearer. Slowly but surely my view on Christmas behind bars began to change for the better. Whatever special items they sold to us in the canteen for the holidays or whatever special meal they gave to us in the chow hall held no interest to me, although I was grateful for those things. It was the spirit of Christmas that slowly resurfaced and truly changed my heart in the past few years.
In the visiting room, one can feel happiness all around the Christmas tree that serves as a backdrop for families to take photos together. It makes me smile again; the activities sometimes held by some of the clubs here at OSP drew my daughter and me closer together. Decorating cookies or making Christmas stockings or Santa hats, sharing food and hugs and singing Christmas carols with the rest of the visitors were some things that I had not done since I was a child.
Imagine this tatted-up gangster wearing elf ears and singing Rudolph-The-Red-Nosed-Reindeer. As long as it made my wife and my daughter happy, I didn’t care. It didn’t matter to me. To this day we talk about those times and we laugh and joke and we plan for the future together. My 20-something-year-old daughter will often tell me she wishes she could remember the first Christmas together so long ago but it’s impossible. I do the next best thing: I tell her that I love her and that soon we will be spending every Christmas together with her, her mother and I.
I am currently in the process of filing for clemency with the governor’s office and things are looking good for me. I may be out next year just in time for the holidays. I am ready, I have become a better man in here, but inside a little piece of me still feels like that little boy who loved Christmas so long ago. When my adult daughter jokingly tells me that she knows what she’ll ask Santa for this year, I can’t help but smile and think of the magic of Christmas.
I will be her present and my family and my freedom will be mine.
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