Is humanity ultimately good? We commonly accept the idea that "no one is perfect," so we clearly recognize the idea that humans make mistakes, but when do the mistakes amount to "bad character"? Can a good person make mistakes?
I recently started a book written by a talented author. This author is impressive in many ways; he is a talented storyteller and he connects with people in a unique way that makes for intriguing stories. However, I once had a conversation about this author and the plausibility that his perceived strengths were actually masking a superiority complex and a problematic sense of entitlement to the stories of the people that he interacts with. Immediately, my excitement for this new book dimmed as I remembered this conversation and questioned whether this author was someone I should support. But, I noticed myself wanting to shift away from this complicated feeling. "So what?" "I just want to enjoy a nice book." I grew concerned about these thoughts. My privilege allows me to shy away from uncomfortable thoughts, so I should resist the urge, right? This got me thinking about the ways in which I force myself to see the ugly truths of the world. My privilege has shielded me and it is up to me to educate myself to what is actually happening. This usually results in a sense of strength and understanding of others, but in challenging moments it invites despair. Nothing is ever easy, it seems, and if you look hard enough at anything, you can find the cracks caused by inequality and injustice.
Is it ever possible to accept the bad as truth, but still find peace in the rest? Can a person be both problematic and inspiring? Can a situation be problematic and productive?
My thoughts on this issue are still underdeveloped so I will spend this time checking in with myself and hopefully I will be able to make nonsense of it.
Inspiration: COVID-19 quarantine
The Reoccurring Nightmare
March 17, 2020
When people ask me how I am able to defend inmates on death row, I explain that it is easy for me because I believe the death penalty is torture. Regardless of the harm that a person has inflicted on the world, the sentence of death imposed by a jury of twelve chills my soul so much more.
I have a reoccurring nightmare in which I am in a house covered with doors and windows when an unidentified intruder tries to get in. In the dream, I have to run from hiding spot to hiding spot as the intruder tries to find a way into the house through an unlocked door or an open window. I do not know who the person is, but I am certain that he intends to kill me.
When I wake from this dream, I always feel a rush of relief as I realize that I am safe in my bed. Still, my heart races and my limbs ache from the stress that I experienced. For a moment, I can barely move from the physical and mental exhaustion.
I cannot imagine the horror I would feel in my dream if I were unable to run or to hide. The suffering that I experience in the moments as I try to save myself is significant. The idea that a person sentenced to death sits knowing that they will be murdered and there is no where to run makes me sick to my stomach. Such a sentence teases the basic human instinct to survive.
The idea that death being purposely let into the house rendering all effort to save myself futile is enough to make me want to never fall asleep again.
Inspiration: The inmates currently awaiting execution in California.
Restorative Justice
September 12, 2019
As a part of an in-class assignment, I recently was asked to reflect on a time in which I was a victim of a crime. I am enrolled in a Wrongful Convictions seminar for my third and final year in law school and this week we were discussing restorative justice.
I quickly remembered the one time in which I have been made a victim of a crime: the time that my roommate's car was stolen while I was borrowing it for work. It happened on Friday, December 2, 2016. I remember because it was the day before I was scheduled to take my law school admissions test (LSAT). This bitter fact is just one of a long list that piled so high that day that I could barely breath. In fact, one of the few things I vividly remember from that day was not being able to catch my breath as I hyperventilated in the parking lot.
My work required me to have a reliable form of transportation, but I was a full-time volunteer and I could not afford a car of my own. My roommate/coworker was gracious enough to allow me to take his car when I needed it.
On the day that the car was stolen, I remember returning from an errand in the city. I stopped by my office to grab my lunch and I dropped the keys off in the top drawer of my desk so that I would not misplace them. I left my office with the door locked. Later that day, I ran into my roommate and I let him know that I was done using his car for the day and that he could stop by my office to pick up the keys whenever he had time.
Some time later, we ran into each other again and he asked if I had placed the key in a new spot because he did not find them where I usually leave them. Naively, I dismissed this. I knew that I had left them where I always had and I was sure that he must not have looked for them close enough. He left and returned soon after to say that he car was not in the parking lot.
I immediately felt sick. I ran outside and searched as quickly as I could every stretch of the lot. That is when the panic attack hit as I realized that I had lost my roommates car. Then, it occurred to me that rather than having lost his car, his car was stolen from me. Stolen by someone who would have had access to my locked office - someone that I trusted.
Over the next few hours, my brain turned to mush as the reality sunk in. I was a volunteer. I had no savings. I was now responsible for paying for someone else's car when I could not even afford a car of my own. Someone did this to me. They knew me. They knew that I was defenseless and that I had no safety net. I felt violated and I began to question everyone. Without knowing the identity of the person who had broken my trust, I could not trust anyone.
Luckily, one week and one stressful LSAT exam later, the car was abandoned without a scratch. The police called to let us know that they had found it and that they were returning it. To them, all was now well and in many ways it was. I was so relieved to be able to stop worrying about how I was going to make this up to my roommate and the financial ruin it would leave me in. I never imagined we would ever see the car again and to see it was one of the best feelings.
Yet, there was still a part of me that was not healed by the return of the car. I still felt violated and I still could not trust anyone that I worked with. A couple weeks later, I left my job. My feelings of resentment were too much and I believed the whole incident was a sign that the feelings were mutual. I went on to a better job where I was much happier and I hardly ever think about the car except as an amusing story to my law school friends.
For the class assignment, I was asked if I felt that restorative justice could have brought me some form of healing that the criminal justice system had not been able to bring me. Restorative justice practices bring together those who caused a harm with those who were harmed in an effort to allow both sides to share their experience of what happened and to create a consensus for what can be done to address the harm. The idea behind such practices is that often times the harms that are suffered cannot be healed simply by punishing the perpetrator. Sometimes, saying your piece or hearing "I'm so sorry," can do so much more than a prison sentence.
I thought about the question briefly and then said that I did not think that I would have wanted some form of restorative justice. What would I even want to know? Why they did it? I assume the response would be, "because I wanted to." I was skeptical.
After some thought, however, I have changed my mind. I don't think that I would care about an apology, but I would like to know if there was a rationale behind why this happened. I guess left to my own imagination, I have made the person who did this out to be hateful, greedy, and remorseless. I wonder if any of that is not actually true. I think it would make me feel better to know if they had a reason or if they regret what they did. I wonder what questions I may have been able to come up with in the moment that I am not even conscious that I am curios about right now.
If nothing else, I think I really could have benefited from just knowing who had caused the harm. It could have allowed me to put aside my questions and begin to focus on how to move forward. Granted, this kind of harm was nothing compared to the harm suffered by people who are physically harmed by the actions of another, but I cannot help but wonder if there are avenues for even those who have suffered the most egregious harm to come to a restorative form of justice.
Inspiration: Rectify: The Power of Restorative Justice After Wrongful Conviction by Professor Lara Bazelon
There’s No Such Thing as Monsters
August 14, 2019
This summer I had the extraordinary opportunity to travel to Arkansas and spend time with men on death row. My experience taught me many things, but most notably I learned that there is no such thing as monsters. A saying so simple that we tell children to help them sleep kept creeping into my thoughts all summer.
I spent two months visiting death row and rather than meeting the monsters of true crime horror stories, I met humans who brought with them all of the wonders and flaws of humanity - a form of raw humanity that has resulted in the following reflection.
I am human, too.
I just thought I should remind you, that I am human, too. I feel pain, yearn for pleasure, just as you do. I am inspired and I get bored, just as I used to.
I want you to feel comfortable, but I am human, too. I have questions and I make assumptions, just as you do. I need love and affirmation, just as I used to.
I know I have let you down, because I am human, too. I regret the ways I have caused you pain, know that I truly do. Still, each day I grow in love, just as I used to.
As I take my final breath, remember that I am human, too. I will think fondly of all whom I have loved, just as you do. And I will hope for a better tomorrow, just as always do.
Inspiration: The wonderful men I have come to know who are currently awaiting execution in Arkansas.
Never Alone
July 29, 2019
Over the past few weeks, death and loss have become a running theme in my work and in my life in general. Thankfully, I have not suffered a significant loss in some time which may be the reason why I have had the head space to mull over my ideas around these topics. In particular, I have been reflecting heavily about a story that I often do not share. This is partly because it involves suicide which I know is a difficult topic for many - including myself - and partly because this story involves an event which still rattles me to my core. Yet, what happened next was so incomprehensible and amazing that it pains me when I am unable to convey its magic through my words. Sometimes I get it right and I will do my best to make this one of those times.
In September of 2016, I lost a special person in my life to suicide. My friend was "the happy friend" that we have all been warned to look out for, but sadly, we did not do enough for her. I was devastated by her death and most significantly I felt alone in my grief. I had just begun a year of service in a new city a few weeks before, I was living with complete strangers, and working for free made it impossible for me to attend her funeral several states away. The first few days were sad and I allowed my self time to cry but soon I had to get back to work. These days were a blur and I felt that I had no one to talk to who knew her or even knew me. I was alone with my thoughts.
Gratefully, a roommate of mine did all that she could to be there for me. I was barely able to express to her what was going on, and yet, she cared for me despite having few details. All that she knew was that my friend had passed and that I was missing her funeral. So my roommate devised a plan. She told me that she would pick me up from work on that upcoming Wednesday afternoon and together we would go to a nearby church for their daily service. She had arranged with the church to have the mass in honor of my friend and she explained that if I could not go to the funeral, we would have our own funeral so that I could say my goodbyes. This idea gave me such a feeling of relief. I had been so down that I could not begin to come to solutions, but thankfully, my roommate carried that weight for me.
On that Wednesday in September, I was consumed with the feeling that a personal funeral would be just what I needed. I was desperate for an opportunity to honor my friend as she deserved and I was thankful not to be going it alone. My roommate did not understand what I was going through, but she was willing to walk with me while I went through it. I needed that.
After work, I met my roommate in the parking lot of where I worked and we walked to the church. We talked the whole way about my friend and I told so many stories about the person that she was so that my roommate might know her a little better. When we arrived at the church, we had to do a little exploring to find that small room in the basement where the daily masses were held. We had attended this church maybe once before but neither of us had ever attended daily mass here. It was a medium-sized room but it seemed much larger as the pews were hardly occupied. As we took our seats, I glanced around and counted maybe 10 people in the whole room. I remember feeling a sense of relief because I knew that I would soon be a mess and I would not have to worry too much about disturbing others.
After 10 minutes or so, we noticed that mass seemed to be running behind schedule. This is not particularly unusual so I was not concerned until we heard the projected voice of a man at the back of the room who informed us that the priest who was supposed to hold mass had just been rushed to the hospital and no other priest was available to hold mass. I was crushed. As concerned as I should have been for the priest on his way to the emergency room, selfishly, I felt defeated in my attempt to mourn my friend.
With a sigh, my roommate and I stood up to leave before a woman a few rows in front of us turned and announced to the room that she would be happy to lead the Rosary for anyone interested. My roommate and I looked at one another, gave each other a kind of "what could it hurt" shrug, and returned to our seats. As we lowered the kneeler, my roommate turned to me and said that she had never prayed the Rosary in a group before. She was not alone.
Before she began, the woman in the front pew offered to allow anyone interested to take over whenever they felt called to do so. As we prayed, I managed to follow along somewhat ungracefully, but I let myself fall into the practice with my grief. I cried as we repeated the prayers and I felt almost as if I was speaking directly to my friend with each word. I could feel each word beating throughout the room and reverberating down my whole body.
A few decades in and I heard the soft voice of a woman in the back row of the room take over the prayer. As we approached the end, the woman in the front of the room asked for any intentions to be offered up. Everyone began to speak in turn as I gathered the composure to offer up my friend's name, but before I could, I heard her name ring out from the back of the room. Immediately, my eyes shot open and my heart began to pound so loud that I could feel it in my ears. The woman who spoke my friend's name, identified my friend as her niece who had just recently passed away. My neck snapped towards the source of the voice and found a thin older woman sitting alone in the back of the room; the same woman who took over a portion of the Rosary just moments before. I turned to my roommate with eyes wide to find her face drained of life. She had heard it too and she understood what it meant.
I sat back in my pew as my limbs went numb and my mind raced. Did I make that up? Not possible, my roommate heard her, too, right? Without a word to my roommate, I stood up and in a daze I walked over to the woman. I knelt down right where she was sitting and told her that her niece was my friend. Without saying anything, she let out a cry as she pulled me in for a tight hug. We sat there sobbing in each others arms and I realized that I was finally in the presence of someone who understood.
Over the course of the next year, we stayed in touch and turned to each other for comfort. We both had wildly different stories about my friend that we would swap when we spent time together. We still reflect on how miraculous it was to find each other the way that we did. Neither of us were regulars at the church where we met much less did either of us attend daily mass. I was new to the city and only stayed for a short time; she lived in the suburbs. The date that we attended was random for both of us. We both just felt called to be there that day for reasons we do not know. The odds that the two of us were in that church for that particular mass, that the mass was canceled, and that we both stayed to pray the Rosary were so slim that I know in my soul that my friend brought us both there. She knew that we needed each other that year and that I needed the reminder that I was never alone.
In memory of Marguerite.
I am girl.
June 8, 2018
Currently, there is a wave of women who are fighting hard to demand the use of the term "woman" rather than "girl" whenever referring to a female-identifying adult. They declare that just as a person would not refer to a grown man as a boy, women should be treated with the same level of respect. I gladly adopted this way of thinking for some time. After all, women definitely deserve to be treated with respect. You will not catch me denying that. Yet, for some reason, rejecting the term "girl" has and continues to give me a strange feeling. Rejecting the term did not make me feel as empowered as I had expected to be and I wanted to explore why.
What is wrong with being called a girl? I guess, this is my first question. Or maybe my first question should be "what is wrong with a man being called a boy?" When I see boys, I see young people who lack many of the traces of a poisonous patriarchy. When I see boys, I see wild innocence. However, for men, it is a different story. Toxic masculinity has created a narrative which says that anything associated with being a boy is not acceptable for a man. To be non-man is to be too close to woman. To be man, a person must shackle themselves with the characteristics that have been held in such high regard as to render them honors despite any negative implications for others. Boyhood is shunned by men, thus, it is shameful to refer to a grown man as a "boy."
In similar fashion, women have advocated for similar treatment of the term "girl." If you would not dare refer to a man as a boy out of respect for the man, why would it be okay to refer to a woman as a girl? Agreed. And yet, I feel as though we are sacrificing something when we take this stance against these youthful terms. Sure, when we are being adults that are "adult-ing," I can understand and relate to a person who would rather be referred to by adult terms. It makes sense. in other instances; however, I fear that we may be working to follow men off of the cliff of toxicity.
In the absence of toxic masculinity, girls are often raised with the opportunity to flow back and forth between adult and child. It is not shocking for a woman to be wildly innocent the way that it is for men. Women are permitted to acknowledge their emotions in ways in which men are not. Women can cry, women can love hard, and women can share with one another. Women are free to be caring, kind, gentle, and playful. As men chose to be ashamed of their vulnerability, I hope that women do not. These characteristics which most of us developed as girls are some of my favorite things about being a woman.
This is not to say that I believe that a person who chooses to only be referred to or refer to others as a "woman" is promoting toxic femininity. I mean only to say that as women, we deserve respect and to maintain our healthy relationship with our vulnerability.
I am woman and I am girl. Inspiration: The Juvenile Justice Center, San Leandro, CA
The donation box is filled
February 14, 2017
The donation box on my desk is filled by a woman and her three happy children running through the lobby. The donation box is filled by a stressed-out father of two. The donation box is filled with bills found at the bottom of a young girl's nearly empty purse. The donation box is filled by a family leaving the office with echos of laughter. The donation box is filled by a teenage boy that worries that he cannot afford college. The donation box is filled by a man that fears that he will be forcibly removed from his home. The donation box is filled by people that understand that when we only have a little to give, a little is enough.
Dorothy Day writes, "What we would like to do is change the world–make it a little simpler for people to feed, clothe and shelter themselves as God intended them to do. And to a certain extent, by fighting for better conditions, by crying out unceasingly for the rights of the workers, of the poor, of the destitute–the rights of the worthy and the unworthy poor in other words, we can to a certain extent change the world; we can work for the oasis, the little cell of joy and peace in a harried world. We can throw our pebble in the pond and be confident that its ever widening circle will reach around the world."
Throw pebbles and keep the donation box filled at all times.
Inspiration: Migrant and Immigrant Community Action Project & Casa Kavanaugh, St. Louis, MO
Beatitudes.
January 29, 2017
Blessed are they who advocate for the rights of all humans: for theirs is peace on earth. Blessed are victims of law and immigration enforcement brutality: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are refugee and asylum seekers: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are those that go without: for they shall be filled. Blessed are those that serve and support nonprofits: for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are they who show unconditional love for strangers: for they shall see peace. Blessed are parents that teach acceptance: for they shall be called leaders of justice. Blessed are they that see value in all life: for theirs is satisfaction. Blessed are you that stands up for what you believe; rejoice, and be exceedingly empowered, for love is your reward on earth.
Inspiration: St. Cronan's Catholic Church, St. Louis, MO
Don't Stay Silent and Don't Sit Still
November 17, 2016
An unexpected struggle that I have faced during my time in JVC is maintaining an orderly Tupperware cabinet. In both of my communities, these containers have posed challenges that no one ever prepared me for. I have spent more time than I would like to admit sorting lids and stacking plastic to make storing leftovers or packing lunches less of a hassle.
Those moments give you more than a few minutes to think and in doing so my internal monologue is less than hesitant to remind me of how frustrating the task is. It is easy to think that what you're doing doesn't matter. Pretty soon the cabinet will become cluttered again and my effort will be unrecognizable. At times, I argue to myself to give up and embrace the chaos, but something will not allow me to let it go. Ultimately, I know that my work has an impact. That impact may be small and unnoticed but the brief feelings of peace that follows opening the door to an organized cabinet keeps me coming back.
That makes me wonder where we draw the line on the value of our efforts and the efforts of others. When is "enough" enough and who gets to decide that? When is "not enough" okay and who decides that? I think the issue I am really struggling with is the fear that I will seem foolish for working towards a seemingly useless cause. I am worried that I will continue to work hard and I will come into contact with others working directly in opposition of me. That's scary to think that you will give it your all and still get nowhere. It is much easier to set that feeling of obligation to the wayside in an effort to rejoin the others in the dome of indifference. What would I have to lose if I learned to simply look the other way?
I have to be honest, I am not actually this emotional about our Tupperware cabinet but the mild feelings that I have definitely mirror the intense feelings that I have about the work that I do in my community. The fears of looking foolish, of fighting battles much bigger than myself and of uselessness are very much a part of the mix of emotions that I experience regularly. So, what keeps me coming back?This is a question to which I have answers, but my answers cannot find the words. Like the organized cabinet, something about the momentary peace that I witness or experience is enough to prevent me from throwing in the towel.
Both of my JVC communities committed to living weekly challenges that allow us to make the choice to experience aspects of our privilege with a new perspective. Most challenges revolve around simple living experiences such as taking cold showers or not sleeping in a bed. Although I feel like these challenges have enriched my overall experience, onlookers often voice their concerns about the purpose of such challenges. We are asked to defend the ways that our choices contribute to the communities that we serve. They don't. We are criticized for attempting to simulate experiences to compare to the actual experiences that the communities we are working with do not have a choice over. They don't.
So why bother? It would be easier and often times seemingly more respectful to our clients and students if we don't. We learn about the consequences of certain experiences beyond those that meet the eye, sure, but so what? When my community chose to go a week without cooking any of our food, we expected to be bored with the food that we ate but we did not expect the feelings of hunger that we consistently felt as a result of craving warm meals or the lack of comfort the cold food provided us with. But so what? Now we know but what does that matter? It matters. The awareness that these challenges bring us have significant implications that we often overlook in a society that craves production and efficiency. I am different because of my work and because of these challenges. I make decisions that now are directly and indirectly influenced by these experiences.
Before those experiences, I did not understand and that lack of knowledge is often misconstrued as a lack of care. I can only imagine the frustration that I caused before these realizations and I know that there are countless more ways that my lack of awareness contributes to the injustice that the people around me experience. Spreading awareness is not a simple solution to all of the massively complicated problems that our community faces. It is, however, definitely a first step that can have a significant impact on decisions of justice in our community. So wear your pin, hold your sign, make phone calls, protest, write letters and speak up for what you believe in every time you get the chance not simply once the votes have been counted or the decision has been made. The Tupperware cabinet will become chaos yet again if you let it.
Your words and your actions have as much power to help as they do to hurt so don't stay silent and don't sit still. Funny, that is exactly the opposite of what we try to teach our kids.
Inspiration: De La Salle Middle School, St. Louis, MO
Hard Questions and Their Easy Answers
October 18, 2016
The words we use to describe our world tell us a lot about who we are. It shines a light on what we think and the issues we care about. Everything that we love, everything that we are passionate about, and everything that we hate can be detected in the words that we use.
I recently asked my students to give me words that they think people would use to describe them. They said:
These words make up the beauty of my students - who they truly are. Each of my students are each of these words in some way. Yet, far too often the words that we hear when talking about young black children show little resemblance to the words listed above.
So who do we speak of when we speak about young black people?
Why do you get to decide if a young man of color is outgoing or aggressive?
Why do you get to decide if a young woman of color is brave or ghetto?
Will the young women and men that possess the aforementioned admirable qualities be able to share them with the world or will their applications be skipped over because of the pronunciation of their name?
Can you muster the courage to gaze above your computer screen to see the people that are standing before you asking you to see them for who they really are?
Inspiration: De La Salle Middle School, St. Louis, MO
A Classroom Cell.
October 3, 2016
“Don’t shout,” we shout. Tuck in, sit down, don’t talk. Fear. Adults in fear scream for normal. Children in fear reach for normal.
Fear is not normal.
Fear fears a lack of fear. Interest knows no fear. Attention. “Pay attention.” No attention to what they fear. No time in the day to show interest to the fear. No interest to make time to show interest to the fear.
Fear is not normal.
“Don’t shoot.” We shoot. Lock out, lock down, lock up. Fear. Once children, now adults screaming in anger. New children living under a veil of fear.
Fear is not normal.
Think peace: bring peace:: force peace: no peace. Shouting and shooting become so twisted; they cannot pull apart. Still, every day we ask, “but where did it start?”
Inspiration: De La Salle Middle School, St. Louis, MO