Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.
—Mark Twain
History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage need not be lived again.
—Maya Angelou
An overarching theme from the beginning of this program has been the struggle between the identity each man has as a criminal, versus the person they identify with now. Throughout their time in the institution, some of them have become committed to personal and spiritual growth, and have come to develop an understanding of the impact of their crimes. This understanding is something that they continue to explore, and one of the very reasons they are participating in this dialogue— they want to know how they can ever rebalance the system, their community, that their actions made broken. This understanding of their role in the system that they never knew they were an integral part of, continues to haunt them each day that they struggle to make it on the inside, each day that they question if they will ever have the opportunity to see the outside world again. This understanding continues to haunt them as they wonder what challenges they will face if they do get such an opportunity to participate in the very system they betrayed, when posed with the reality of their identity as someone who violently raped and murdered another human being, their identity as someone who sexually abused the trusted family friend’s little boy, their identity as someone who held a gun to someone’s head as they robbed them of not only their possessions but the trust they never knew would be so easy to slip away.
Some of the guys I work with are already a different person, and some of them are taking the accountability and facing the fear of their violent past and the reality of their past and present identity to become a different person. They want to be the butterfly, they want to leave their cocoon of anger and untamed fear to become the good person they never knew they could be. The question is, is it possible to ever arrive there, is it possible to become a butterfly, when the ghost of their past will always haunt them?
One of the guys described the struggle of being stuck in the cocoon as the inevitability of his old identity continuing to trump his new one. In some respects, he told the group, his new identity, and what he believes about his current self, doesn’t really matter—the loss, pain, and sadness from his former self will always be with him in the form of this ghost of his crime, this ghost of his victim.
Sadly, he is right. In most cases, it is only this ghost that society will see when they look at him. At the end of the day, how can he become the butterfly?
Within the criminology field, labeling theory tells us that when we apply negative labels to individuals the result is negative behavior. Like a self fulfilling prophecy, telling someone they are an evil person and incapable of goodness, of change, often results in increasing evil. Labeling someone a criminal, and incapable of rehabilitation merely serves to promote further criminal activity. Time and time again, the guys I work with have spoken to this phenomenon as it has related to their past, and helped facilitate their arrival to the institution.
Each weekend is a challenge to sit in a circle with these strong men, knowing that most of the world doesn’t want them to become the butterfly, and doesn’t believe that they can. Yet I believe it is possible, and that through restorative justice they can work to make right the wrongs they have committed, they can choose to say goodbye to evil and be guided by goodness. I hope that the space we create is strong enough to help them combat their ghost, and to help them trust that if they really want to, they have the strength and ability to leave their cocoon behind.
toryelena-deactivated20120401 asked: As always, it is an inspiring, enlightening and empowering experience reading your blog. I think the work you are doing is amazing!
:)
Facilitating Change
Its been three weeks since we began the second module of our dialogue. During this module we will spend 10 weeks looking at identity, emotions, and shame. We spent the first week revisiting our purpose, setting our intention for this module, and reflecting on the first ten weeks of our time together where participants shared the most intimate details of their crime, in some cases, for the first time. The process was a challenge for everyone—those sharing their story, as well as for the inmates and facilitators listening. For each of us, something was triggered, and an invitation was continuously offered to everyone in the room, an invitation that asked each of us to continue to show up and reflect on the importance of looking at some of the darkest parts of society, and the very history of those in the room.
Despite the fear, shame, and trauma that was provoked each time someone shared their story of armed robbery, rape, and murder, of disarming a lifetime of trust, of taking a life, inmates continued to show up each week, hoping that through this process they could gain something good and arrive in a place with a deeper understanding of how they ever arrived at the institution. They continued to show up, with hope that by doing so, they could learn to effectively deal with their emotions in ways that would promote healthy relationships and responses to the challenges of everyday life within the walls of the prison, and hopefully someday outside of them.
After a lot of challenges, and a lot of hard and scary conversations, I wondered what the guys would say, when we asked why they were choosing to continue with the process. After all, there are not many other places that exist that they can have these conversations, and for many of them, as mentioned before, this is their first time openly talking about the harms they have done, and examining the effect those harms have had not only on their own life, but the lives of those around them and the communities of which they are beginning to realize they are a part. Their response to our probing into their intentions of showing up echoed just that. They talked about how the conversations we have every Saturday do not happen enough, especially within the context of prison culture. They talked about the challenges of wanting to make change, and discovering how to start the journey and arrive in a place of forgiveness and acceptance. They talked about the marginalized state of authenticity, and the necessity of such deep and open conversations becoming the the norm. They were adamant that discussing our past and present challenges with honesty is fundamental in arriving at change . They talked about how hungry they are to continue to come back and discuss real issues. One inmate shared that his problems began when he stopped caring about people, and that through coming to the dialogue every week, he is choosing to move on from that part of himself, he is choosing to become someone new, and to nurture parts of himself that are needed to care and empathize.
Through all the words that were shared what was most clear amongst the guys is that though the do not have the answer to all of their questions, they remain hopeful, they have trust, and an enormous amount of courage. The strength it takes for each of them to continue to show up is evidence of change. Yes, some of them have a long way to go. But it is clear, they are already on their journey, and once they reach their destination they will be further testimony to the power of hope and trust, and the possibility of transformation.
heart extraction
I wrote this post well over a month ago, during the middle of crime sharing. I didn’t feel comfortable posting it, as I wanted the chance to talk with my father, and to begin a journey of processing…I will post a follow up in the coming days…
It’s been three days since I again returned from OSCI—my emotions have yet to cease their swelling. One of the first things we addressed in Saturday’s dialogue was the importance of focusing on the actual crime that took place, rather than back-story. A few veterans from the group knew that some of us were victims, and asked us if we could address what we would want from our offenders if we ever had the chance to get it. We both addressed a continued need for accountability. The day went smoothly. We ran incredibly overtime, but time didn’t matter—what mattered was the energy and emotion that was developing in the room.
The day confirmed that I am fully capable of being present and grounded in this work when words are merely palpitations of the hearts sentiment. It is much harder to leave the horrifying tragedy that I have volunteered to be an audience to when words are rattled from the head, when bullet points are spoken, when justifications are being made. Yes, I am still able to be present in the circle of dialogue, but it is much easier to break when I walk out of the room when the former dynamic has jurisdiction.
But these last few days have been different—the men shared from a place in their heart, they shared from a place of authenticity, and yet the crimes and their victims stayed with me.
I remembered when I signed on to do this work. People would ask, “how do you have the strength, the courage?” My response would often involve something along the lines of talking about the passion I have for humanity, working with those who have been marginalized, and my belief in the capacity of both dialogue and restorative justice to bring about much needed transformation and its far more effective approach to issues of conflict than any other systems I have seen in place. I would end my response with a statement about a deep sense of knowing I have that this work will invite me to places I can’t even fathom, until I arrive there…that this work will have the power to move me in profound ways…and that by the end of the first year, I will not be the same person as when I started. I’m beginning to see some of the ways in which that will happen.
Thinking about the victims of the men in the room that day, and being asked about my own experience as a victim, only led me to think of one of the closest family members of mine—also a victim. My father’s brother was tied up, shot five times, and found in the trunk of an abandoned car after missing for weeks. My sweet dad was the same age as me when he lost his brother. My sweet dad was just 26 years old when he lost his friend. My Uncle John, whom I never had the privilege of knowing, left behind a 5 year old little girl. Perhaps I know parts of him through my cousin, or maybe through her little girl. They never found the person responsible. A trial took place, and the only witness was later found dead in what appeared to be a suicide, but later was found to be a set-up.
No one ever talks about what it felt like. Rarely do I hear mention of my Uncle John. I know he liked good music. I think some of the records that I have today, passed on from my dad, were my Uncle Johns, and I wonder, why do I have these? I know he played baseball.
And I feel awful that when I started this work, I didn’t think once of my family. And I feel awful that everytime I have posted a blog I have begged my dad to read it. And every week, when I get home from the prison I tell him about my experience, and about some of the guys, who have committed murder, that if I had the power, I would let them out tomorrow. And not once, until this week, did I think about what that might be like for him to hear. Or what its like for him to still have no idea what happened to his brother, who killed him, and why. I never once thought, what is it like, to almost be 60 years old, and have gone through so many years without one of your closest friends?
Tonight I was finally able to talk with one of my sisters who has memories of Uncle John, and one of my sisters who is my best friend. Despite the heavy feeling in my heart, I feel much lighter. I am already beginning to see the internal impact of this work that has the potential to show up in different ways each time I visit the institution. It’s hard right now, but I am grateful that I am unpacking years of mystery and uncovering pain that I never realized existed. And if I have my dream, my father and I will be able to talk about his experience, and perhaps we will both feel safe in expressing our emotions.
masculinity, violence, womens studies, and my work in prison.
Lately I have been revisiting my thought process surrounding violence and masculinity.
As a woman living in a society where men are the dominant culture and violence is everywhere, its hard not to think about it. As a University Studies mentor at Portland State University for a Women’s Studies course, it’s hard not to think about it. As a victim of rape and sexual assault, its hard not to think about it. As a critical and engaged member of a society where violence is sexualized, encouraged, and represented everywhere I look, its hard not to think about it.
For a long time, I have been interested in the intersection of two disciplines that my everyday thoughts and actions are rooted in: Conflict Resolution and Women’s Studies. This week I showed a film in mentor session called Tough Guise that reinvigorates the same fire inside of me when the two aforementioned disciplines cross-pollinate. The film examines the relationship between the patriarchal, or hegemonic masculinity that dominates our society and the ever rampant violence across the continent. There are several points in the film that are fundamental in understanding and analyzing the culture of violence we live in and how violence has become so normalized.
Throughout the film, Jackson Katz argues that masculinity has become a pose, and that the most important part of masculinity is this pose- or “tough guise.” The culture tells us that in order to be masculine, and to become “real men,” we must be strong, dominant, controlling, and powerful. As Stephen Whitehead discusses in The Masculinities Reader “All societies have cultural accounts of gender, but not all have the concept of ‘masculinity’. In its modern usage the term assumes that ones behavior results from the type of person one is. That is to say, an unmasculine person would behave differently: being peaceable rather than violent, conciliatory rather than dominating, hardly able to kick a football, uninterested in sexual conquest, and so forth” (p. 30). Simply stated, and to sum up what both authors illustrate, the violence we so often witness is not only glorified yet endorsed by the dominant culture— the dominant culture that is patriarchy and made up of and reinforcing patriarchal, hegemonic masculinity. The result of this is violence as a norm, a means by which men who feel as though they cannot accurately meet the expectations of our modern idea of masculinity do whatever they can to gain control or power.
In Tough Guise Katz talks about the gun as a symbolic equalizer for those who are marginalized within our social system. I couldn’t help but think of the men I work with inside the Oregon State Correctional Institution each weekend, the bulk of whom learned the hard way that the gun, ultimately, is not an equalizer, and each weekend are given the space to reflect on the time that they believed it was. I can recount several comments made by each participant in the group that reflect the ways in which the marginalization ultimately led to choosing the gun as an equalizer in a fatal attempt to assert their masculinity, in a fatal attempt to assert power, control and dominance, in the face of realisticly having nothing. Many of these men speak to the naïve purpose of attaining a weapon for “protection,” and to be able to assert strength and fear in the face of danger through the symbol of the gun. And what did each of these men, in prison for decades or life, do with their gun? They killed.
I think about how each weekend The Insight Development Group (the organization with which I work) holds the space for each of these men to come into their emotions and learn how to leave their tough guise behind. Aside from issues of structural violence, for so many of them, it was their tough guise that also led them to commit atrocities. These men never had the space to process their emotions, they never had support. For the first time in their lives they are getting the opportunity to learn what its like to feel. Some of them admit to not knowing how to begin that process, but they show up each weak hoping that it will help guide them in their learning. If you met the bulk of these men today, you might call them weak, you might call them feminine. I would argue that these men are more masculine than any man who walks with the “tough guise,” as in their journey to learning how to choose peace and empathy, they strength they embody is far greater than what it takes to put on the mask of violence.
crime sharing: the beginning of a tumultuous, imperative process
It’s hard to understand where to begin, which makes me question how someone who has committed rape and murder would ever understand where to begin an account of their crime. I’ve heard inmates share accounts of their crimes before. It is different when you aren’t the facilitator.
This time around, I am a facilitator. And suddenly I am heavy, asking myself why I didn’t step up? Why didn’t I call them out? Why didn’t I demand more? What was it that happened inside me that mandated so much silence?
Since I left the institution I have been navigating what it would look like to attempt to dismantle my compassion. I have been entertaining the idea that I “have too much compassion,” that my compassion is a wall, getting in the way of my ability to give these men what they really need- someone to call them out on their shit yet continue to hold their hand.
Dismantle my compassion? What?!— a horrible idea, and yet I continue to wrestle with this thought, this idea, a concept that sprouted in the face of what I don’t want to call a failure but with what I am certain has much room to improve…
This work is challenging, no doubt, this dialogue testimony to the battle, but if I could, I would return to the institution tomorrow to do the same thing all over again.
I walk into a room asking people to take accountability, hoping to illicit a process that will eventually result in these perpetrators finding ways within themselves to make wrong this right, to understand their victims, to come to a place where they will never resort to violence and victimization again.
What are these expectations? There are many parts of me that believes in the capacity of this work to lead to such a destination. But where do I fit in, in being a “good” facilitator of a restorative justice process when I continue to empathize with people as though I can tell them everything will be okay. I am not there to save them, I am not there to sympathize with them, I am not there to coddle them and cradle them…
I ask myself, what am I doing? What is my purpose?
What I am doing is empathizing with humans, humans like you and I, who were so brutally failed by our system- no, not the criminal justice system (but yes, that too). They were failed by society. They were failed by their families, their teachers, their brothers, their sisters, their communities, their “role models”. They didn’t have role models. So often they were so marginalized, that when they themselves were victims and crying out for help, nobody was listening. It’s easy to understand how violence became an answer. How one day, suddenly, they were able to take the innocent life of another. This is simple evidence of how structural violence can ferment into direct violence.
No, it is not okay. Yes, they are absolutely responsible for their actions.
But it is impossible for me to sit in a circle with these men without incredible compassion for each one of them. My heart breaks for their victims, their families, and for them. My heart breaks for all of them. For they that take the sword and for those the sword has taken. The majority of these men have committed some of the most horrendous crimes and I can’t look at them without my heart aching for the card they were dealt in a system that wouldn’t give them voice or hear their voice, in a system that so blatantly oppressed them that eventually all they knew how to do was oppress, some of them to the point they were capable of destroying life.
It could have been you, it could have been me.
And will I limit my compassion? Absolutely not. It is what gives me the courage and the strength to move forward in this work. It is one of the many ingredients most of these men were missing all of their life.
hurt people, hurt people
—unknown
defining victims, and other challenges
When I return from OSCI, I am speechless. It’s hard to write a blog when there is so much to process and so many emotions stirring. Inside the walls of the institution a paradox continues to be played out- one that gives me incredible hope and inspiration, and yet another that challenges me as I question if this world will ever be a place that truly embodies the ideas of justice. As an academic and practitioner within the field of peace and conflict studies, I sometimes feel as if I am thinking the unthinkable. Right now I think rage- and it is this very rage that becomes transformed into something constructive when I choose to be engaged in the work that I am doing, when I believe that if I dedicate myself to a cause of peace I can make a difference.
There are many challenges. And today I am being challenged when I sit next to a man who has committed murder, eager to transform into a man who can give back to society and do whatever he can to make up for his horrifying actions. I am challenged when I sit across another man, also convicted of murder, who, through dialogue, has already experienced inconceivable transformation and continues to support and inspire other inmates to take the same painfully arduous journey.
Some of the men around me are testimony to change and possibility, while still others provide hope in their mere willingness to be present and great efforts to remain open to the demanding process of our dialogue. My dream is that through the end of these thirty weeks, I can say that each participant provides evidence to the power and possibility of dialogue and its capacity to create positive change in the most dire of circumstance. I know this is merely a dream, though I do believe it likely for many who sit and take part in the circle.
Today’s challenge is accepting the reality that despite the fact that some of these people have already participated in former restorative justice dialogues and have been “rehabilitated” in ways beyond the ability of our formal criminal justice system, most of them will never have the opportunity to know life beyond ball and chain, outside of the institution. In remembering this, I can only think of our culture, so deeply ingrained in structural violence. The same thing that brought many of these men to the institution is one of the same things that will keep many of them there, regardless of their actualization of rehabilitation. Everywhere I look, I am reminded of the deep wounds inherent in our system, especially when I look around the room full of inmates in an attempt to make sense of an incarcerated life and how to approach making right the countless wrongs…
The focus of today’s dialogue was to define victims. A restorative approach looks at the ripple effect of crime and acknowledges that victims are not merely those who were directly harmed in the offending. There are several victims, as mentioned in last weeks post, and they span a wide spectrum. There are primary victims- those who are directly involved in the critical event. They are the deceased, the injured, and their loved ones. There are secondary victims- those who are in some way observers of the actual event and its traumatic effects on the primary victims. They are eyewitnesses and rescuers. And there are tertiary victims- those who are removed from the immediate event yet still impacted by their encounters and relationships with both primary and secondary victims. They are neighbors, community members, former victims…they are me- a facilitator, they are you- a reader of this blog.
Participants were asked to reflect on what it means to be a victim, and despite the knowing that most of these men were victims themselves, they were adept at understanding that their crimes were the source of several victims and have caused involuntary financial, social, psychological, and physical harm, all with permanent impact. They understood that their crimes are responsible for perpetuating a cycle of violence and victimization, and that as a result of their crimes many of their victims will never feel safe, or trust again.
Some of the initial responses were reminders of the minimal resources and support within the institution for offenders to examine their impact on victims and take authentic accountability. One inmate said, “When I think of victims, I’m blank. I’ve been in here for twenty-two years, safe, without a need or reason to think about what it means to be a victim. Being asked to consider it was a hard.”
And it was. It was clear that some participants would need much more support throughout the week as they continued to process today’s session and reflect on their role in the cycle of violence and victimization.
Dialogue is a process of genuine interaction through which human beings listen to each other deeply enough to be changed by what they learn. Each makes a serious effort to take others’ concerns into her or his own picture, even when disagreement persists. No participant gives up her or his identity, but each recognizes enough of the other’s valid human claims that he or she will act differently toward the other.
theory into practice!
It’s incredible to finally be in a place where I am consistently putting theory into practice— theory that I believe wholeheartedly in. Today was one of several visits to the Oregon State Correctional Institute, and the second orientation to what will be a thirty week restorative justice based dialogue. I am one of the facilitators and am grateful to be working with a handful of other amazing and dedicated people who are similarly passionate about this work for their own reasons.
So what is restorative justice? Restorative justice is a process that works to hold offenders accountable to their crimes and approaches justice through looking at the needs of the victim, offender, and the community. RJ sees crime as a violation to relationships- a relationship between the offender, the victims, and their communities. From an RJ perspective, violations create obligations, and a responsibility to make right the wrong that was done through the crime that was committed. My experience with RJ has been testimony to the power the process has to create real impact on victims, offenders, and the community.
As our current criminal justice system stands, the victims of crime and their respective communities are not involved in the process, and little attention is given to their needs and support. Simultaneously, the CJ system has several shortcomings to the inmates housed there. As one participant questioned last week, why is it that inmates are put on a shelf and locked away, and when they are released into the community everyone wonders why they haven’t changed? Part of my calling to do this work has everything to do with what the words of that inmate. The current CJ system is broken, and I firmly believe that contributing to addressing this issue through the transformational work and capacity of restorative justice is one of the greatest things I can do.
Doing this work may not result in system wide change, but it has the power to make a difference in the lives of those who are participating, and ripple throughout pockets of the prison in which these inmates are housed. And for those who will someday see the streets again, I am confident that it will impact the ways in which they relate to the world, and that too, has the capacity to touch the lives of others…
As I sat inside the facility today, I watched birds flying by, behind the bars. They reminded me of the veterans of the group, who have already participated in the restorative justice process. Just like the birds, these inmates give me hope. I have seen transformation and they remind me that anything is possible, that if you try to spread your wings you may soar.
