Free: Two Years, Six Lives, and the Long Journey Home, by Lauren Kessler. A Book Review

Free: Two Years, Six Lives, and the Long Journey Home, by Lauren Kessler

Reviewed by Neal Lemery, author of Mentoring Boys to Men: Climbing Their Own Mountains

“We want those to have done harm to us to suffer, to pay for what they did. But in making them suffer, we create the kind of human beings we do not want back in our communities.”

This engaging book takes makes us uncomfortable and asks us deep and provocative questions about America’s criminal justice system, and how we look at justice and rehabilitation, revenge and compassion. Kessler takes a deep dive into the lives of prison inmates and their efforts to emerge from prison life with a sense of purpose and hope, and be able to move on with their lives, and become productive members of society.

As a teacher in prison writing groups, she engages in deep conversations of the lives of some of America’s prison population, pointing out that 95% of all prisoners regain their freedom and attempt to reintegrate into mainstream American society. America has one of the world’s highest rates of incarceration, with 2.3 million Americans in prison or on parole. With 5% of the world’s population, we house 25% of the world’s prisoners. Our incarceration rate has increased 225% since the 1970s, far exceeding any changes in the crime rate.

The failure rate of parole is complex, with many parole violations being technical in nature, rather than the commission of new crimes. “Many failed not because they continued to live a life of crime, but rather because the road to reentry was – is – steep and rocky, full of potholes, a winding path with unmarked detours.”

This engaging, and well-written and often disturbing book tells the stories of some of her writers’ lives, their own devastating and traumatic childhoods, upbringings, adolescence and young adult lives. Each chapter takes us deeper into their lives, their struggles, and the institutional barriers and disrespect for their own needs and efforts to grow, recover, and move on into productive lives. The reader is challenged with uncomfortable and tragic stories, yet inspired by the bravery of those who share their stories with Kessler. The stories are told with a mixture of hope and the bitter truth of the failure of our criminal justice system to offer meaningful rehabilitation and reformation of lives shattered by abuse, addiction, neglect, and violence.

As a volunteer mentor for prisoners, I have heard these stories, and gotten to know and appreciate the tragic histories and the struggle to change lives and move on, as well as the indifference and ineffectiveness of the system. For those of us who work for change in the System, this is a work that has long been needed, as it gives voice to those who have not been heard. This book not only compiles the grim realities of a broken system, it offers insight into what works and what needs to change, giving the reader a comprehensive perspective. The stories are also full of hope, personal achievements, and the efforts of effective programs and dedicated volunteers who are making a difference and offer effective progressive ideas that are making a positive difference.

Free is a groundbreaking, well-crafted work, offering solid information and analysis and also personal stories of courage, determination, and personal insight into some of America’s most challenging social and political issues. It is a call to action, and a beacon of hope for true understanding and action for much of what needs to change in American society.

It is both an uncomfortable yet affirming read, written by a skilled author whose talented storytelling both informs and motivates the reader to deeply understand the system and the lives of the often forgotten. Kessler not only tells important stories, she shows us the way to truly make the changes that are needed, work that will truly make all of us free of the fear and brokenness of the criminal justice system.

The Shirt Off My Back

published in the Tillamook County Pioneer 11/1/2021

by Neal Lemery

A familiar phrase we often use is that someone would give the shirt off their back to help someone else. Last week, that became reality for me and a young man, as we drove away from the prison where he’d been the last two and a half years. Our destination was a halfway house, where he could restart his life, find a job, and be a productive citizen. He has big plans: vocational school, a job, long hikes in the woods, a family someday.

Some will argue that the hardships and obstacles facing a parolee is part of his “punishment”, that one shouldn’t do the crime if you can’t do the time. Felons don’t deserve our kindnesses, and should be treated as the scum that they are. They deserve their hardships, and it is their lot in life.

I suppose those attitudes are easy to come by, and that the life of those getting out of prison is low on many people’s priorities and compassion. Perhaps, until you get to know a person, and hear their story, until you match the face with the stories they tell of their lives.

“Lock ‘em up and throw away the key” and the problem will go away. Right?

Well, those men and women will return to society, join the workforce, and will have family and friends, just like everyone else. How they go about their lives, and the decisions they make, is fundamentally shaped by the resources they have when they walk out of the prison gates.

My young friend left prison the other morning with only a pair of pants, a sweatshirt, and shoes provided by the prison. No underwear, no socks, no coat, and no cash in his pocket. His life savings, including the federal stimulus money (which we all received last year) was in a check. Of course, he has no bank account, no ID except a prison issued ID card. His lost driver’s license hadn’t been replaced.

He has an Oregon Trail food stamp card, but of course, he needed a phone to activate that. Yep, you guessed it. He had no phone. His family could have shipped him a phone that he could have picked up at his release that morning, but the prison never told them about that option.

The check for his money was $300 short. The prison had decided to fine him for a rule infraction last week, and took away his inmate phone privileges on top of that.

We headed off to a city four hours away, to see his probation officer, and to check in at the halfway house. But, he wasn’t sure where his new home was, or what it looked like.

He got out at dawn, when the sweatshirt kept him warm. Later on, it warmed up and he started to sweat. He put on a determined face, not wanting to complain to me. No one else had offered to pick him up and make the trip with him, so I was the only way to get him where he needed to go.

“Do you have anything else to wear?” I asked, knowing the answer as all his worldly possessions were loosely piled in a cardboard box in the back seat of my truck.

I’d needed to do an overnight trip to pick up my friend, due to the early morning release time, so I had a few clothes in my suitcase. I dug out a shirt I’d bought for myself a few weeks ago, and gave it to him.

“Oh, no, I can’t take that,” he said.

But I insisted and he managed a smile as he slipped it on. It was soft, colorful and new, something he hadn’t experienced in the last few years. He looked away at the changing landscape, filled with fields, trees, far away mountains, and blue sky, things he hadn’t seen in his life for too long of a time. A tear rolled down his cheek, and I looked away, concentrating on my driving, and giving him some quiet time. A tear fell onto my face, too, being reminded of simple things, and how so much in life I take for granted.

What I call Freedom Day is sacred space, where emotions often too intense to comprehend fill one’s heart. Often, there are no words, only tears and hugs.

We stopped along the way a few times — fabulous coffee in a small town’s only coffee shop, breathing fresh air at a roadside rest area overlooking a display of bright fall leaves and a river. As we took in the serenity of the river, we found no words to speak. He turned to me and embraced me, his hug saying it all.

I parked outside of the probation office, waiting for my friend to complete his check in, and finding out where he was going to live. I watched a drug deal go down across the street, and the parade of customers going to the nearby pot shop, some of whom had just left the probation office.

He settled into his new home, and the staff introduced themselves to me. Good, deeply committed people, being kind and hospitable, as we settled my friend in, making his bed, finding out where the bathroom and the kitchen were.

“This will be fine,” he said. “I’ll be OK.”

He walked me to my truck. It was time to say goodbye. It had been a good day, good conversations, a trip of amazing natural beauty, and peace, a deepening friendship. And freedom.

I slipped into Dad Mode, giving him one last hug, and a short sermon of Dad Advice, giving him one last dose of love, encouragement, and fatherly advice.

“I don’t have any money,” he reminded me, hesitation catching in his voice. We’d had a talk earlier about his lack of funds, and I’d promised to spot him some cash, something to carry him through until he could get to the bank. I apologized for forgetting my commitment, and dug out my wallet.

“That’s too much,” he said, but I wouldn’t take any back.

“Take yourself out for coffee,” I said, and added another twenty.

“Here’s your shirt,” he said. He started to unbutton it.

“That’s your shirt now,” I said. “It’s part of our deal, part of what we needed to do today.”

I got in my truck and drove down the street, lowering the window to give him one last wave. In the rearview mirror, I saw him wave back, and wipe away something on his face. A few tears wetted my face, and I gulped down what would have been a full-blown sob session.

The road home was quiet. I was lost in my thoughts. This wasn’t the first time I’d taken a young man from what we call “correctional institutions” to a fresh start. Freedom Day, I call it. And, sadly, the stories run together. The lack of clothes, the cardboard box of possessions, the lack of financial care, the uncertainty of where they will spend the night and the next few months of their lives. There’s the scarcity of family, too, and that points back to understanding why they were locked up to begin with.

I’ve read where the cost of housing one prisoner in our state prison system is close to $60,000 a year, and that mental health services, vocational training, and transitional housing are often the first to be cut. My friend needs all of that. The system isn’t dealing with his depression, PTSD, and anxiety, not to mention his alcohol and drug issues, those necessities somehow not part of his life in prison, not part of his parole plan.

I gave him my shirt, and a few bucks for coffee. And he gave me hugs, stories of his dreams, and, at the end of the day, a big smile. He filled my heart. It was a good trade.

10/31/2021

Punishment or Rehabilitation

Punishment or rehabilitation?

We have a choice. We can change lives.

Punishment Fails. Rehabilitation Works.

James Gilligan, a clinical professor of psychiatry and an adjunct professor of law at New York University, is the author of, among other books, “Preventing Violence” and “Why Some Politicians Are More Dangerous Than Others.”
UPDATED DECEMBER 19, 2012, 11:43 AM (originally published in the New York Times)

“If any other institutions in America were as unsuccessful in achieving their ostensible purpose as our prisons are, we would shut them down tomorrow. Two-thirds of prisoners reoffend within three years of leaving prison, often with a more serious and violent offense. More than 90 percent of prisoners return to the community within a few years (otherwise our prisons would be even more overcrowded than they already are). That is why it is vitally important how we treat them while they are incarcerated.

“How could we change our prison system to make it both more effective and less expensive?

“The only rational purpose for a prison is to restrain those who are violent, while we help them to change their behavior and return to the community.

“We would need to begin by recognizing the difference between punishment and restraint. When people are dangerous to themselves or others, we restrain them – whether they are children or adults. But that is altogether different from gratuitously inflicting pain on them for the sake of revenge or to “teach them a lesson” – for the only lesson learned is to inflict pain on others. People learn by example: Generations of research has shown that the more severely children are punished, the more violent they become, as children and as adults. The same is true of adults, especially those in prison. So the only rational purpose for a prison is to restrain those who are violent from inflicting harm on themselves or others, while we help them to change their behavior from that pattern to one that is nonviolent and even constructive, so that they can return to the community.

“It would be beneficial to every man, woman and child in America, and harmful to no one, if we were to demolish every prison in this country and replace them with locked, safe and secure home-like residential communities – what we might call an anti-prison. Such a community would be devoted to providing every form of therapy its residents needed (substance abuse treatment, psychotherapy, medical and dental care) and every form of education for which the residents were motivated and capable (from elementary school to college and graduate school). Getting a college degree while in prison is the only program that has ever been shown to be 100 percent effective for years or decades at a time in preventing recidivism. Prisoners should be treated with exactly the same degree of respect and kindness as we would hope they would show to others after they return to the community. As I said, people learn by example.

“My colleague Bandy Lee and I have shown that an intensive re-educational program with violent male offenders in the San Francisco jails reduced the level of violence in the jail to zero for a year at a time. Even more important, participation in this program for as little as four months reduced the frequency of violent reoffending after leaving the jail by 83 percent, compared with a matched control group in a conventional jail. In addition to enhancing public safety, this program saved the taxpayers $4 for every $1 spent on it, since the lower reincarceration rate saved roughly $30,000 a year per person. The only mystery is: Why is this program not being adopted by every jail and prison in the country? Why are taxpayers not demanding that this be done?”

Why indeed?