| Romanticizing the past is common enough inside and outside of prison. Nobody wants to remember the bare truth of the past in all its ugliness. That's why telling our stories in ways that cast ourselves in the best possible light is so common. But if romanticizing the past is common, romanticizing the future is probably even more common among prisoners. Whether it is the stories we tell ourselves that begin with, "I've learned my lesson now...I'll never commit another crime" or through stories that paint a picture of easy success upon release, prisoners have a tendency to be unrealistic about the future. That is not to say that some prisoners will never commit another crime, nor is it denying that some may actually experience quick success upon release. What I am saying is that statistics show that neither of these romantic notions play themselves out very often. High recidivism rates tell the truth that many prisoners, despite their best intentions, do go on to commit crimes again after release from prison. (I'll leave for another time the discussion of a system that leaves many returning citizens with few options, making returning to a life of crime easy.) Furthermore, very few returning citizens have the support they need to make their transition back to free society an "easy success." They must struggle through many obstacles to become valued citizens again--and some will simply never be considered valuable citizens, no matter what they do. Perhaps it is fear of this struggle that leads many prisoners to romanticize the notion of simple living after release. Television shows like "Off the Grid" or "Life Below Zero" depict isolated, simple, ascetic living in its best possible light, appealing to many prisoners who want to avoid the stigma and shame of a convict label, and who, through their incarceration, have had the faulty notion reinforced that true success is a matter of rugged individualism. I must admit that I, too, find the notion of simple living appealing. The allure of materialism has lost its luster for me, and I like the idea of providing for my own needs in simple ways. But I have also learned the importance of belonging to a healthy community, and contributing to that community's health myself. That means beginning with the truth about one's past, without minimizing or romanticizing, and being realistic about the struggles ahead. After spending sometimes decades in a prison environment that requires very little daily responsibility or motivation, I find it doubtful that many prisoners can suddenly demonstrate the autonomy necessary to achieve a self-sufficient existence. But self-sufficiency is alluring. Never having to depend on other people is appealing, for many prisoners have learned through experience to mistrust people. Living a future without dependency on others might have a certain romance to it, but prisoners who do become valued citizens again often do so because they participate in and contribute to a healthy community. This means sharing in a common vision with others, respecting others, being accountable to others, and being inclusive and welcoming of others, to name a few. A romanticized future of isolation and independence seldom work well for anyone, but especially for citizens returning from prison. Successfully re-entering free society requires strong interdependence and a strong dose of reality. It requires being realistic and only dealing with the truth--about the past and about the struggles one faces in the future. |
Sunday, April 29, 2018
Prisoner Visions of the Future Romanticized
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
Prisoner Stories Romanticize Past Memories
In a recent Early Church History class, we were discussing monasticism and its influence on the early Christian Church. As a part of our discussion, our professor raised the question of whether or not people tended to romanticize monasticism. His question got me thinking not only about our tendency to romanticize our memories, but also to romanticize our future.
I believe it is human nature to remember the past in ways that portray ourselves in the best light and that emphasize the good while minimizing the bad or painful parts of our memory--especially when we are responsible for those bad or painful parts. As I listen to the stories of other prisoners, I am struck by how consistently their stories make a victim out of the victimizer. Sometimes the stories center on the negative social influences that formed a person, or they center on the victim's role in "causing" the crime. Frequently, I hear about social structures that perpetuate cycles of incarceration, particularly among minority groups. I am told it is the fault of the racist social structures that caused someone to pick up a gun and rob or kill someone. Very seldom do I hear authentic stories where the offender takes full responsibility for his crimes. Even when I do, whether intended or not, those testimonies are often weakened by minimizing statements like, "I was immature" or "I had low self-esteem."
I don't intend to diminish people's authentic stories that led them to where they are today. Immaturity, low self-esteem, social influences and social structures, and sometimes even the victims' roles do play a part, sometimes even a significant part, in the stories of many people in prison. But how we tell those stories matters. Truth and authenticity are essential for healing the offender, the victim, and the community that was affected by the crime. That means being willing to say plainly, "I chose to commit this crime." Period. No romanticizing of the details or painting oneself in the best possible light. Nobody will argue that many factors went into making that decision. But taking full, un-minimized responsibility is essential for healing, both for the victimizer and the victim.
Understanding why one made the choices that harmed others is an important part of changing one's behavior and ensuring one never makes those harmful choices again. Nevertheless, the reason for one's choices should never be used to diminish responsibility or to explain away one's behavior. Lots of people suffer from immaturity, low self-esteem, and negative social influences and never commit crimes. The difference between those who commit crimes and those who don't lies in the choices one makes. That's the bold, naked, un-romanticized truth.
Next week we'll look at prisoners' tendency to romanticize the future.
I believe it is human nature to remember the past in ways that portray ourselves in the best light and that emphasize the good while minimizing the bad or painful parts of our memory--especially when we are responsible for those bad or painful parts. As I listen to the stories of other prisoners, I am struck by how consistently their stories make a victim out of the victimizer. Sometimes the stories center on the negative social influences that formed a person, or they center on the victim's role in "causing" the crime. Frequently, I hear about social structures that perpetuate cycles of incarceration, particularly among minority groups. I am told it is the fault of the racist social structures that caused someone to pick up a gun and rob or kill someone. Very seldom do I hear authentic stories where the offender takes full responsibility for his crimes. Even when I do, whether intended or not, those testimonies are often weakened by minimizing statements like, "I was immature" or "I had low self-esteem."
I don't intend to diminish people's authentic stories that led them to where they are today. Immaturity, low self-esteem, social influences and social structures, and sometimes even the victims' roles do play a part, sometimes even a significant part, in the stories of many people in prison. But how we tell those stories matters. Truth and authenticity are essential for healing the offender, the victim, and the community that was affected by the crime. That means being willing to say plainly, "I chose to commit this crime." Period. No romanticizing of the details or painting oneself in the best possible light. Nobody will argue that many factors went into making that decision. But taking full, un-minimized responsibility is essential for healing, both for the victimizer and the victim.
Understanding why one made the choices that harmed others is an important part of changing one's behavior and ensuring one never makes those harmful choices again. Nevertheless, the reason for one's choices should never be used to diminish responsibility or to explain away one's behavior. Lots of people suffer from immaturity, low self-esteem, and negative social influences and never commit crimes. The difference between those who commit crimes and those who don't lies in the choices one makes. That's the bold, naked, un-romanticized truth.
Next week we'll look at prisoners' tendency to romanticize the future.
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
Putting Up Walls: A Prisoner's Response to Grief
This past week the father of a friend of mine died. Losing a loved one while in prison is very hard, for a lot of reasons. For one, prison isolates one from suffering with the community of people who are most touched by the loss of a loved one, leaving the prisoner feeling disconnected from the shared stories, good and bad, that make collective grieving easier. When my friend told me his father died, he asked that I pray for his mother, but I countered, "And for you in your loss." Shaking his head, he retorted, "No, just pray for my mom. I'm okay."
Sensing the deep grief that he was unsuccessfully trying to wall off from himself and others, I gave him a hug and told him I was sorry for his loss. Tears began streaming from his eyes, and he said, "See! I told myself I wouldn't cry, and now you've made me do it!" After all, prisoners are supposed to be "hard" and unfeeling of emotions. We're supposed to be angry, weight-lifting, violent and rebellious people. Or at least that's what we've been made to believe. It's society's lesson of rugged masculinity taken to the extreme.
The truth is, prisoners feel the pain of loss too, sometimes even deeper than people who are free to mourn their loss among the safety of other loved ones. Forced by a perception that tears are a sign of weakness, many prisoners don't give themselves permission to feel the depth of the losses they experience during their incarceration. My friend's loss was not simply the loss of a father, although that is bad enough. It was also the loss of a long-held hope that he would someday be valued and loved by his father who had been distant and absent most of his life. This lost hope leaves him now feeling just a little less hopeful about his future. His father died without ever making sure my friend knew he was loved and valued as a son.
My friend has a right to cry for his loss, but some people would disagree. The same day I heard this news, I heard another prisoner say with venom in his voice, "He ought to be celebrating by making a cook-up with his friends. His father didn't give a s**t about him his whole life." While this statement has an element of truth to it, my friend's father didn't express love for his son, nevertheless, this shocking statement fails to acknowledge the humanity of a man who longed for the love and acceptance of his father. Death is final. There is no more hope for a restored relationship (or even for the beginning of a new one) when death comes calling.
The prisoner who called for celebrating this father's death might sound calloused and lacking empathy, and he could be, but I suspect that his response reveals a deep hurt at the people in his own life who disappointed him. While there are sociopaths in prison, most prisoners are simply living with deep hurt in their lives. Without the knowledge of how to heal from that hurt, many make choices that end up hurting others, and the cycle continues. My friend is maturing and learning how to heal from his deep hurt, and I'm hopeful that even the loss of his father won't derail him from his journey of healing. If recognizing and acknowledging his hurt and trying to comfort and encourage him through his loss helps, then I am grateful to be a part of his journey of healing and tearing down the walls he's constructed to protect him from further hurt. In helping someone else heal, I, too, experience a little healing of my own hurts, and my hope for restoring broken relationships with those I cherish is rejuvenated. I'm grateful to still have that hope.
Sensing the deep grief that he was unsuccessfully trying to wall off from himself and others, I gave him a hug and told him I was sorry for his loss. Tears began streaming from his eyes, and he said, "See! I told myself I wouldn't cry, and now you've made me do it!" After all, prisoners are supposed to be "hard" and unfeeling of emotions. We're supposed to be angry, weight-lifting, violent and rebellious people. Or at least that's what we've been made to believe. It's society's lesson of rugged masculinity taken to the extreme.
The truth is, prisoners feel the pain of loss too, sometimes even deeper than people who are free to mourn their loss among the safety of other loved ones. Forced by a perception that tears are a sign of weakness, many prisoners don't give themselves permission to feel the depth of the losses they experience during their incarceration. My friend's loss was not simply the loss of a father, although that is bad enough. It was also the loss of a long-held hope that he would someday be valued and loved by his father who had been distant and absent most of his life. This lost hope leaves him now feeling just a little less hopeful about his future. His father died without ever making sure my friend knew he was loved and valued as a son.
My friend has a right to cry for his loss, but some people would disagree. The same day I heard this news, I heard another prisoner say with venom in his voice, "He ought to be celebrating by making a cook-up with his friends. His father didn't give a s**t about him his whole life." While this statement has an element of truth to it, my friend's father didn't express love for his son, nevertheless, this shocking statement fails to acknowledge the humanity of a man who longed for the love and acceptance of his father. Death is final. There is no more hope for a restored relationship (or even for the beginning of a new one) when death comes calling.
The prisoner who called for celebrating this father's death might sound calloused and lacking empathy, and he could be, but I suspect that his response reveals a deep hurt at the people in his own life who disappointed him. While there are sociopaths in prison, most prisoners are simply living with deep hurt in their lives. Without the knowledge of how to heal from that hurt, many make choices that end up hurting others, and the cycle continues. My friend is maturing and learning how to heal from his deep hurt, and I'm hopeful that even the loss of his father won't derail him from his journey of healing. If recognizing and acknowledging his hurt and trying to comfort and encourage him through his loss helps, then I am grateful to be a part of his journey of healing and tearing down the walls he's constructed to protect him from further hurt. In helping someone else heal, I, too, experience a little healing of my own hurts, and my hope for restoring broken relationships with those I cherish is rejuvenated. I'm grateful to still have that hope.
Friday, April 13, 2018
Thriving in the Midst of Uncertainty
My friend Rafael, a fellow student in the Calvin Prison Initiative calvin prison initiative, is hoping he will soon be released from prison after serving twenty-five years for a drug offense. While he is filled with hope for this outcome, he is also faced with much uncertainty. He is uncertain if he will have a public hearing, if he will be released as a result of that hearing, if he will be deported to his native Dominican Republic as a condition of his release or be allowed to stay in the U.S., and, in either case, he is uncertain to what conditions he will be released. A lot changes in one's life after twenty-five years. Family members and friends die or move away, and much of the world has changed. The uncertainty of it all can be overwhelming.
I have been in prison for nine years, just over a third of what Rafael has served, and much has changed for me. I am hopeful about the possibilities for my future, but nothing is certain. Although I have more years left on my sentence, if I were released today, I don't know where I would live, what I would do for a job, and a host of other uncertainties. I'm fortunate, as is Rafael, to have a couple of family members still who would make that transition back to society easier for me. But many prisoners have no such support system.
Many people come to prison with very little or no healthy support system in their lives prior to their incarceration. Since one's support system normally decreases during incarceration, for those who had little to begin with the end result is often no support system at all. The number of people on probation and parole makes it impossible for the Department of Corrections to adequately support returning citizens as they transition back to free society, but they are expected to succeed nonetheless. With little to no outside support, many prisoners flounder as they try to reintegrate into society. The end result is that many return to familiar patterns of coping with stress and uncertainty. Prisoners who have never had experience as productive members of their communities are left to figure that out on their own, while trying to find housing and maintain a job, obtain transportation, and take care of their basic needs.
Uncertainty is a normal part of life, and prisoners are no less prone to experience it as others, but a prisoner's transition back to society, especially after a lengthy sentence like my friend Rafael has served, is a highly stressful and uncertain time. Free citizens may be (understandably) reluctant to get involved with a felon coming out of prison, but these returning citizens need support to successfully transition back to society. We want returning citizens to be safe and productive members of their community, but belonging to a community means thriving in a supportive environment. It means being embraced, flaws and all, and made to feel a sense of belonging, even in the midst of uncertainty.
I have been in prison for nine years, just over a third of what Rafael has served, and much has changed for me. I am hopeful about the possibilities for my future, but nothing is certain. Although I have more years left on my sentence, if I were released today, I don't know where I would live, what I would do for a job, and a host of other uncertainties. I'm fortunate, as is Rafael, to have a couple of family members still who would make that transition back to society easier for me. But many prisoners have no such support system.
Many people come to prison with very little or no healthy support system in their lives prior to their incarceration. Since one's support system normally decreases during incarceration, for those who had little to begin with the end result is often no support system at all. The number of people on probation and parole makes it impossible for the Department of Corrections to adequately support returning citizens as they transition back to free society, but they are expected to succeed nonetheless. With little to no outside support, many prisoners flounder as they try to reintegrate into society. The end result is that many return to familiar patterns of coping with stress and uncertainty. Prisoners who have never had experience as productive members of their communities are left to figure that out on their own, while trying to find housing and maintain a job, obtain transportation, and take care of their basic needs.
Uncertainty is a normal part of life, and prisoners are no less prone to experience it as others, but a prisoner's transition back to society, especially after a lengthy sentence like my friend Rafael has served, is a highly stressful and uncertain time. Free citizens may be (understandably) reluctant to get involved with a felon coming out of prison, but these returning citizens need support to successfully transition back to society. We want returning citizens to be safe and productive members of their community, but belonging to a community means thriving in a supportive environment. It means being embraced, flaws and all, and made to feel a sense of belonging, even in the midst of uncertainty.
Wednesday, April 4, 2018
It's a Good Time for Good Time
Since I came to prison in 2009, at least once a year a rumor starts concerning good time sentence reductions coming back to Michigan. In 1983 Michigan did away with good time, and in 1996 it did away with disciplinary credits, another form of limited good time, for new prisoners. Since 1996 every newly sentenced prisoner has been sentenced under truth in sentencing, meaning they will serve at least their minimum sentence. This means that Michigan's prisoners' only incentive for good behavior while incarcerated is release at one's earliest release date. Abandoning a policy that motivates prisoners toward rehabilitation through the use of positive reinforcement (encouraging good citizenship), Michigan has instead adopted a policy that uses negative reinforcement (parole denials and long-term segregation) to motivate conformity to prison rules.
Rumors of good time's return notwithstanding, Michigan has yet to pass legislation bringing back the pre-1983 sentence reduction incentives. Many prisoners have begun to lose hope that good time will return at all, but today we are closer to its return than any time since 1983. Recently, Michigan Representatives Martin Howrylak (R) and David LaGrand (D) introduced a package of bills to reintroduce good time sentence reductions for Michigan's current and future prisoners. Whether motivated by Michigan's budget woes or by a realization that Michigan's prison policies of the last three decades have been a miserable failure, I'm happy to see two courageous State Representatives making this bipartisan effort.
Under this package of bills, Michigan's prisoners will earn five days off their sentence per month where they exhibit good behavior, gradually stepping up every two to three years to eventually earning fifteen days per month after serving twenty years. This means that the average prisoner who is sentenced to a five-year minimum will serve just over four years two months, a prisoner sentenced to ten years will serve just over eight years two months, and a prisoner sentenced to twenty years will serve fifteen years nine months. These reductions depend on a prisoner exhibiting good behavior in prison. Prisoners who are committed to their criminal mindset and behavior will miss out on these reductions because of major misconduct tickets.
Bringing back good time for Michigan's prisoners faces a tough uphill battle. House Bills 5665, 5666, and 5667 are currently in the House Committee on Law and Justice and have yet to come up to the House floor for a vote. Well over 90% of Michigan's prisoners will be released from prison after serving their sentences. If you support encouraging and rewarding good citizenship for these people who will eventually return to their communities, please urge your State Representative to vote for H.B. 5665, 5666, and 5667. You can find your Representative's contact information at www.house.mi.gov. Please send them a letter or email urging support for these important bills. This is a great step in Michigan getting smart on crime.
Rumors of good time's return notwithstanding, Michigan has yet to pass legislation bringing back the pre-1983 sentence reduction incentives. Many prisoners have begun to lose hope that good time will return at all, but today we are closer to its return than any time since 1983. Recently, Michigan Representatives Martin Howrylak (R) and David LaGrand (D) introduced a package of bills to reintroduce good time sentence reductions for Michigan's current and future prisoners. Whether motivated by Michigan's budget woes or by a realization that Michigan's prison policies of the last three decades have been a miserable failure, I'm happy to see two courageous State Representatives making this bipartisan effort.
Under this package of bills, Michigan's prisoners will earn five days off their sentence per month where they exhibit good behavior, gradually stepping up every two to three years to eventually earning fifteen days per month after serving twenty years. This means that the average prisoner who is sentenced to a five-year minimum will serve just over four years two months, a prisoner sentenced to ten years will serve just over eight years two months, and a prisoner sentenced to twenty years will serve fifteen years nine months. These reductions depend on a prisoner exhibiting good behavior in prison. Prisoners who are committed to their criminal mindset and behavior will miss out on these reductions because of major misconduct tickets.
Bringing back good time for Michigan's prisoners faces a tough uphill battle. House Bills 5665, 5666, and 5667 are currently in the House Committee on Law and Justice and have yet to come up to the House floor for a vote. Well over 90% of Michigan's prisoners will be released from prison after serving their sentences. If you support encouraging and rewarding good citizenship for these people who will eventually return to their communities, please urge your State Representative to vote for H.B. 5665, 5666, and 5667. You can find your Representative's contact information at www.house.mi.gov. Please send them a letter or email urging support for these important bills. This is a great step in Michigan getting smart on crime.
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