July 3, 2018
July 3, 2018
I went to medical, and as I was waiting, I got to talking with this guy. We’ll call him T. I was telling him how I applied for this fellowship on mass incarceration, and how my project was going to be about re-entry barriers and its effect on recidivism. He told me about a proposal he wrote on how to effectively transition prisoners to society.
“It’s a four tier approach,” he said with a smile. It was a gentle smile under compassionate eyes. He went on to explain that the main objective is to “change the mind, change the man.” The program would focus on rehabilitation, instead of just retribution. It would call for mentors on the inside, resource centers on the outside, education, and counseling to give prisoners the tools to turn their lives around.
Later, he showed me this proposal, a hefty handwritten tome. He had told me he had sent a photocopied version to the governor some years back.
“Did he write you back?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he sighed, then smiled to cover his disappointment. “They sent me a letter that said thank you for your concern; we will forward it to the appropriate department.”
“It’s a good idea,” I said. “Maybe they’ll use it.”
He waved it off, that it was out of his hands now.
“When do you get out?” I asked. I was thinking that a guy like this would be great in the documentary.
He laughed. Only the barest hint of bitterness.
“What?”
“I don’t,” he said. “Life without parole.”
I couldn’t think of something to say. I hate it when people tell me they have life. What do you say to that? “Sucks you’re going to die in here?” Then I thought of something.
“If you’re never getting out, why would you care about re-entry barriers and helping people transition to society?”
He nodded, as if he expected that question. “I’ve been in here for 22 years. You know how many people I see leave and then come right back? It makes me sick, because I know if I had a chance to get out I would never come back. And I see the brokenness of our system; I want to do my part to fix it.”
I wanted to tell him that it was unlikely society would take anything he said seriously, no matter how well thought out it was. He wore orange and that alone disqualified his opinion on anything. I wanted to tell him that it was useless. The problem too big, his voice too small. I wanted to say all this; until I realized that it wasn’t to him I wanted to say those things. They were things I had been whispering to myself since I applied for the fellowship. That voice that said, “What’s the point?”
Looking at that naive idealism in his eyes, that humble nobility, I felt defeated and inspired all at once.
I went to medical, and as I was waiting, I got to talking with this guy. We’ll call him T. I was telling him how I applied for this fellowship on mass incarceration, and how my project was going to be about re-entry barriers and its effect on recidivism. He told me about a proposal he wrote on how to effectively transition prisoners to society.
“It’s a four tier approach,” he said with a smile. It was a gentle smile under compassionate eyes. He went on to explain that the main objective is to “change the mind, change the man.” The program would focus on rehabilitation, instead of just retribution. It would call for mentors on the inside, resource centers on the outside, education, and counseling to give prisoners the tools to turn their lives around.
Later, he showed me this proposal, a hefty handwritten tome. He had told me he had sent a photocopied version to the governor some years back.
“Did he write you back?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he sighed, then smiled to cover his disappointment. “They sent me a letter that said thank you for your concern; we will forward it to the appropriate department.”
“It’s a good idea,” I said. “Maybe they’ll use it.”
He waved it off, that it was out of his hands now.
“When do you get out?” I asked. I was thinking that a guy like this would be great in the documentary.
He laughed. Only the barest hint of bitterness.
“What?”
“I don’t,” he said. “Life without parole.”
I couldn’t think of something to say. I hate it when people tell me they have life. What do you say to that? “Sucks you’re going to die in here?” Then I thought of something.
“If you’re never getting out, why would you care about re-entry barriers and helping people transition to society?”
He nodded, as if he expected that question. “I’ve been in here for 22 years. You know how many people I see leave and then come right back? It makes me sick, because I know if I had a chance to get out I would never come back. And I see the brokenness of our system; I want to do my part to fix it.”
I wanted to tell him that it was unlikely society would take anything he said seriously, no matter how well thought out it was. He wore orange and that alone disqualified his opinion on anything. I wanted to tell him that it was useless. The problem too big, his voice too small. I wanted to say all this; until I realized that it wasn’t to him I wanted to say those things. They were things I had been whispering to myself since I applied for the fellowship. That voice that said, “What’s the point?”
Looking at that naive idealism in his eyes, that humble nobility, I felt defeated and inspired all at once.
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