Embracing Hope, in a Sea of Hopelessness

 A couple of weeks ago, another prisoner in my housing unit made a serious effort to end his life. Though he was not successful, he will never be the same, physically or likely psychologically. His attempt rattled many of the men in this cell block, because many of them also suffer from despondency, depression, and desperation. 

Some of the men responded, as expected, with an emotional armor of tasteless jokes or apathetic remarks. It's a disgusting coping mechanism I've come to recognize in both prisoners and corrections officers. Others were moved with compassion for the man, wondering out loud what drove him to such a desperate action. 

Prison is an emotionally weighty place. So many of us men suffer from tremendous losses, multiplied by the knowledge that we are responsible for those losses. For some prisoners, this burden is just the foundation. On top of that is the knowledge that others have suffered because of us, and that waiting for us after prison is a society who not only rejects us but fears us too.

America is supposedly a land of second chances, but many people in society, and many of our laws, contradict this fantastical idea of American ideals. The burden of the harms we've caused is enough to crush many of us, but add society's total rejection on top of that...it's no wonder some men can no longer face that reality. 

I have no doubt that some people, including people I love, may never forgive me, may never be okay with me leaving prison some day. And that's deeply troubling to me. I'd like for an opportunity to make things right, to prove that I am not the man I used to be. But I understand some may refuse me that chance. 

That hasn't stopped me from, though, from putting in the work to transform my thinking and behavior. It won't stop me from attempting to repair the harms I've caused, even if I can never actually repair them. Even if that work has to benefit those I did not personally harm. It's a responsibility I bear, a debt I gladly work to repay. 

America may never give some of us second chances, shackling us forever with the guilt of our past. But I refuse to let those shackles hold me hostage to the man I used to be. I may be locked up, but I won't be buried by hopelessness, or by bitterness. 

Prison has changed me, without a doubt. I would never recommend it, as there are much less painful ways to affect change. However, I determined from day one to be corrected by this experience. It's never been easy, and it's come with a lifetime of suffering, but it is bearing fruit in my life. 

Whether or not some will ever allow me to demonstrate that fruit, I'll be content to live out how I've changed, whatever my circumstances. And I'll hold onto hope for redemption, refusing to give into hopelessness or society's rejection of me.

Finding Hope in Prison's Sea of Despondency

 As I've written about before, the holidays, particularly Thanksgiving and Christmas, are very difficult for men and women in prison. It's a time of year where the loneliness of prison is especially acute, and where prisoners' regrets are especially heavy. 

The holidays often mean gatherings with family, cooking delicious meals, and giving and receiving joy. But in prison, these things are lacking, deeply missed, and replaced by desperation. Now, the prison where I am currently housed is on Covid-19 outbreak status (two housing units so far). This status only increases the isolation, loneliness, boredom, and desperation. 

Suicides and attempts rise during this time of year for everyone, but especially for those in prison. Not being able to visit face-to-face with family during the holidays because of a Covid outbreak only worsens things for many prisoners. Thankfully, though, we do have access to video visits still. But it's not the same. 

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, and especially because of the terrible weightiness in prison during the holidays, I'm beginning to make a list of things I'm thankful for. This practice is helpful for keeping depression at bay. 

During an especially depressing time in my prison sentence, I spent 15 weeks journaling every day about something I was grateful for. It was very difficult some days to see anything clearly enough to be grateful for, but soon that changed.

After a few weeks, I began to see things I'd never noticed before, little things mostly. I began to notice a butterfly floating by, or a small flower blooming in an unusual place. I began to notice small acts of kindness I'd overlooked before, and my appreciation for people around me grew. 

Now, as I feel a heaviness permeate my housing unit, I'm wondering how I can help others find hope in the midst of hopelessness. I don't expect I'll be able to help everyone, but just like I looked for things to be grateful for every day, I feel the draw to look for opportunities to encourage the men around me who are wallowing in what Paul Bunyan called the "Slough of Despondency." 

If I can make the difference in the life of one person, THAT will be something for which I can be grateful. 

Happy Thanksgiving, ya'll!

Sexual Harassment Was Not Part of My Sentence

 The very nature of prison is that there is an imbalance of power. Prisoners are stripped of power when they are sent to prison. They are under the authority of prison administrators and corrections officers. They must follow rules, and they must operate within the the boundaries of behaviors that are approved by these authorities. 

Of course, within the prisoner population also, power is used (and abused) by prisoners who impose their will over other prisoners. Often, this abuse of power is ignored, and sometimes even tacitly sanctioned, by prison officials. But prisoners aren't the only ones who abuse their power. Corrections officers, like anyone endowed with the type of power they have over other humans, routinely abuse their power. 

A recent example: In the housing unit where I live, at Parnall Correctional Facility in Jackson, Michigan, cleaning supplies are kept in the officers' office. Prisoners must leave their ID cards when they "check out" supplies to clean their cells. On a recent day, I asked permission to check out cleaning supplies and was told I could. 

As I left my ID on the desk and gathered a broom, dustpan, and cleaning spray, one of the officers asked me a rather odd, but seemingly harmless, question. When I replied to his question, he laughed and made a grossly inappropriate sexual joke out of my answer. His "joke" was not only inappropriate on the surface, but since he is in a position of power over me, it was an abuse of power. 

Now, prisoners in these sorts of situations are faced with multiple options. They can play along with the joke, yucking it up with those who hold power over them. (Some do this.) They could cuss the guard out and leave it at that. (Some do this.) They could threaten to write the guard up, or actually write the guard up for abusing his authority and for conduct unbecoming. After all, this behavior is against their rules of professional conduct. (And some do this, usually with no consequence for the offending officer.) 

But, each of these prisoner responses have consequences. Those who join in on the frivolity give officers approval to abuse their authority. They mistakenly think that by joining in the fun, the officer will give them preferential treatment. I've been in prison long enough to know that's not likely, nor is it preferred. Those who cuss the guard out or threaten to write the guard up put a giant target on their backs. They essentially invite the officers to further abuse their authority by conducting excessive shakedowns and writing frivolous misconduct tickets. 

All of these responses place prisoners in impossible situations. That's why conduct like this officer's is an abuse of power. They ought to treat us prisoners with dignity, but they are not our friends. Their job is to ensure the safety and security of a prison institution, not to sexually (or otherwise) harass their charges. 

Though I did not choose any of these options, I don't know if my response was necessarily any better. While I would have liked to call out the officer's abuse of power and inappropriate conduct, I also do not want unnecessary attention from the officers. I just want to do the best I can with my circumstances and leave prison a better person than I came in. So, I reverted to a passive aggressive response that was neither particularly threatening to the officer nor conveyed approval of his conduct. 

"That's what you're on today?" I responded. "Yeah, I'm just trying to have some fun today," he replied, laughing. "Well, it's good to have fun I guess, and if you need to revisit your middle school years to do that, you've gotta do what you've gotta do." My voice dripping with sarcasm, I turned and left the office with the cleaning supplies. 

Keeping my cell clean should not be this difficult. I shouldn't have to expose myself to sexual harassment just for doing the right thing (keeping my cell clean). Actually, even if I was doing the wrong thing, I shouldn't be subject to sexual harassment by a person in a position of power. But it happens in prison, and with far more frequency than one might think.

Should the Parkland Shooter Have Been Put to Death or Not?

 Recent news stories on TV have left me feeling a wild mix of emotions, and a clashing of values I hold dear. The stories I'm referring to are those concerning the recent sentencing of Nikolas Cruz, the Parkland, Florida shooter who killed 17 people at a school. 

Long before I was sentenced to prison for my own crime, I philosophically opposed the death penalty. Although I am a Christian, and some professing Christians are the most ardent supporters of it, I believe the death penalty is contrary to Jesus' teachings in scripture. Some people argue that Old Testament laws included the "lex talionis," the eye for an eye, life for a life principle. True, but this principle, common in ancient Near East societies, was designed to limit punishments, not to proscribe them. 

Furthermore, my opposition to the death penalty is informed largely by Jesus' New Testament teaching in the Sermon on the Mount. He specifically turned lex talionis on its head, teaching us to use mercy and forgiveness as our guiding principles, not a punishment limiting principle. 

I do believe people should be held responsible for the harms they cause, but correction and restoration should be our goal, not retribution and revenge. Yet, some cases, some crimes, are so heinous that correction and restoration seem like a fantastical goal. Some crimes are so horrifying that they almost cry out for eliminating the source of the harm. 

Such is the case with Nikolas Cruz. My compassion for the families of the 17 people he killed in cold blood, and for others whose lives were irrevocably changed that day, cries out for justice. Even when I believe true justice seeks restoration of victims and offenders to wholeness. Some things can never be restored. Only retribution seems a fitting response to such horror. But it goes against all I believe and hold dear. 

So, I find myself in a philosophical, and perhaps even theological, quandary. It is what psychologists call cognitive dissonance. My compassion is bumping against itself. Though loathsome to some people, I have compassion for Nikolas Cruz. I don't know what causes someone to choose to murder others, especially children, but something must be seriously broken in him, and that drives me to have compassion for him. 

Yet, my deep compassion for the families he devastated, for all they lost and can never regain...it leaves me feeling deeply troubled. Even if our prison system were able to help Cruz get to the root of his troubled psyche and emotions (a task I seriously doubt they are capable of), it could never undo the devastation he caused. It will never bring back those he murdered. 

Though my circumstances differ, nothing I ever do will restore the damage I caused. I didn't murder anyone, but no transformation in me, no matter how significant, can ever heal the harm I caused. It's a depressing thought that leaves me feeling troubled. 

The reality is that only forgiveness and mercy can begin the healing process. Cruz does not deserve forgiveness, and neither do I. Nor should either of us demand it from those we harmed. We have no right. Yet, Jesus knew that revenge (thinly disguised in our culture as "retribution") does not lead to healing. It might provide temporary satisfaction, but it can never heal. 

Though I've never suffered the level of devastating loss and pain the Parkland families have suffered, I hope that I would be able to find a place in my heart for forgiveness. Cruz will die in prison, suffering the death penalty over a lifetime of years, and he will suffer daily, too. But even if his heart changes, he'll suffer even more, unless someone shows him mercy and forgiveness. 

Sadly, the families of Cruz's victims will continue to suffer too, even more so if they let hate and anger consume them. Yet, who of us has any right to deny them the only emotion they may currently be capable of feeling towards Cruz? It's a no-win situation, no matter what way you look at it.

The Heavy Weight of Prison's Oppressive Energy

 Someone outside of prison recently told me they were surprised to hear about an assault I'd witnessed in prison a few months ago. It stunned me a bit, mainly because prison has been my reality for nearly 14 years. While witnessing assaults is jarring, it's also "normal" in prison. Too much "made for TV" depictions of prison life apparently lead some people to believe prison is not really a dangerous place. 

But it is a dangerous place. One must develop a sixth sense about pending dangers, always alert to what's happening around them, even if they themselves have no beef with anyone else. Some prisoners are quick to develop this sixth sense. They can sense changes in the mood in a room, quickly pick up on abnormal gatherings of people, and sense when something is just "not quite right." 

I'm guessing that the more empathic of us find this sense especially strong. Having this strong sense has helped me to avoid being around when things have happened that could have put me in danger. But having this strong empathic sense also makes it difficult, at times, to separate myself from the negative energy that permeates the prison environment. 

Earlier this past week, shortly after I woke up around 5AM, two corrections officers began to harass and antagonize a prisoner who was in the hole (which is across from my cell). The prisoner had acted out the night before, late at night, and had been moved to a new cell. I don't know why he was in the hole, or what had precipitated his behavior the night before. But regardless, I was deeply disturbed to hear the officers abusing their authority, "geeking" the prisoner up and trading insults with him. 

The prisoner's behavior was absolutely wrong, but it did not justify the officers' abuse of their authority. Their antagonism amped up other prisoners to join in the fray. Soon, the entire unit was humming with a negative energy, stirred up by abusive corrections officers. 

Usually, it's prisoners who are largely to blame for prison's negative energy. Gang violence or threats of violence, thieves, a deeply persistent sense of entitlement, and loudly voiced feelings of injustice stoke prison's blanket of oppressive energy. 

It's no wonder depression and suicidal ideology are common in prison (among prisoners and officers). Sadly, some prisoners are unable to navigate this oppressive energy, and they try to end their sentence early. Fortunately, the young man in my housing unit who tried to end his life this morning was unsuccessful. 

The moment I returned from lunch, I could sense the energy had shifted, before I even knew what had happened. Anxious energy permeated the air, worsened by a deeply troubling lack of empathy. 

It's no wonder so many people leave prison worse off. Many crumble under the heavy weight of such negative energy. Triumphing over it, instead, requires significant positive energy. And that's exhausting to generate sometimes. It sure takes a lot of prayer and power beyond my own.