“Show me a man with a tattoo, and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past” – Jack London. (1883).

It took me until age 54 to get my first tattoo, so I had plenty of time to think about what I wanted. I decided to combine several concepts that are important to me: my love of my home State of Wyoming, and my love for my dearly departed father, Pete Fetsco. I also wanted the tattoo to reflect my passion for criminal justice reform. 

Back when I was in undergrad here at the University of Wyoming in the early 1990s, I had noticed several of the football players tattoo their jersey number on their calf, inside of a drawing of Steamboat, the iconic symbol of a thrashing bronc that has always adorned the football helmets. In place of the jersey number, I had my friend Tommy Rivera tattoo my dad’s prison number, 10056. 

Part of why I decided to get a tattoo has to do with my friend Tommy Rivera. I met Tommy back in 2013, when he was still in prison on a First Degree Murder charge. SCOTUS had decided Montgomery v. Alabama in 2012, which ultimately led to Tommy getting paroled. I was so impressed by his story of redemption and commitment to restorative justice that I reached out to him when he was released in 2022, right when I started writing my first book, Cutting Life Short. 

Although Tommy spent 26 years in prison, he never got a tattoo until he was released. Eventually, he got his first tattoo while apprenticing for Trinidad Serrano at TRIBE. I have always felt a great deal of gratitude toward Tommy for sharing his story with me for the book, and I told him that once the book was out, I would get my first tattoo – from him. And it all happened two days ago, on July 1^st. 

I didn’t even know my dad’s prison number until I started researching for Cutting Life Short, when I got a copy of my dad’s prison discharge file. My father led an interesting life, although he never got a tattoo. In the photo at the top, you’ll see a picture of my dad in 1958, posing with then Governor Milward Simpson. My dad had just been elected as Secretary of State at Wyoming Boy’s State. He would later attend West Point, although he did not graduate. He was wounded in Vietnam, and in 1967, was sentenced to prison in Wyoming for the crime of Non-Support. 

Non-support is the same as failure to pay child support. Sometime the 1970s, it was downgraded to a misdemeanor. I recall my dad told me that he could not have fathered the children in question because he was in Vietnam, and he refused to pay. I don’t know if that’s true or not, and perhaps I’ll investigate it further some day. However, it doesn’t matter. The fact that my father was sent to prison with no criminal history, for that crime, is a joke, a travesty.

The Wyoming system of numbering new people coming into prison is somewhat unique. The first inmates sentenced to prison in Wyoming were assigned a number in order of booking, beginning with 1 and so on. Most famously, the celebrated outlaw Butch Cassidy was assigned #187 when he was sentenced for stealing a horse in 1894. Butch would achieve fame after his death, and was immortalized in the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969). In 1967, my father was booked in as the 10,056th man sent to the Wyoming prison system. And in 1996, Tommy was #17990. At the moment, the DOC is issuing numbers in the mid-30,000s, as the count grows almost daily.

Reflecting on this journey, the tattoo I now wear is far more than ink on skin—it is a living testament to the intertwining stories of identity, family, and justice. It commemorates my father’s complex legacy, a man whose life defied easy categorization and whose experiences mirror the contradictions of our criminal justice system.

By incorporating his prison number into a symbol of Wyoming pride, I honor not only his memory but also the complicated history that shaped both of us. My collaboration with Tommy has deepened the meaning of this act, turning a personal milestone into an act of solidarity and gratitude. Tommy’s own transformation from prison to artist is a powerful reminder that redemption and change are possible, even after decades lost to incarceration.

Our shared commitment to restorative justice and to telling the stories that too often go unheard is now etched permanently on my body. As I look at the tattoo, I am reminded that behind every prison number, there is human being with a unique and untold story. This experience has reinforced my dedication to advocating for criminal justice reform and to honoring those—like my father and Tommy—whose lives challenge us to reflect, to question, and to find meaning beyond the numbers. Ultimately, the tattoo stands as an ongoing conversation: between past and present, pain and healing, and the enduring hope for a more just and compassionate future.