Theodore R Crews

1947 - 2020
My father Theodore "Cigo" Crews was born February 8, 1947, in Oklahoma. A deaf child with a genius IQ born into a hearing family, his early years were spent without adequate access to language. At age four, he was sent to live and study at the Oklahoma School for the Deaf until he graduated.

Dad was wildly popular thanks to his athletic prowess, knack for storytelling and wicked sense of humor. Toss in excessive good looks and he could charm the skin off a snake.

An engineering savant, Dad excelled as a construction worker and served as a foreman-remarkable for a deaf man in the 1970s. He single-handedly developed a plot of land providing running water, plumbing and electricity for his family.

I could write a book about my father's life, but I already did. In 2012, Random House published Burn Down The Ground: A Memoir in which I came to terms with my love for an imperfect man who spent the last eighteen years of his life as a prison inmate.

Telling our story helped Dad come to terms with his past. "Bad behavior is the language of the wounded," I told him. We worked on healing.

Generous with affection, he lavished hugs, kisses and declarations of love. He was a voracious reader, gifted artist and knowledgeable about a breathtaking scope of topics. When inmates needed to settle disputes on random bits of trivia, they knew where to turn.

"Let's go to Cigo University," they'd say.

An advocate for inmates' rights, Dad earned the moniker "Warrior for the Deaf". He helped read and write court filings for the illiterate. He was quoted in a Marshall Project article exposing dangerous and inadequate prison food conditions during the pandemic.

In a cruel twist, Dad was approved for parole but remained inside as COVID-19 raged. He planned on retiring in the foothills of New York's Catskill Mountains. Like a deaf Rip Van Winkle, Dad would awaken in a world of videophones, live captioning and A.I. translators.

He'd taught me how to use power tools, drive a stick and run a pool table. I could teach him the Internet, FaceTime, and, importantly, how to clear his browser history.

"I'll go to Kambri University," he joked.

Due to COVID-19, Dad's final days were spent alone in a hospital without an interpreter or in-person visitation. He learned to FaceTime after all when we said our final goodbyes in a five-minute phone call.

Prison did its best to strip his humanity, but as his wide circle of family, friends and fans can attest:

You can't cage charisma.

Cigo leaves behind son Kevin and his wife Heather, granddaughters Kaelyn and Kathryn, daughter Kambri and her husband Christian Finnegan, and thousands of letters and artwork chronicling his life.

An online memorial is scheduled. Donations to The Fortune Society in Cigo's memory are appreciated. Build people, not prisons.