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  • Unlocking My Father's Story
  • Deanne Quinn Miller (bio)

I grew up as a child in a little town in Attica, New York, the daughter of a murdered corrections officer. I was five years old at the time, in first grade, when I heard the prison sirens blow shortly after 9:00 a.m. It was a short time after that when our school principle arrived at my classroom doorway and walked me down to the office where I saw my neighbor standing. She was taking my sister and me to my grandparents in Darien. My grandmother said our father had been hurt at work and that my mom was going to see him. I knew my dad worked in the prison, but I could not fathom that that morning before school would be the last time I would see him.

Two days later, on September 11, 1971, our father, William Quinn, died in a Rochester hospital due to injuries he sustained by rioting inmates. My life was forever changed. As I grew older, memories of my dad became harder to recall. Later in life I would learn how childhood trauma affects memory, sometimes creating a wall that blocks recollections, only allowing snapshot-like memories. There are still long spans of my childhood that I cannot unearth from my memory. Sometimes a partial memory is prompted by a photograph or an anecdote from a family member, but many are gone completely. Now, even fifty years later, I still see those early days in fragments.

As the years have passed, I have combined my spotty memories with the few details my family and others shared with me. I knew my connection, but I didn't know my history. Those are two different things. I was the oldest daughter of the first person to die in the Attica riot, but who was I? Who was my dad? I recognized that there was more to know, more to learn, and I could either run from it or search for it.

In my childhood I would sometimes ask my mom or relatives questions about my father, only to receive small bits of information. I'm still not sure if this was an attempt to shield my sisters and me from the truth or if it was instead a form of my family's own selfpreservation. But, after my father's death, his parents rarely spoke about him. My grandparents were strong Irish Catholics, but the death of their son was just too much to bear. I always knew that my questions about my father were sometimes not welcome, too painful for [End Page 35]


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Grandpa's Keys by Cassidy Quinn Miller (charcoal on paper). This drawing depicts three keys to the Attica State Correctional Facility. The keys were recovered on the belt of Corrections Officer William Quinn, who was killed in the line of duty during the initial uprising at Attica in September 1971. The keys were one of the few tangible connections to the uprising available to Officer Quinn's family. Drawn by his granddaughter, the grey cement background represents the outside walls of Attica Prison. The dragonfly symbolizes transformation and adaptability. It appears in people's lives to remind them to embrace lightness and joy. courtesy of cassidy quinn miller

anyone in my family to relive, especially for my mother. I longed to know what my father was like, since my cherished childhood memories continued to fade with each passing day.

I first recall the riot coming up in a social studies class in junior high. I'm not sure if the rest of the country studied the riot—after all this was only eight years later—but I assume we did because of the proximity to the prison and its history. On the occasions when I was able to stay in class and listen to the history lecture on Attica, it was quite different than what I had heard in my home growing up. The riot's anniversary would typically prompt discussions, and at other times in the school year it would come up in the normal curriculum flow. I'd get upset because...

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