When I was just 3 years old, my father, Gasi Pitter, was sentenced to 40 years in prison at the Illinois Department of Corrections.
I still remember my first visit four years later when I was 7 — how I reached out to give him a hug, only to be stopped by a correctional officer who said, “Hugs are not allowed.” That moment is etched into my memory. Sitting across a cold, vinyl table from my father, trying not to cry, I realized this was our new normal.
We lived in two separate realities during my visits: to me, his name was Daddy; to the correctional officer, he had no name, only a number. I could leave, he had to stay. Sometimes, I’d start to say, “I love —" and before I could finish “you,” it was already time to go.
I want the world to understand that loving someone who is incarcerated means loving beyond the physical barriers of prison walls. It is a kind of love that stretches across concrete and wire, reaching places untouched by the material world.
On my bedside table sits a pink woven basket filled with crinkled white legal pad paper, handmade cardboard birthday cards and pieces of card stock decorated with painted butterflies and sketched portraits. There’s even a card that changes images when you pull a tab of paper that sticks out from the side. This small museum of memories has been here for 25 years. Through letters, phone calls, shared books and deep conversations, we’ve built a love that extends beyond confinement.
My father is not perfect. His choices led him to where he is today. But to me, he is the most caring, intuitive, intelligent and strong person I know. Even though he’s confined at Dixon Correctional Center, he remains my best friend. The last time we spoke, we spent the whole conversation talking about our favorite book, “The Water Dancer” by Ta-Nehisi Coates. We discussed the importance of memories — the ones we want to create when he gets home, and the ones we choose to run away from. By the end of the call, we gave each other an assignment: to write a journal entry about what kind of growth is needed now in order to create better memories in the future.
To love my father has meant we carry his sentence together. It has meant giving up certain dreams — like learning to ride a bike with his hands steadying me, or driving for the first time with his voice guiding me from the passenger seat. But what we do have is a choice: to be strong for each other, hold space for healing and growth and make better decisions.
To my dad, I want to say: I love you for who you are. I love your imperfections, your strength and your vulnerability. I love you for keeping a crown on your head even when the world insists you never deserved it. I love you for your commitment to growth — for reflecting, healing, meditating, praying, fasting, mentoring others and choosing every day to become a better version of yourself. Your younger self would be so proud of the man you’ve become.
The truth is, Dad, life is about choices. Although your past choices led to your incarceration, your ongoing choices — the ones rooted in growth and love — are what will ultimately set you free.
Thank you for being the best friend a daughter could ask for, for showing me that life is about learning and for always encouraging me to find my inner power. Thank you for not giving up. I see you. I appreciate you. I am constantly learning from you. I love you.
I hope you have a great Father’s Day this weekend.
To others, like me, who are navigating life with a parent behind bars I know all too well, our stories often go unheard. That’s why I’m proud to lead the launch of Families Against Mandatory Minimums’ new storytelling campaign, Children with Incarcerated Parents.
I would love to hear the stories of other children who are system-impacted. Feel free to reach out and share by emailing me at apitter@famm.org.
Evanston native Alexia Pitter is a member of the Family Outreach and Storytelling team at the nonprofit Families Against Mandatory Minimums. The Howard University graduate resides in Maryland where she is currently enrolled in a master’s program in clinical mental health counseling at Johns Hopkins University.
A version of this essay will also air on WBEZ’s “Prisoncast!,” a statewide radio show for people incarcerated in Illinois and their families. Listen from 2-4 p.m. this Sunday on 91.5 FM.
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