Restorative Justice

Restorative justice is a theory of justice that emphasizes repairing the harm caused or revealed by criminal behavior. It is best accomplished through cooperative processes that include all stakeholders.
Practices and programs reflecting restorative purposes will respond to crime by:
  1. identifying and taking steps to repair harm,
  2. involving all  stakeholders, and
  3. transforming the traditional relationship between communities and their governments in responding to crime.

Russian writer and philosopher Fyodor Dostoyevsky wrote, “The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.” If he could examine our prisons today, I think we would be judged very harshly. If he could see the millions of people in them and see how we are criminalizing poverty and childhood damage, we would be judged inhumane. If he could learn of the draconian sentences for non-violent crimes, we would be judged unjust. If he could see what damage mass incarceration is doing to families and communities and how difficult we make it for people getting out to put their lives back together, we would be judged foolish and shortsighted. If he could see the number of children we condemn to adult, violent environments and lifelong sentences, contemplate the tens of thousands of people in solitary confinement and understand the way most incarcerated people are treated, we would be judged ruthless and brutal. If he could understand its racist elements, I think he might point out our core value of equality and label us hypocritical.

Criminal behavior is complex, and some of its root problems like poverty, mental health issues and poor—or no—educational opportunities seem intractable, but there are better ways of dealing with criminal justice if we care enough about our identity as a people. We need a sharp 180 degree turn toward restorative justice. The ways is which we carry out “justice” is tragically broken and sick, and the damage being done is affecting us all. It—and we–need to be healed.

Across the Line

Making big changes and seeing the world very differently require courage. Maya Angelou said, “Courage is the most important of all virtues, because without courage, you can’t practice any other virtue consistently.” Individual people can so easily put blinders on about big, painful problems, but we are also capable of moving from a place of safety and security over into an unknown space where we feel insecure and often frightened. Making courageous decisions needs moral muscle and a desire to feel honor and self-respect. It is how we grow. Instead of focusing on these national faults lines in our criminal justice system, we could focus on our strengths, our capability for great compassion and our deep concern for the common good. If individuals are capable, then so are we as a nation capable. I’ve found people’s courage and capabilities amazing—especially among my students in prison.

Dropping out of school has serious consequences, especially to people’s self-respect. People who drop out often feel like failures and losers. None of my prison students had graduated from high school before I knew them. I think about the first days back in school for these men—how vulnerable they looked with their wooden faces and wary, anxious eyes. But, they had already crossed the first difficult line, the doorway into the office to sign up. They had to swallow their pride about their grave mistakes. I found it so interesting when asked about the decision they most regretted, that they said it was not the crime they committed, but dropping out of school. “If I hadn’t dropped out, I wouldn’t be here,” they answered.

They had to look in the mirror and face themselves as people with very rusty basic skills in reading, writing and math and as adults who knew very little about what was in their textbooks. In the macho world of prison, it took great courage to be doing the right thing for their lives, to face the unknown world of being back in school. They had to face their fears about failing again, open their books and begin. They had to decide that their lives were worth something, that they just might be capable of succeeding after all. One young man wrote me a note about three weeks into the semester, saying that he wasn’t sure he could do the work, but he wanted me to know how hard he was trying. He said it took him a whole year to “not be too scared” and sign up for school. I watched and was awed by his courage. I watched their courage every day.

I see a connection between being courageous—and the development of personal dignity. I wrote about South Africa in my last post, and how its people still give us shining examples of what it means when we put ourselves in vulnerable positions and do amazing, out-of-the-ordinary things.

Nelson Mandela gave the world so many shining examples of both courage and humility. There were many ways he could have reacted to his twenty-seven years of political imprisonment. If he had meted out punishment, many people would have understood a sense of anger and revenge. He could have punished the people who took away so many precious years. He could have called for the same kind of humiliating damage he himself had experienced. Instead, he invited one of his white jailors to his inauguration and gave him an honored place, showing his country and the world a new level of human stature, a new humanizing dignity and a new kind of courage.

The United States has our own shining examples of astonishing courage and dignity in the face of tragedy. The Christian Science Monitor Weekly magazine on April 13, 2015 has a cover photograph of Ricky Jackson, who served 39 years in prison, making him the person serving the longest sentence in America’s history for a crime he did not commit. The article called Innocence Found: The Ricky Jackson Story follows the intricacies of Jackson’s case and his efforts to free himself. It follows the Ohio Innocence Project, whose members started working on the case in 2006.

Eddie Vernon, a witness in the case, was only thirteen-years-old when the police and prosecutors coerced him into lying about what happened. His testimony sealed Jackson’s conviction—and that of two other young men, who were also innocent and spent decades in prison. After trial, Jackson was sentenced to die in the electric chair, and he spent two years on Death Row until the federal Supreme Court ruled Ohio’s capital punishment unconstitutional. The next thirty-seven years found him in a succession of prisons. When he went before five parole boards, they looked for a change in him and some kind of remorse. When he couldn’t demonstrate that because he was innocent, they extended his sentence each time. Eddie Vernon, after decades of his own remorse and guilt, finally came forward—terrified of being convicted of perjury. He too demonstrated great courage. Finally, the state withdrew and Ricky Jackson was freed.

What makes this story so compelling to me is that Jackson isn’t angry or bitter. He managed to live in prison with grace and humility, and he exhibits those same qualities as he struggles to put his life back together while dealing with the challenges of being out in the world. He has met with Vernon, and doesn’t harbor any resentment or anger toward him, knowing how much Vernon has also suffered.

Innocence Projects and organizations like Bryan Stevenson’s Equal Justice Initiative are finding innocent people on death row and serving years and years all over the country, creating tragedy for victims and their families and dishonor for us as a nation. I wonder how Ricky Jackson’s fate would have changed if restorative practices had been in place. As most programs involve the community, it might have been far harder, if not impossible, to coerce and believe the testimony of a thirteen-year-old boy. We have to drastically change course if we want to be move toward being more civilized, to use Dostoyevsky’s language.

When my students ventured across the scary line to sign up for school, they were being accountable to themselves, signing up to be their best, not their worst. They were moving beyond the labels of drop-out and felon and becoming students, then graduates. When graduation day came and they could finally wear the red cap and gown, they all walked and stood taller, their dignity and self-respect in place. Education is a part of restorative justice as it helps students discover their competence–and their goodness as human beings.

Maya Angelou also says, “I think the courage to confront evil and turn it by dint of will into something applicable to the development of our evolution, individually and collectively, is exciting, honorable.” All of the parts of restorative justice try to enhance the best in us: our ability to be responsible, our talent for creativity, our capacity to make moral choices, our power to be compassionate and our courage to be forgiving. With courage, we can all move across the line and begin to see our system and all of its victims differently. We need a change for the rest of us, because it would give us a much-needed new identity. It would honor us. We need to look no further for exemplary role models than those people who’ve spent years and years behind bars.

The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander

The New Jim Crow, Cover

Once in a while an author comes along, uses new language and exposes truths we hadn’t seen right in front of us. In The New Jim Crow, Michelle Alexander tells of spending several years as a civil rights lawyer before she began to see the nation’s prison system morphing into a new kind of racial control. Her well-researched facts and staggering statistics are not easy to absorb. Among them are these: no other country locks up such an overwhelming number of its racial minorities than the United States; more African-Americans are under correctional control than were enslaved in 1850, and 1 in 3 young black men will spend some time behind bars. She points out that though the majority of drug users and dealers are white, 75% of the people targeted in the War on Drugs have been poor and vulnerable blacks and Latinos.

She points to discrimination that is legal in housing, employment, and public assistance as people are released from prison–only to face overwhelming barriers when trying to put their lives back together. The denial of civil rights after incarceration, such as voting and serving on juries, gives people the message that they will never be full citizens nor will they ever be able to pay for the crimes they committed. She helps us understand how having a black president in the White House camouflages a permanent American racial caste system, not with outright racial hostility, but because it creates our racial indifference.

This is not an easy book to read, nor are these realities easy to acknowledge, but it is a necessary book if we are to dismantle the American tragedy of mass incarceration and understand how it devastates people’s lives and communities. It has cost us trillions of dollars and failed to solve our seemingly intractable problems of poverty, drug use, education, and mental health issues. The New Jim Crow shows us how our American ideals of freedom and justice are gravely imperiled and how our national moral character is profoundly weakened.

 

Published by The New Press

ISBN: 879-1-59558-643-8

Unlearning Long Divisions: Mr. Hoffer’s Labels

Unlearning Long Divisions: Introduction

The prison fence is an obvious structure that divides us, but we are separated in other more subtle structural ways, by how we build wealth—or are not able to, by huge opportunity gaps, by our own judgements, assumptions and inabilities to listen and know each other, by our geography, by neighborhoods, lifestyles, and cultural misunderstandings. America has always had its separations, during slavery and then under Jim Crow, of class, race, cultural groups and religions, but it seems that the rancorous voices of political campaigns, talk radio, online comments, and the addition of big money have all turned up the volume and deepened the divisions between us. Much of it is fear-driven, no more evident than how we perceive people who are behind bars. The ideas in the following posts come from my interactions with my inmate students, who taught me how to unlearn many of my own assumptions—and to see them and my country in new ways.


Mr. Hoffer’s Labels

When Mr. Hoffer walked in on his first day of Language Arts, he reminded me of a linebacker on a football team: tall, muscular, and big.

Adult students who return to school after dropping out have much to teach us about how people learn and what gets in their way–Mr. Hoffer was no different in that regard. At the beginning of a language arts class, I talked to each of my students individually. One particular semester, there were no white students in my language art classroom—the group was evenly split between Hispanic men needing help with English as a Second Language (ESL) and African-American men. These students had two identifying facts in common: all were labeled felons and they were all drop-outs, having left school at differing points. For almost all new students, their first job was to recover their confidence and not fall back into thinking they could not succeed. Almost everyone who returns to an adult education high school classroom needs to work on language skills and the purpose of the class was to address reading and writing.

In addition to being a man of large presence, Mr. Hoffer’s smile was big too. He wore that smile as he headed for the back corner of the room on the first day of class. I learned to pay attention to students who wanted to sit in the farthest corner and in the back row. Often this signaled that they were more nervous about their ability than those who sat in the front of the room.

Mr. Hoffer saw me coming toward him when it was his turn to talk to me and jumped up to find me a more comfortable chair. I thanked him for helping the man who was sitting next to him.

“How do you feel about being back in school?” I asked.

His face clouded and he said in a low voice, “Mrs. Wenzel, I was always in special ed.”

I was surprised.

A few weeks passed as I watched him carefully, noticing that he was always friendly, easy-going, and unflappable. If he couldn’t understand a lesson, he stuck with it until he did, often wanting to figure it out himself. He was reliable, always getting his work done on time, and focused and steady as he worked. He continued to be helpful to other students. People in the office reported that he had offered to help with anything they needed, so he was spending time doing routine office work in his spare time. As I watched him, I kept coming up with the word competent. I saw no special needs. When mid-term evaluations came around, I used the word competent, spelling out his strong skills as a student. He told me no one had ever told him that before. His test scores had improved by the end of the semester, giving him the confidence to take higher level classes. He handled those with ease.

As we prepared for graduation, he told me that his mother was coming from another state to attend, and how excited they both were. His smile spread wide across his face as he accepted his diploma and stood for the photograph with the superintendent. During the reception following the ceremony, I found his mother and told her how much we had enjoyed her son and how helpful he had been to other students–and to the program. Her eyes filled with tears as she said, “I never thought I would see this day. He had such a horrible time in school.”

It is easy to pay attention to labels as a teacher. I have done that myself and not expected enough from my students. I wonder how the label of special ed that followed him from teacher to teacher and year to year—and the fact that he was an African-American growing up in a poor neighborhood—affected what kind of expectations his teachers had for him. I wonder about labels, how they get internalized, damage confidence, and affect student achievement. Somehow as an adult in his 20’s, Mr. Hoffer was able to overcome the negative labels enough to succeed in school. But if there was a direct link between his experience as a student when he was growing up and the fact that he committed a crime, as there often is, finding success in a prison classroom was a high price to pay.