At five years old, I was introduced to the criminal justice system when my father was sent to prison. Until that moment, he had been my world. He was tall, black, strong, and caring—my protector. For the next 10 years, I would see my daddy only in a cage. The long drive with my grandmother to the “castle”—what I called Attica Correctional Facility in upstate New York—would become a familiar routine.