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Chapters Twelve, Thirteen: More hope, mercy, justice

“‘I am lucky. I got help that most women can’t get. It’s what bothers me the most now, knowing that they are still there and I’m home. I hope we can do more to help more people.’” Marsha Colbey, speaking at the EJI benefit dinner, p. 241

Marsha Colbey is compelling us to act. It is not enough for me to work to raise kids who are not entitled, who are compassionate, who care about others. It is not enough for me to buy the occasional Groundcover. It is not enough for me to every once in awhile volunteer for something. It’s not enough when there are women who are in jail for the simple reason that they are poor. Living in my safe, secure world, I have what I need and feeling safe in that is not enough. I am called to act. I am called to do something about the injustices in the world.

I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to be Colbey, just a few short weeks after delivering her stillborn son, arrested and charged with capital murder. Here is a woman who couldn’t afford prenatal care, who was doing what she could to provide a stable, loving home for her other six children. It seems so wrong that we would arrest and jail a woman who obviously needed our kindness and compassion instead.

This book is a constant challenge to me. Each page I read asks what am I doing in my life to work towards justice, towards mercy. And this goes beyond working towards getting wrongfully convicted people out of jail or fixing our justice system. Those are the big things. It goes to what I can do on a daily basis to help. And that starts with me spending the time figuring out what I can do with my gifts, how I can best serve.

In this chapter,  Stevenson writes, “We need more hope. We need more mercy. We need more justice” (241). We need to be the people who bring that hope, that mercy, that justice. We are being called with each page of this book.

Monet Tiedeman is a resident parishioner at St. Mary’s. She is a blogger of all AAPS Board of Education regular meetings (http://annarbivore.com), a photographer, a wife to her best friend, and a mother to three of the coolest kids around. She is passionate about public education, civic engagement, and camping.

Chapters Ten, Eleven: Restorative Justice

“The ‘free world’ became perilous for deinstitutionalized poor people suffering from mental disabilities. The inability of many disabled, low-income people to receive treatment or necessary medication dramatically increased their likelihood of a police encounter that would result in prison or jail time. Jail and prison became the state’s strategy for dealing with a health crisis created by drug use and dependency. A flood of mentally ill people headed to prison for minor offenses and drug crimes or simply for behaviors their communities were unwilling to tolerate.” – Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy, p. 188

I was born and raised in Cincinnati and saw few homeless or mentally ill persons in my suburban neighborhood or the downtown area during my early years. The initiative to move the institutionalized people with mental illness back to their communities really gained momentum when I was a young nurse in the 1970s and 1980s. As the number of people with serious mental illness on the public streets grew, so did the disparaging comments from family and friends regarding these people who were often categorized as “drunks,” “winos” and “drug addicts.” They were often perceived as unwilling or unable to get a job, and therefore, they were considered unworthy of kindness, help or even a smile.

It wasn’t until my most recent professional position that I had the privilege to work with adolescents and their families who suffered from mental illness. Most of these families were low income, single parent families whose economic challenges coupled with little family or church support resulted in unstable living arrangements and sustained stress. One young, African American teen with psychoses was being raised by his mother in a large family with limited income and resources. The family moved three times during the 3 years I worked with them and had little in the way of possessions. His mother was determined to keep this young man in school and away from gang activity and other negative influences, such as illegal drugs. However, the young man had difficulty sleeping and would wander the neighborhood at night; he was paranoid and would refuse to take medication or stay in school; and he could be influenced to steal from local merchants. All of these behaviors resulted in encounters with police and time spent in the Youth Home.

Reflecting on this young man’s challenges in our society and those of countless others like him, I can’t help but feel that Jesus is disappointed in our response to the needs of the mentally ill. Our primary goal cannot be a “one size fits all” solution that can be delivered “equitably” and “universally” at a “reasonable” cost. Jesus didn’t heal groups of people or types of illness collectively. He healed individuals’ needs after asking what the person wanted Jesus to do for him/her. Our society has traded one prison (the mental institutions) for another (correctional facilities). Neither solution addresses the needs of the individual suffering a chronic mental condition, nor asks as Jesus does, “what do you want me to do for you?” Especially in the case of those individuals suffering from mental illness and facing criminal charges, restorative justice practices that focus on individual needs more clearly reflects the Lord’s healing message.

Nancy Terhar is a retired, pediatric nurse who is married and has 2 young adult children. She enjoys singing, hiking and biking and is currently coordinating court watching in Washtenaw County juvenile delinquency court.

Chapters Eight, Nine: Not one more

“Forced back to South Central, blocks from where his brother was murdered, Antonio struggled. A court later found that ‘[l]iving just blocks from where he was shot and his brother was killed, Nunez suffered trauma symptoms, including flashbacks, an urgent need to avoid the area, a heightened awareness of potential threats, and an intensified need to protect himself from real or perceived threats.’” Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy, p. 155

As a social worker who treats children with trauma backgrounds, I find Antonio’s situation heartbreaking. Antonio’s traumas and losses—like many of the children I see in therapy—started early in his life. He grew up in a neighborhood and home that was filled with violence; his mother had significant mental health problems; he had no one to attend his school events. Then, as if he had not already suffered enough in his 13 years, Antonio was shot by a stranger. His brother, Jose, heard him yelling for help and rushed to his side. Tragically, Jose was shot and ultimately killed in his attempt to protect his younger brother.

I cannot imagine the depth of Antonio’s sadness, and, perhaps even worse, the survivor’s guilt about his brother losing his life to save Antonio’s life. Who did Antonio talk to about these intense emotions? Who helped him through his grief?

On top of the inevitable grief and confusion and anger, having to return home to the same neighborhood must have been horrific for Antonio. The trauma and loss reminders would have been everywhere—maybe the favorite corner store where Jose would buy snacks after school, maybe the park where Jose and Antonio played when they were younger, maybe running into Jose’s best friend. Not to mention having to pass by the site of Jose’s murder.

I try to imagine my 13 year old self losing one of my brothers in this way, and it gives me goose bumps. And then, I try to imagine having a loss like this without bigger, stronger, wiser, and kind adults to support me. The thought of this makes me want to cry. I am certain that I, like Antonio, would have been on high alert at all times and desperate to find some way to protect myself. I also know that I would have been eager to find some sense of community.

All of these human desires ultimately led Antonio to accompany two men twice his age in committing some crimes. In the end, Antonio became the youngest U.S. citizen sentenced to life in prison without parole for a crime in which no one was injured.

As I reflect on the course of Antonio’s life, the question that keeps coming back to me is who was there to help Antonio shoulder the immense pain that life brought him? Our court system eventually acknowledged that he was suffering from trauma reactions that “intensified his need to protect himself from real or perceived threats,” but that was only after he was sentenced to die in prison. What good does that acknowledgment do for a child behind bars?

My hope is that Antonio’s story motivates each one of us to do more, earlier on, to help children and families who have been traumatized. We have good trauma informed interventions, but we need to make sure that all families can access these treatments. I cannot tolerate the thought of even one more child falling through the cracks in our system.

Cait Hanley is a lover of Ann Arbor and a long time parishioner of St. Mary’s. She is a social worker who does child therapy with a wide range of ages, but she has a special place in her heart for working with young children. For fun, Cait enjoys spending time with her family, friends, and her two dogs, Jonathan and Susie. 

Chapters Five, Six: Black Lives Matter

“‘We’ve all been through a lot, Bryan, all of us. I know that some have been through more than others. But if we don’t expect more from each other, hope better from one another, and recover from the hurt we experience, we are surely doomed.’” Mrs. Jennings, as quoted speaking to Bryan Stevenson in Just Mercy, p. 126

Black Lives Matter. Three small words that have sparked a debate in this country surrounding the issue of police brutality. For me, these are three small words that I feel that I have been screaming for so long and I have become so tired. I can’t bear to watch another video of a black man being fatally shot and I am horrified that we as a nation have become so desensitized to these shootings that we feel comfortable oversharing images of death.

Me reading this book (and subsequently writing this blog post) comes during a time where I just want to give up. I have been so outspoken in person and on social media about police brutality, and racism in general, and yet, every day, it seems like there’s another shooting. I have tried to walk the walk. I have proudly and indignantly worn my Black Lives Matter shirt. I have joined Colin Kaepernick’s protest and started to kneel in the stands during the national anthem at football games. And yet, it feels like nothing is changing, or will ever change. And I can’t handle it. Especially at a place like the University of Michigan, and even St. Mary’s, where I (being a black and white mixed-race person) look around and see nothing but white people.

My best friend from home, who is black, frequently texts me telling me how hard it is for her to go her classes where she is the only person of color; how hard it is for her to look around and know that those other students aren’t at all affected by these events. And because they can never understand your pain, they definitely don’t understand your anger so you try to keep it down. And people don’t understand that that is so exhausting.

I feel absolutely defeated by racism and by police brutality and honestly, reading this book is nearly too much to handle because I just want to give up. But I can’t. Because there is so much more than needs to be done and needs to be said. Because if I can’t speak out, why would anyone else? Because people here need to be made aware of these issues. And because black lives do in fact matter.

Madison (Maddie) Jones is originally from Lansing, MI, and is a junior studying Communications and American Culture. She is serving at St. Mary’s as the Outreach and Engagement Intern for this school year. With a black father who has worked in the criminal justice system, Just Mercy has struck a nerve with her and she hopes that this book might help to enlighten people and spark a well-needed conversation within the parish.

Chapters Three, Four: Shared humanity

“I generally favor the death penalty because mad dogs ought to die.” Civil Lawyer as quoted in Just Mercy, p. 69

This is an excerpt from a public letter written by a ‘respected civil lawyer’ who became disillusioned after working on a death penalty case. What a harsh sentiment, lumping all death row prisoners together as so many ‘mad dogs.’ Though, as I thought about it, there is a logic to it. If a mad dog has attacked and/or killed, it has to be put down before it does again. And some condemned people have done such terrible, inhuman things that they must be prevented absolutely from doing more. So, while I may not like the forceful manner in which this judgment is presented, there is some logic to the position.

But by the end of this chapter I am reminded that the problem with this statement is that it wants to compare any human being to an animal in an absolute way – as if there is no fundamental difference between the two. Or maybe the better way to approach it is to say, “as a human being, I can treat an animal in one way and another human being in a very different way.” The death penalty is not then so much about what is ‘just,’ given the kind of offense committed, but rather about what we will allow ourselves to do as humans to another human when we (the State) are called upon to act to preserve order in Society. If we see the human characteristics of the condemned, we act differently than if we only see the crime.

And then I remembered. Quite a few years ago now I regularly went into the jails in Cleveland to pray with inmates, on Saturday evenings for the women and Sunday mornings for the men. One of the men was a regular whom I got to know a bit, though never what he had done to get him in jail. When he was tried and found guilty and sent away to prison, he wrote back to us. In one of his letters he said the thing he missed most about his life in a prison was that he had no opportunity to sing, as he had in jail with our religious services. It’s a small thing, of course but to me it got to his humanity, deep under whatever he had done.

Fr. Dennis Dillon, SJ serves as a Pastoral Associate at St. Mary’s.