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Lock ‘Em Up: The Only Response?

A few weeks ago, I read about a 16-year-old, tried as an adult, who was sentenced to 55 years in prison for two armed carjackings. I was mindlessly scrolling the neighborhood site, Nextdoor, when I saw the post. At first, I thought the incident had happened in Washington, DC where I live since there had been a rash of carjackings in my neighborhood, but as I read, I learned this crime had occurred in Louisiana. Louisiana? Why was it posted on my Capitol Hill, DC Nextdoor? Then I noticed the volume of comments and the viciousness of some:

  • “GOOD and good riddance. Bye bye!!!!!”
  • “Good!!! Hope they catch and prosecute more of these car jackers! Teens or not … people work hard for their cars and more examples need to be made.”

And when someone questioned whether folks were satisfied that the punishment fit the crime, an immediate response was, “Actually, I AM!!!!!” followed by several similar comments and encouragement for DC to be more like Louisiana.

Then, the real impact hit me. This whole situation hurt my soul: another Black child was being lost to the criminal (in)justice system, a system that I know includes a disproportionate number of Black boys and men.  I was disturbed that no one seemed to care why this child was doing this. Lock him away was the only response. No mention of help or rehabilitation. I am not minimizing the crime. He was armed. The carjacking could have resulted in dire consequences (it didn’t). I understand those facts. I also understand that a 16 year old is still a child, a person who, according to Stanford University, has almost 10 more  years for their brain to fully mature and make wise decisions. 

Doing work on racial justice over the last few years has heightened my awareness of how bias, lack of resources and opportunities, and a host of other factors put Black kids at risk and how racism and bias are significant, often under-recognized, factors in how “justice” is meted out in America. As I reflected on my reaction to the Nextdoor exchange, I thought back to the viciousness of America’s response, not that long ago, to drugs and drug-related crimes. Remember “three strikes, you’re out,” America’s response to repeat offenders regardless of the severity of the crime?  Now drug usage has evolved into a public health issue. Growing and selling marijuana has become an acceptable business. Was race a factor in this change?  Some suggest that increased drug usage among suburban and rural whites was what transformed drug usage from an urban problem that was criminal to a public health problem deserving understanding and treatment. Think about that for a while.

Years ago, a former colleague suggested that prisons should be banned. At the time – about 2017 – I couldn’t wrap my mind around what I perceived as an incredibly radical, and probably unrealistic, idea. Now, I am beginning to understand that thinking. When will the social and mental health issues that undergird so many of the behaviors that place people, particularly young people, in prisons be considered? When will society focus on treatment of those underlying problems as the humane and merited response and look at the caging of humans as radical and reactionary?  When will help, not punishment, become the first (or even second) intervention? Does race play a role in preventing this transformation?

For those who know their American history, the 13th amendment to the U.S. Constitution is correctly reported as the amendment that ended slavery. It is also the amendment that still allows for slavery when a crime is committed. The actual language is,

“Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.”

Both Ava DuVernay in her documentary, “13th” and Michelle Alexander in her New York Times bestseller, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness prompt us to consider the connections between racial injustice and the business of America. Just as slavery offered a financial foundation for this country, today’s prison-industrial complex — bail bondsmen, court stenographers, bailiffs, lawyers, judges, prison guards, companies that supply food to prisons, prison security tech companies, and the list goes on – demands a steady increase in what is criminalized  and the number who are imprisoned in order to support the system.  And, while African Americans comprise about 14% of America’s citizenry, Blacks are about 40% of the imprisoned. Again, just think about that.

A 16-year-old was put in prison in Louisiana for 55 years and some people – too many — in a small neighborhood in Washington, DC cheered.

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A Reflection on Indigenous Peoples’ Day

This blog was originally posted in July 2020. I thought it merited a repost today, Indigenous Peoples’ Day …

I am my brother’s keeper. Part 3. Black and Native.

In all my Daughters of the Dream posts, I comment through my African American lens. That is who I am. That is how I identify. In truth, however, my maternal side of the family is primarily Native; members of the Chickahominy Tribe of Virginia. I have known this all my life, but it mostly went unacknowledged. The federal government did not recognize the tribe until 2018. But more importantly, in many ways, it was also unrecognized by my family.

Big Mama and Papa Joe. separate pics side by side
The author’s maternal grandparents, Dora Adkins Charity and Joseph P. Charity.

Using Ancestry.com, I watched the evolution of the racial identity of my maternal grandparents. On early census documents, my grandmother was noted as Indian, full-blooded as the saying goes. My maternal grandfather was noted as Mulatto, which he was by the definition of that term, mixed Indian and white. Then they both become Mulatto, along with their children, of course. Subsequent census documents list them as colored, then Negro, then black.

My mother and her siblings were raised as African American. Perhaps my grandparents had internalized the negativity the white, dominant population associated with being Native. The only time I can remember my mother celebrating her Native heritage was when she casually commented one Thanksgiving that there was no need to observe this holiday (even though she did). “It was just the beginning of white people taking Indians’ land,” she said.

Now, I have started the journey of celebrating all of me.

Chief Stephen Adkins
The author with Stephen Adkins, Chief of the Chickahominy Tribe of Virginia

Just as I would not overlook a racist image of an African American or a racist comment about one, I am becoming more attuned to my Native roots and culture.  For years, I have recognized the racism in the names of some sports teams. But when conversations turned to looting following the murder of George Floyd, how many of us thought about the original looters — those who took the land of the Native peoples in this country?

Native and black, they are both a part of who I am.

But what about those identities that are not a part of you or me? Just because it is not our identity, racism cannot be ignored. Racism hurts all of us. As Martin Luther King said, “There comes a time when silence is betrayal.” The racial mosaic of those who continue to march and speak out against police brutality and racism, six weeks after the murder of George Floyd, gives me hope. An increasing number of Americans seem to believe — truly believe — we are our brother’s keeper.

 

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What will you risk to fight racism?

I just finished reading Crusade for Justice: The Autobiography of Ida B. Wells.  I suspect many are unfamiliar with her name and her work.  This African American journalist, born into slavery in 1862 in Mississippi, was among the first to speak out against lynchings. Loudly and continuously, she used her voice to say that lynchings were not the legal punishment for falsely stated rape, or disrespect, of white women, as was often suggested. Sexual assault was the deceit. The real crime, committed consciously or simply by accident, was disrupting the established racial norm. A Black person had overstepped. At a time when Black people were persecuted and killed for any number of actions, but particularly for questioning or acting against established racial practices, Ida B. Wells spoke up. She did not allow any threat to her safety to silence her response to injustice. She was fierce.

Throughout history, many have risked their lives for what they knew was right … fair … just.

Others have stood by, seeing injustice, and said and done nothing — afraid of the risks.

Which camp do you fall into?

What will you risk for racial justice?  Friendships? Community standing? Financial benefits?

Will you:

  • Speak up when a friend, family member, neighbor or acquaintance makes a racist comment?
  • Speak up when coverage of a news event seems to be biased against one race or group?
  • Speak up when a policy proposed by an organization with which you are affiliated or employed seems to be racially unfair?
  • Decline work that contributes to racial injustice?
  • Recommend interventions to promote racial justice in those spaces in which you have a voice?
  • Promote learning (books, podcasts, documentaries) and actions that will broaden the knowledge of people in your sphere of influence about race, racism and reparative justice?

Can you say yes to all of the above? If not, you are more afraid of what you might lose than what you might gain.  Instead of a commitment to racial justice, you are worried that a person won’t still be your friend if you speak up about a comment they made or an action they took or that your neighbors will shun you if you say something about racism at a community meeting, or that you might risk advancement or maybe even your job if you speak up. Those are real concerns. Just know that if you have them and if they stop you from speaking up, regardless of your heartfelt sentiments, you are enabling racism.

When former quarterback Colin Kaepernick decided to kneel during the national anthem to showcase the inhumane treatment of Black people by police, he risked his career and lost it, but he elevated an issue and demonstrated integrity. More recently, while not working for racial justice, Congresswoman Liz Cheney decided to speak up against a different type of injustice – treason. She knew she risked her position in Congress, but she did it anyway. Like Kaepernick, she gained the respect of many and demonstrated integrity and a moral consciousness even while losing her position.

Your profile may not be as public as that of Colin Kaepernick or Liz Cheney, but loss is relative and yours might be as significant – loss of friends, loss of community stature, maybe even loss of job. Only you can decide what you are willing to risk and possibly lose.

We must take racial injustice as a personal affront. We must learn that some things and some people aren’t worth holding on to if they jeopardize society. Think about it. Reflect on it, and decide if you are truly an anti-racist, ready, willing, and able to take a stand for a better society, a racially just America. I hope so.

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Postscript:  If your silence is driven by not knowing what to say or how to say it, here’s a guide from the Southern Poverty Law Center that I’ve found helpful.

 

 

 

 

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School Segregation: Not All Negative

While originally posted in September 2017, the message and historical framing still seem relevant today.  Regardless of the quality of the educational tools and facilities, without teachers and school administrators who affirm, uplift, and believe in their students, students’ potential will never be fully realized.  Wishing everyone much success as the school year begins.

The first day of school is always exciting. I’m sure that mine was no different when I walked into Albert V. Norrell Elementary School. Even though Brown v. Board of Education had struck down separate-but-equal schooling, my education started in an all-Black school environment. I suspect I didn’t notice. All the people in my world were Black. Back then, we were all Negroes—in my family, in my neighborhood, at my church, and now at my school. Nothing new.

Norrell school photo
The author in front of her classmates at A.V. Norrell Elementary School.

At the time, nationally and in Richmond, Virginia, where I lived, people argued whether separate school systems were inherently unequal and whether Black students were disadvantaged by this practice. In many ways, the evidence was clear. We received hand-me-down books from the white schools, our science labs, if we had them, had outdated equipment, and the school facilities themselves had only marginal upkeep.

But there was one significant difference. In that all-Black environment, everyone was fully dedicated to the success of all the students. From the janitorial crew to the cafeteria team, the entire faculty all the way to Mrs. Ethel Overby, our principal (the first Black woman ever named to be a principal in the Richmond school system), they were all willing to do whatever it took to nurture our desire to learn and to give us every possible learning opportunity they could. This reality was a powerful counterbalance to the deficits in the system.

I don’t believe that Black students experience that degree of total commitment to their success anymore. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not saying that teachers and administrators don’t want to see their students succeed. I believe that most do. But put simply, I also think that unconscious bias looms large in the education system. Far too many have bought into  ideas—preconceptions—about the pathology of Black families, about the inability of Black boys to focus, about the myth of laziness, and the list goes on. You know the stereotypes as well as I do.

I remember being surrounded by a cocoon of love and support. I can still remember the pride felt as I stood at school assemblies for the singing of Lift Every Voice and Sing, the Negro National Anthem. I knew I could do anything I set my mind to because everyone told me I would be successful. And the actions of everyone around me were intended to open the doors to success and to help me walk through them.

The older I get and reflect on the current state of America, the better I understand my father’s comment that integration was the best thing that happened to Black people and the worst.

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For more information on unconscious/implicit bias, watch this — https://www.puttingracismonthetable.org/implicitbias