Who we aspire to be

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 2014.

 

            They beheaded him. It made “Breaking News” like all the others before him. Was he a journalist, an aid worker, or just a guy who saw abject suffering and it gnawed at him until he decided to do something, to witness what horrors man continues to inflict on his fellow man and to say, “At least with me, no more.” They cut his head off all the while filming the entire brutal, ugly incident. They filmed and they scoffed.

            And we react with revulsion at the barbarism and inhumanity, at the lack of moral clarity in the act and the words. We cry out for “justice,” yet it isn’t justice we seek, its vengeance. We demand retribution all the while ignoring the blood that is on our own hands.

            The issue, we are told this week, is whether “enhanced interrogation techniques are effective in stopping terrorism.” The issue, we are told, is given the nature of our enemy, what is acceptable in a “war unique in the annals of history.” I respectfully disagree. The real question is: does our conduct in war – and peace – keep with the ideals of this country? Or, as Senator John McCain so eloquently put it, “Does this represent who we were, who we are, and who we aspire to be?”

            I speak of the recently released report on CIA activities during the days following 9/11. In truth, I speak beyond that to the foundational notion that exceptional nations act exceptionally. Americans understand in their gut that the reason government must always vest “in the people” is because governments – like all human – failed creatures that we are – institutions are capable of evil. As a believer in the redemptive power of God’s grace. I understand all too well that we are all fallen, we are all sinful, we are all capable of doing the “wrong” thing at any given time. But, we are called to see, as President Lincoln, described it, “the better angels” in ourselves. When we justify the use of torture in the name of a “war” against anyone, we are no more moral, no less evil, than those who attack us.

            Fear causes us to do extraordinary things. I remember those first weeks after 9/11 when we weren’t sure if more attacks were coming, when we weren’t sure even how many were dead. There were rumors attacks; anthrax scares. And my immediate reaction was one of bloodlust. “Kill them all,” I thought. That was hardly a unique perspective.

            It has been that way throughout our collective history. In the Civil War we held soldiers in horrendous prison camps. Sherman burned a path through Georgia and the Carolinas; Lincoln usurped the Constitution and set aside habeas corpus relief. In World War I, German-Americans were rounded up; Congress passed numerous laws which denied basic First Amendment rights of dissent and speech. World War II and we rounded up American citizens of Japanese descent. We put them in “internment camps” and took their property.  In the name of victory we bombed cities in Germany: Cologne, Dresden, Hamburg, killing tens of thousands of innocent men, women, and children, noncombatants. Against Japan we vaporized two whole cities.

            During Korea we allowed Senator McCarthy and his band of red-baiters to destroy fellow citizen’s lives by declaring them “communists.” Vietnam and we watched our air force drop napalm on villages, Agent Orange defoliage on our own troops; we had My Lai and other atrocities. No, our history is replete with our own acts of barbarism.

            Men have been held at Guantanamo Bay for over thirteen years without charge. Our government tortured men: waterboarding, “rectal” feeding, threats with sexual attack, sleep deprivation, solitary confinement, cold and chained to a wall; in the name of saving our country. But what is worth saving if we commit to that type of behavior?

            “Who we aspire to be.” I have the utmost respect for Senator McCain. He knows full well the pain and anguish of torture. In the hands of our Vietnamese enemy, McCain was repeatedly beaten. He was hung by his arms until his shoulders came out of socket. He was kept in solitary confinement, deprived of food and medical care. Senator McCain says he would have done anything, said anything, to stop the torture. Torture is just that – torture. I read in Louie Zamperini’s amazing biography, “Unbroken,” of the horrendous treatment he withstood at the hands of sadistic guards. Is that who we aspire to be?

            British philosopher Edmund Burke said “the only thing necessary for evil to succeed is for a few good men to do nothing.” Evil is never overcome by evil. You overcome evil by good. An editorial cartoon published on the day the CIA report was released shows a grinning OBL in hell holding up a sign that says, “We win.” “Who we aspire to be.”

            For the last six and a half years I have seen some of the worst in men … and some of the best. I have had to rethink every preconceived notion I held about justice, law, and my obligations as a Christian, a citizen, a human being. I know that evil will never be overcome by evil. We must aspire to be like the Good Samaritan, to show mercy to those in need and forgiveness to those who cause us harm.

            As the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer was led to the gallows, the SS doctor observing his execution noted he had never seen a man so at peace as he faced his death. “They may kill your body, but they can’t kill your soul.” Those words are in the Gospel of Luke. They killed Bonhoeffer on a spring day in 1945 but his memory, his writings, his faith lives on. And his executioners? Long forgotten. Who do we aspire to be?

 

Thoreau in a Week

American philosopher and essayist Henry David Thoreau said, “Under a government which imprisons unjustly, the true place for a just man is prison.”  I don’t profess to be the man Thoreau was talking about, though I do know the American Criminal Justice System is broken.  What passes for justice these days is not what our national myths about justice look like.  And prisons are too full of too many people.  America is a land of 47,000,000 convicts.  That is the number, roughly fifteen percent of the country, who have criminal convictions on their records.  Two million are behind bars with over half of those doing time for nonviolent crimes.  Another six million are on probation or parole supervision.

The “Land of the Free” is now the “Land of the Convicted”.  The cost in real dollars, not to mention lives lost, families broken, and communities damaged, exceeds $60 billion annually.  And that’s just the prison/incarceration costs.  Add to that the cost to prosecute (from arrest, arraignment, bail, hearing, preliminary hearing, etc.) and the real costs exceed $250 billion.  That’s a quarter of a trillion spent annually to arrest, convict, and lock up over one million Americans each year.

The system breeds corruption, graft and incompetence.  One need only read one chapter of Conrad Black’s memoir, “A Matter of Principle”, to see that the issues I raise in this blog are not unique to this Southside Virginia prison.  Every day, in every state and in the Federal system, the mismanaged, unjust, failed corrections paradigm is repeated. 

Each day this week, from Monday through Saturday, an incident occurred here which reinforced everything wrong with prison.  As I write this recap of my week on a crisp winter Sunday morning shortly after completing my run and workout, I can’t help but think of the Psalmist’s words of comfort:  “The Lord hears the groaning of prisoners….”  I have no hope in the elected officials of this state or this nation to do the right thing, the just thing, as it relates to the epidemic of unchecked incarceration.  I have the utmost hope in God.

Monday:  At dinner Monday night an old inmate was unable to stand up after eating.  His legs buckled, his head sagged.  He shook, almost as though he had Parkinson’s disease.  “Do you want to go to medical old timer?”  Two different officers asked him.  “No”, he mumbled.  What did the officers do?  They got a wheelchair and had another inmate wheel him back to our building.

College student, you ask?  No.  The “old timer” is a 67 year old man brought in here directly from the local jail to do his last eight months and go through “re-entry”.  He lacks a high school diploma (education level is 4^th grade).  He is hepatitis B and C positive and uses a cane.

He’s brought back to the building where he promptly rolls out of the wheelchair and into his bed.  Shaking violently, he is unable to stand for count.  The officer waits until count “clears” (twenty minutes) before calling for a wheelchair.  They pack his personal belongings up at 3:00 am.

Tuesday:  At 7:30 am we lose water pressure.  The water intermittently returns through 3:00 pm.  When the pressure fails, ninety-two men are denied access to toilets.  When the water returns it is chocolate brown with sediment.  The officers are instructed to turn off the washers and ice maker; “Don’t want to ruin the filters.”  Inmates are told the water is fit to drink yet carts are wheeled around the compound with bottled water for the staff.  After the night shift arrives – 6:00 pm – a memo from the warden mysteriously appears worded as though notice was given about the water problem in the a.m.  By Wednesday, the water has cleared.

Wednesday:  As we are walking up to the school building we notice all the yard men in line on the boulevard while two “drug” dogs swoop around them.  Looking to our left, we see another team of drug dogs with about ten officers heading into building 6A.  Rumors are all over the compound that the dog team “sat” on two guys in 6A.  Drug use, evidenced by dirty urines, is rampant.  The amount and choice of drugs available on the compound right now isn’t from visitors sneaking them in.  Quantities such as these require CO assistance.

Thursday:  “Adaptor Check.  Adaptor Check.”  It’s 8:00 am and the building intercom suddenly announces that everyone need return to their bunks and show their electronic adaptors.  A dozen officers and counselors swoop in.  I show my Sony CD adaptor to a building counselor and intern from the college nearby.  She asks my name.  When I give it she looks up.  A very pretty college junior, I can’t help but think my ex is her intern advisor and she recognized my name.  Tattooing – with homemade guns – is everywhere on the compound.  And, with the weekly turnover of inmates (fifty each week into and out of re-entry) there is a huge black market in electronics.

Friday:  The four academic aides are two weeks into keeping the lid on DVD porn smuggled into the compound.  Guys are getting laptops and then covering them with towels to take into the bathroom.  I wonder if we should spray the computers with luminal and use a black light to see what body fluids we’re being exposed to.  At the least, we are getting disposable gloves.  It is a moral dilemma.  You don’t rat out another inmate.  But, these guys could be jeopardizing the program.  We do what we can and make arrangements to disable the “D” drive eliminating DVD and CD use.

Saturday:  I have my monthly visit with my parents who drive ninety miles to see me.  My father will be 80 this year.  My mother will turn 78.  They are in excellent health and enjoy an active life.  My mother said to me, “I hate coming here to visit you; the pat downs, the loss of privacy….”  Her chin quivered and her voice trailed off.  I understand.  I hate that they have to see me in here.  But, I appreciate their visits and support.

My father is a Korean War veteran.  He and my mother have been married since 1955.  They have paid their taxes, voted in every election, and represent what this country stood for.  They sat silently in the courtroom when I admitted my wrongdoing.  They listened as the judge handed down a sentence harsher than most get for murder, rape or child sex abuse.  For the first time in their lives they saw that their nation’s criminal justice system isn’t fair.  It’s driven by politics and revenge.  Most importantly, my parents visit because they love me and know I am not the sum total of my conviction.  I think that’s why my close friends and other family continue to stay by my side throughout this sentence.

Just a typical week inside this place.  But, it gave me insight into Mr. Thoreau’s remark.  He didn’t say a perfect man.  He said a just man.  Perhaps there is a reason for all this.  Perhaps one small thing I write will make a difference.  Perhaps Mr. Thoreau will be vindicated and justice will prevail.

Bend, Don't Break

DC came by to talk to me the other night. As I’ve written before, DC is one of the most interesting guys I’ve ever met. Though we are from completely different worlds, I feel a kinship with him I’ve seldom felt. Prison is terrible, but survivable because of the friendships I’ve been blessed with. I count DC as one of those blessings.



He knew I’d been struggling in a valley these past few weeks. He knew I felt beaten down and abandoned by friends whom had been there for me, yet now when I so desperately needed to hear from them, utter silence. He knew I was dealing with another round of rejection from loved ones that had set me back months, if not years. He came by and sat down and never once mentioned my situation. Instead, he told me something his father told him when he was sitting in the hole years ago.


His father, a Korean War infantryman, told him “take every day at a time. Bend, don’t break. When you lay down at night, thank God He saw you through.” DC then stood up, headed back out of my cut. Before leaving, he looked at me, told me he respected my courage, my compassion for these guys and my decency and simply ended “just bend”.


I went to bed that night like I do every other evening by reciting the words to the 103rd Psalm, by praying that my ex find someone she can love and trust and in turn loves her unconditionally, that my sons are joyous, secure, forgiving and loving. I prayed for my parents, for my cousin and her husband who have been so steadfast in their love and support for me, and for friends – even as some pull away from me. Those are difficult prayers at times for me as I struggle with issues like rejection and abandonment. Still, I pray. That night I added one additional prayer: “Please don’t let me break, God. I know you’re listening. Let me bend, not break.”


There’s a lot going on right now. I am working an extraordinary amount of hours, close to twelve a day, helping guys with their college studies. I’m paid forty-five cents per hour for thirty hours of work. The money isn’t necessarily the issue. No, I’m working my butt off to keep guys motivated who have an initial reaction to difficulty to quit. I’m working my butt off for guys who are all going home in the next one to two years (max), many of whom are here for their second or third time. Meanwhile, I still have ten years remaining on my sentence.


As I lay in bed I began to think I must be crazy. Everything I knew, everything I built, everything I longed for, was gone. And, here I was putting out all this effort and I had nothing to show for it. All night I tossed and turned. I finally got out of my bunk at 3:30 and began to pray. “Please let me bend, not break today” I prayed. I noticed my devotional was from the Sermon on the Mount. As I read the Beatitudes I wondered what they really meant. “Blessed are the poor in spirit…” I reached for Big S’s modern language Bible.


“You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you, there is more of God and His role.”


“Your blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.”


Those words rolled through my brain. “At the end of my rope.” I’d been there almost every day the past six weeks. Not a day had gone by that I didn’t wonder what was my breaking point. I was hanging by a thread, reaching for a small light that grew dimmer each moment. “Lost what is most dear to you.” Let’s see, rejected by my wife and kids, loss of my freedom, loss of my wealth, abandonment by friends. Things were so bad I’ve had crack addicts doing their fourth bid tell me “damn, your life sucks.”


“Bend, don’t break.” Those words kept hitting me between the eyes. I remembered an anonymous quote I picked up shortly after my arrest. It said simply,


“Pain is synonymous with spirituality. When you’re in the most pain you are closest to God.”


The simple fact was, I realized, that there was absolutely nothing I could do that day to get me out of prison right then, or make my ex-wife love and forgive me, or make my kids tell me they loved and missed me, or make a close friend take five minutes out of his day to write me back. But, I could make a difference in these guys’ lives.


So that afternoon, I led a review session in the dayroom for a group of English students on critically evaluating a social science piece called “Can Money Buy Happiness?”