As a prisoner it is easy to get stuck focusing on the losses one experiences in coming to prison. We lose our freedom, both our physical freedom and our ability to freely make many daily choices that others take for granted. Many prisoners also lose money they've saved, relationships they've built, formerly good reputations, and even hope for a future.
Prisoners who have thought deeply about their crimes also focus on the losses they caused others. We prisoners are not the only ones who lost out because we came to prison. Our families suffer many losses too. The communities to which we belonged also suffer losses. And, most importantly, our victims and their families suffer losses, many of which we are powerless to make right. So, loss is a constant theme in prison.
When I recently mentioned to a friend some of the things prison has taken from me, this friend asked, "But what has prison given you?" It was a profound question I haven't been able to get out of my mind. Prison has given me some things, for which I am very grateful. Although I would never choose prison, without my prison experience I wouldn't be the person I am today. Instead, I'd still be stuck in the same pointless and harmful patterns of my past. Prison has provided for me the setting I needed so I could make critical changes in my life.
Just a few of the many things prison has given me include:
1. Time and space for deep self-reflection--these are critical for facing and healing from past hurt, deeply embedded insecurities, and faulty thinking and belief patterns.
2. Surprising friendships--some of the strongest and most authentic friendships I've ever formed have been with other prisoners. These men will be lifelong friends.
3. Time for education--I've been blessed with an opportunity to earn a bachelor's degree while incarcerated. My life prior to prison would not have afforded the time for such an accomplishment.
4. Exposure to different people--it's easy to become insular in our lives. Prison has exposed me to people and cultures I would never have known outside of prison, and the experience has made me more compassionate and aware of others' hardships.
5. A greater awareness of (in)justice--exposure to the often unjust "justice" system has heightened my awareness of the injustices I've caused and that others daily experience. It has also opened my eyes to the brokenness of a system I formerly thought was fair.
6. A space for deep theological reflection--life's busy-ness in the free world affords little time to think deeply about one's beliefs. Prison has given me the space for deep theological reflection where I have learned the importance of living out my faith authentically in all I do.
Yes, prison takes a lot from those who are incarcerated. But it gives a lot too, if one is ready to receive it. Prison sucks, yes, but it can also be a gift received with gratefulness if one wishes to be positively changed by it.
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Tuesday, October 29, 2019
Monday, October 28, 2019
Extraordinary Story of Grace Gives Prisoners Hope
Friday afternoon I sat in the auditorium at Handlon Correctional Facility listening to a visiting special speaker. Kate Grosmaire, the author of *Forgiving My Daughter's Killer,* was the scheduled keynote speaker at the third annual restorative justice conference to be held in Grand Rapids, Michigan the next day. But first, she came to speak to the incarcerated men who had helped organize the conference from within prison. She shared with us her moving story of forgiving the man who killed her daughter.
As I sat and listened to her remarkable story, I looked around me. In the first two rows of men, I counted at least ten murder victims represented. The men who took these victim's lives sat enraptured by Grosmaire's unusual story of forgiveness. Others, too, who were convicted of crimes that did not take anyone's life, listened intently.
Grosmaire's story is unique and moving, but it is also a source of hope for so many of us men in prison. Her story of how she and her husband Steve forgave their daughter's boyfriend, Conor, who killed her represented possibilities so many of us men only dare to dream of. We also identified with the stiff resistance they faced from the judicial system as they sought to meet with Conor in a restorative justice dialogue prior to a plea agreement or trial.
Despite the obstacles and opposition, the Grosmaire's did have a pre-adjudication dialogue with Conor, sharing their hurts and what they needed from him. Because this conference was held in a way that protected Conor from prosecution for anything he said there, he was also free to express his grief and tell the story of what happened. The Grosmaire's were also able to express to the state prosecutor who attended the conference the sentence they wished for Conor. It was much lower than what the State was recommending, but Conor still received a sentence twice what the Grosmaires asked for.
Today, the Grosmaires continue to communicate with Conor. They are pleased to know he is a law clerk in prison, one of only 4% of Florida prisoners who have a prison job. He also facilitates important classes for other prisoners, paying forward the remarkable grace he experienced. Grosmaire stated that she and her husband believe Conor can be an asset to the community when he is released from prison. After all, he is already an asset to his own community within prison.
The Grosmaire's story of grace and forgiveness is so extraordinary because it is so unusual. But their story is also inspiring because it demonstrates the incredible, healing power of forgiveness and holds out hope for redemption--even for the worst of us. As Grosmaire ended her story of loss, grace, and forgiveness, she looked out to her audience of convicted criminals and said, "I believe in redemption. I believe in redemption for everyone." It was a gift of grace she left with us, a hope that we too could find forgiveness and redemption.
As I sat and listened to her remarkable story, I looked around me. In the first two rows of men, I counted at least ten murder victims represented. The men who took these victim's lives sat enraptured by Grosmaire's unusual story of forgiveness. Others, too, who were convicted of crimes that did not take anyone's life, listened intently.
Grosmaire's story is unique and moving, but it is also a source of hope for so many of us men in prison. Her story of how she and her husband Steve forgave their daughter's boyfriend, Conor, who killed her represented possibilities so many of us men only dare to dream of. We also identified with the stiff resistance they faced from the judicial system as they sought to meet with Conor in a restorative justice dialogue prior to a plea agreement or trial.
Despite the obstacles and opposition, the Grosmaire's did have a pre-adjudication dialogue with Conor, sharing their hurts and what they needed from him. Because this conference was held in a way that protected Conor from prosecution for anything he said there, he was also free to express his grief and tell the story of what happened. The Grosmaire's were also able to express to the state prosecutor who attended the conference the sentence they wished for Conor. It was much lower than what the State was recommending, but Conor still received a sentence twice what the Grosmaires asked for.
Today, the Grosmaires continue to communicate with Conor. They are pleased to know he is a law clerk in prison, one of only 4% of Florida prisoners who have a prison job. He also facilitates important classes for other prisoners, paying forward the remarkable grace he experienced. Grosmaire stated that she and her husband believe Conor can be an asset to the community when he is released from prison. After all, he is already an asset to his own community within prison.
The Grosmaire's story of grace and forgiveness is so extraordinary because it is so unusual. But their story is also inspiring because it demonstrates the incredible, healing power of forgiveness and holds out hope for redemption--even for the worst of us. As Grosmaire ended her story of loss, grace, and forgiveness, she looked out to her audience of convicted criminals and said, "I believe in redemption. I believe in redemption for everyone." It was a gift of grace she left with us, a hope that we too could find forgiveness and redemption.
Sunday, October 13, 2019
How Do We Measure Remorse?
Everyone responds to shame and fear in different ways. Some responses are very visible and public. Others are private and unseen. This variety of responses is perhaps no more obvious than in how people accused of crimes react in a courtroom. Some make emotional displays of grief or anger, and others remain stoic, seemingly apathetic to the harms they've been accused of or the potential prison sentence they are facing.
Ten years ago last month, I was sentenced to seventeen to forty-five years in prison. I had been sitting in the county jail for seven months as lawyers on both sides delayed proceedings. I was offered a plea deal early on but rejected it, not because I claimed to be innocent, but because my lawyer advised me to reject that plea for various reasons. Eventually, I accepted a slightly different plea deal and was sentenced within the following weeks.
At my sentencing, my attorney made it clear, at my request, that I had always maintained my guilt of the charge to which I pled. The judge asked me several questions, which I answered, and then I was given a brief moment to speak. It was my first opportunity to publicly address the crime to which I had just pled guilty. I had spent hours the night before agonizing, through many tears, over how to adequately express my sorrow for what I'd done. It was important to me that I express to those I'd harmed and others affected by my crime how remorseful I am for what I'd done.
As I nervously read my prepared statement, my whole body trembled because of the fear and shame I felt. My statement was briefer than I wanted, but some of the remorse I needed to express could not be suitably done in such a public setting. It was important to me that I think very carefully about how my words would impact those who mattered the most.
When I finished speaking, the judge addressed me with a scathing rebuke before he sentenced me. He rightly rebuked me for my crime, but then he accused me of being remorseless. Because I had not shed any tears at my sentencing, he interpreted my stoicism as a lack of remorse. He couldn't have been further from the truth. For seven months I had cried myself to sleep nearly every night. I cried mostly for the destruction I had caused and for the many people who suffered because of me. I also cried because I was losing the most important people in my life. But I cried and grieved privately.
Anyone who really knows me knows that public displays of emotions have not always been easy for me. But the judge didn't know me--he never spoke with me except in court. The prosecutor didn't know me--he never once spoke to me. My own defense lawyer didn't even really know me--I'd only seen him three times in seven months. To be fair though, nobody really knew me--I didn't even know myself. Nevertheless, it was hard hearing myself characterized as unremorseful, for that couldn't have been further from the truth.
Everyone responds differently to shame and fear. But we shouldn't be so quick to judge a person's remorse or lack thereof based on emotional demonstrations. For some people, like me, public displays of emotion are difficult. For others, emotional displays are natural, and they appear authentic. If we really want to know if someone is remorseful for causing others harm, we have to get to know them. Unfortunately, it's far easier to make snap judgments based on first impressions.
Ten years ago last month, I was sentenced to seventeen to forty-five years in prison. I had been sitting in the county jail for seven months as lawyers on both sides delayed proceedings. I was offered a plea deal early on but rejected it, not because I claimed to be innocent, but because my lawyer advised me to reject that plea for various reasons. Eventually, I accepted a slightly different plea deal and was sentenced within the following weeks.
At my sentencing, my attorney made it clear, at my request, that I had always maintained my guilt of the charge to which I pled. The judge asked me several questions, which I answered, and then I was given a brief moment to speak. It was my first opportunity to publicly address the crime to which I had just pled guilty. I had spent hours the night before agonizing, through many tears, over how to adequately express my sorrow for what I'd done. It was important to me that I express to those I'd harmed and others affected by my crime how remorseful I am for what I'd done.
As I nervously read my prepared statement, my whole body trembled because of the fear and shame I felt. My statement was briefer than I wanted, but some of the remorse I needed to express could not be suitably done in such a public setting. It was important to me that I think very carefully about how my words would impact those who mattered the most.
When I finished speaking, the judge addressed me with a scathing rebuke before he sentenced me. He rightly rebuked me for my crime, but then he accused me of being remorseless. Because I had not shed any tears at my sentencing, he interpreted my stoicism as a lack of remorse. He couldn't have been further from the truth. For seven months I had cried myself to sleep nearly every night. I cried mostly for the destruction I had caused and for the many people who suffered because of me. I also cried because I was losing the most important people in my life. But I cried and grieved privately.
Anyone who really knows me knows that public displays of emotions have not always been easy for me. But the judge didn't know me--he never spoke with me except in court. The prosecutor didn't know me--he never once spoke to me. My own defense lawyer didn't even really know me--I'd only seen him three times in seven months. To be fair though, nobody really knew me--I didn't even know myself. Nevertheless, it was hard hearing myself characterized as unremorseful, for that couldn't have been further from the truth.
Everyone responds differently to shame and fear. But we shouldn't be so quick to judge a person's remorse or lack thereof based on emotional demonstrations. For some people, like me, public displays of emotion are difficult. For others, emotional displays are natural, and they appear authentic. If we really want to know if someone is remorseful for causing others harm, we have to get to know them. Unfortunately, it's far easier to make snap judgments based on first impressions.
Tuesday, October 8, 2019
Radical Act of Forgiveness Makes National News
I used to love watching the news to stay caught up on current events. As a teenager and younger man, I had an interest in politics, so the news fed my interest. But over the last ten years, I've become tired of watching what has, to me, become a partisan propaganda machine. It's difficult to get the truth anymore. Instead, news reporting is grossly slanted in one political direction or another. Maybe it's always been that way, and now I'm simply aware of it. I don't know.
The national news, especially, is always so negative. Heart-moving stories are seldom seen. So, when I saw a touching story about radical forgiveness recently, I knew I had to write about it. As many touching stories go, this one started with heartbreak. Amber Guyger, a white police officer, shot and killed her upstairs neighbor in what has been characterized as a "tragic mistake." Upon opening the door of what she thought was her own apartment, she saw Botham Jean, a black man she apparently did not know, and drew her weapon, firing at him immediately. Only after firing did Guyger realize she had not entered her own apartment. Tragically, Jean died from the gunshot wound.
Because I am not privy to the details of the case as presented in court, I do not know how it is possible that Guyger could have made such a mistake, nor why she reacted so violently without question. Clearly, she made a terrible mistake, but was it simply her training as a police officer that caused her to react so swiftly, without question? I don't know. The jury was clearly convinced of her guilt, but they were also convinced that she had no premeditated intent to murder Jean. She was convicted and sentenced to a ten-year prison sentence.
The moving part of the story happened after Guyger's sentence. Botham Jean's younger brother Brandt, only eighteen years old, approached Guyger in the courtroom and embraced her. Along with his shocking embrace, Brandt offered Guyger his forgiveness, choosing to not hold bitterness towards his brother's killer. Even the judge was moved by such a display of radical forgiveness.
It didn't take long for the critics to appear, condemning Brandt for his actions and racializing the story. But what right do they have to condemn Brandt for choosing forgiveness? Does he not have the right to choose how he responds to this tragedy? Others have now filed a lawsuit against the judge for "overstepping" judicial propriety. Does the judge not have discretion to pursue justice in all its forms, including restorative justice? Or are judges restricted to harsh retribution?
While I find it additionally tragic that others not involved in the case feel compelled to tell Brandt, his family, and the judge what justice should look like, I'm glad this is a national story. Brandt and his radical display of forgiveness is moving because it's so uncommon. Yet, in being uncommon, it is also what so many of us long for in our own lives.
Botham Jean's death is a tragedy--one Brandt and the rest of the family will have to live with for the rest of their lives. It's a tragedy Guyger will have to live with, too. But Brandt's example of radical forgiveness has jump-started the path towards healing. It also provides the rest of us a picture of what is possible if we, too, choose to respond to tragedy with compassion.
The national news, especially, is always so negative. Heart-moving stories are seldom seen. So, when I saw a touching story about radical forgiveness recently, I knew I had to write about it. As many touching stories go, this one started with heartbreak. Amber Guyger, a white police officer, shot and killed her upstairs neighbor in what has been characterized as a "tragic mistake." Upon opening the door of what she thought was her own apartment, she saw Botham Jean, a black man she apparently did not know, and drew her weapon, firing at him immediately. Only after firing did Guyger realize she had not entered her own apartment. Tragically, Jean died from the gunshot wound.
Because I am not privy to the details of the case as presented in court, I do not know how it is possible that Guyger could have made such a mistake, nor why she reacted so violently without question. Clearly, she made a terrible mistake, but was it simply her training as a police officer that caused her to react so swiftly, without question? I don't know. The jury was clearly convinced of her guilt, but they were also convinced that she had no premeditated intent to murder Jean. She was convicted and sentenced to a ten-year prison sentence.
The moving part of the story happened after Guyger's sentence. Botham Jean's younger brother Brandt, only eighteen years old, approached Guyger in the courtroom and embraced her. Along with his shocking embrace, Brandt offered Guyger his forgiveness, choosing to not hold bitterness towards his brother's killer. Even the judge was moved by such a display of radical forgiveness.
It didn't take long for the critics to appear, condemning Brandt for his actions and racializing the story. But what right do they have to condemn Brandt for choosing forgiveness? Does he not have the right to choose how he responds to this tragedy? Others have now filed a lawsuit against the judge for "overstepping" judicial propriety. Does the judge not have discretion to pursue justice in all its forms, including restorative justice? Or are judges restricted to harsh retribution?
While I find it additionally tragic that others not involved in the case feel compelled to tell Brandt, his family, and the judge what justice should look like, I'm glad this is a national story. Brandt and his radical display of forgiveness is moving because it's so uncommon. Yet, in being uncommon, it is also what so many of us long for in our own lives.
Botham Jean's death is a tragedy--one Brandt and the rest of the family will have to live with for the rest of their lives. It's a tragedy Guyger will have to live with, too. But Brandt's example of radical forgiveness has jump-started the path towards healing. It also provides the rest of us a picture of what is possible if we, too, choose to respond to tragedy with compassion.
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