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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.

Chapter Two: Drum for justice

“When I thought about what I would have done when I was sixteen years old or nineteen or even twenty-four, I was scared to realize that I might have run. The more I thought about it, the more concerned I became about all the young black boys and men in that neighborhood. Did they know not to run? Did they know to stay calm and say, ‘It’s okay’?” Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy, p.43

In chapter two, the author of the book has an experience that surprises and angers him: police officers hold him at gunpoint and illegally search his car for no reason. Except that he is a black man in a neighborhood where a black man sitting in a car for 15-minutes at night leads to suspicion and a call to the police. When confronted with the police, Bryan has an impulse to run. His age and experience override that impulse, but when the encounter is finished, he reflects on how such an event might play out for other black men and boys in his neighborhood.

Fight or flight. This basic human instinct has helped us survive for thousands of years. But this instinct in modern life can lead to death, not survival, for many of our youth. Instead of a wild animal or a true enemy, the fear that leads to this instinct is stimulated by those who are supposed to be our protectors. Protectors who make an automatic presumption that a black child is doing something wrong by being present in a particular place at a particular time. Protectors who make an interpretation that a black man looks menacing or dangerous or suspicious. Protectors who are blinded by the racist structure of our world and do not protect all of God’s children. I wanted to write “do not protect all of God’s children anymore” but in reading this book, I realized more definitively that we have never protected all of our black and brown and native brothers and sisters. The ways in which we have stimulated the fight or flight instinct for these children of God have changed over time – slavery, post-Reconstruction terrorism, Jim Crow, and mass incarceration. We have never really protected these marginalized children.

At the end of this chapter, an elderly man who has scars from standing up for voting, civil and children’s rights, tells Bryan that he is “beating the drum for justice!” Many of us are part of the dominant white culture that has caused fear and great harm to our black brothers and sisters over the course of our country’s history. How might we join Bryan to “beat a drum for justice”?

Lisa Hirsch is a member of the Social Justice Ministry leadership team. She and her husband, Tom McDonough, have 3 children and are long time resident parishioners of St. Mary.

Chapter One: All Children of God

“But there was no evidence against [Walter] McMillan—no evidence except that he was an African-American man involved in an adulterous interracial affair, which meant he was reckless and possibly dangerous, even if he had no prior criminal history and a good reputation. Maybe that was evidence enough.” Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy

Just last week, a series of racist flyers were posted around campus—one of which was entitled “Why White Women Shouldn’t Date Black Men”. It listed several “reasons”, such as that black men are abusive, will give you STDs, and other incredibly hateful things. Worse yet, these fliers were posted for all to see in academic buildings where students walk by each and every day Needless to say, this flyer and the other flyers caused a great deal of hurt to the campus community.

Not long before that, racist messages were spray painted on the wall of an academic building at Eastern Michigan University, just a short drive away. It didn’t help that this was happening around the same time headlines were made that more unarmed black men became victims of police brutality such as Terence Crutcher and Keith Lamont Scott. What’s more, there was a protest on campus of a debate led by a student organization regarding the effectiveness of the Black Lives Matter movement.

And all of this happened within the span of two weeks…barely.

Bottom line, many people do not feel safe on their own campus—a place for scholarship and growth and a place where they should be able to be themselves and reach their potential. However, many have felt as though their hurt, pain, and struggle are not validated.

Walter McMillan didn’t feel safe in his own environment, either. In fact, he was sentenced to death row for a murder he didn’t commit. An otherwise decent person, the evidence that he was “bad news” was the fact that he was romantically involved with a white woman. Walter McMillan wasn’t given a voice in this ordeal and was unable to have anyone advocate for him.

While we as a nation have come a long way, it is far too clear that tensions are unfortunately strained. Divisions seem starker than ever. There is a long road ahead towards the improvement of race relations as well as our greater sense of justice and unity in this world. In the Year of Mercy, may we stand in solidarity with those who are suffering in any way, and be truly compassionate. May we all be one in Him, acknowledging that our differences are beautiful and that we are all children of God.

Jenny Ozor is a senior and is on the intern cohort for 2016-17 as the Social Justice intern. She enjoys blogging, volunteering, and puns!

Introduction: You are more

“Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.” Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy, p. 17

This summer, I had the immense pleasure of interning for a federal judge. A large part of my internship was to observe anything that took place in the courtroom. This included criminal sentencing. This was the part of the job I was least looking forward to. As an aspiring public defender and current criminal justice reform advocate, the idea of watching people being sentenced to prison had always left a bad taste in my mouth. However, I will never forget the time that, during one sentencing, the judge quoted Bryan Stevenson, saying, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.” This line stuck with me the first time I read it, but it will never mean the same after hearing a judge say it to a convicted criminal, encouraging him to not let his conviction define the rest of his life. If this is not the exact definition of just mercy, I am not sure what is.

Think for a minute about who Jesus surrounded himself with. We hear in the Gospels about how Jesus would preach to the tax collectors and sinners, but do we really think about that? When we do process that Jesus went out to the margins, do we feel called to follow the example? How many people do we look at as Jesus did and remember that they are more than the worst thing they have ever done? Who do we refuse to see as more than the sum of their actions? Who do we hold grudges against?

When we mess up, how long do we let our mistakes ruminate in our minds before we are willing to forgive ourselves? How many times do we drive ourselves crazy with regrets and pain? Say it aloud. I am more than the worst thing I have ever done.

Being merciful does not mean pretending that nothing happened. It does not mean that we have to let people walk all over us. But just mercy—the type of mercy we see from Jesus, the mercy that we should strive for during the Jubilee Year of Mercy, and the mercy that is the center of this book—is based on this central, very significant sentence. Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.

Maggie Larin

Maggie is a Junior at the University of Michigan studying Sociology with a focus in Law, Justice, and Social Change. She hopes to one day become a criminal defense attorney, defending those without representation and, if the need continues, those on death row.

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Just Mercy Reflection Series

“Jesus’s concern for the care of the hungry, the thirsty, the homeless, and prisoners sought to express the core of the Father’s mercy. This becomes a moral imperative for the whole of society that wishes to maintain the necessary conditions for a better common life. It is within a society’s capacity to include the poor, the infirm and the imprisoned, that we see its ability to heal their wounds and make them builders of a peaceful coexistence.” – Pope Francis to prisoners at Centro de Readaptación in Juarex, Mexico

Welcome to St. Mary’s reflection series on Bryan Stevenson’s book Just Mercy. Whether you’re just beginning Just Mercy, finished it six months ago, or have it on your to-read list for winter break, it is our hope that this series of reflections is relevant and meaningful to you, and moves you to think about mercy, compassion, and our justice system in new ways; we want this space to be the starting point of a parish-wide conversation about the collective responsibility we have to create a more merciful and just world.

Pope Francis consistently calls each one of us to stand in solidarity with the incarcerated people of our world. He celebrated his first Holy Thursday as Pope at a juvenile detention center in Rome, and in 2015, celebrated Holy Thursday mass at the Rebibbia Prison in Rome. During his visit to the United States, Pope Francis spent time visiting and praying with prisoners at the Curran-Cromhold Correctional Facility in Philadelphia, telling them “I am here as a pastor, but above all as a brother, to share your situation and to make it my own.” What a beautiful invitation to each of us to stand as brothers and sisters with the imprisoned.

On behalf of the Social Justice Ministry at St. Mary’s, thank you for reading, and we look forward to the start of a transformative dialogue!

If you are interested in gaining some background before reading the series, we encourage you to watch this moving 20 minute TED Talk by the author of Just Mercy, Bryan Stevenson: