The Price of the Second Mile
Jan Carlsson-Bull with Roberto Vasquez and Isaac Taylor
January 14, 2001
How did that commercial go? I think it was for an oven cleaner. Some disembodied voice calls out to this lady toiling away at the grit in her oven: "What's a nice woman like you doing in a place like that?" And she looked up startled, only to be handed her miracle, a can of Easy-Off! Well, maybe the same question could have been posed to me when I went to Sing Sing-not as an inmate (my gender wouldn't allow that), but as a visitor. What's a nice woman like you doing in a place like that? I can assure you I would not have been appeased by a can of Easy-Off. You see, I went there in search of my soul, an ongoing search. What I discovered, in my scant three visits and considerable follow-up correspondence, was more soulful than I ever could have imagined.
It was springtime, and I traveled "up the river" at the invitation of my old friend, Bill Webber, to visit with the student inmates participating in New York Theological Seminary's Graduate Program at Sing Sing. As the former president of the seminary, Bill had begun this program in the early 1980s. He remains active in supporting it.
A few words about the history of this program. Some of us remember the uprising at Attica in 1971. Inmates rebelled at the appalling conditions in this maximum security prison. Hostages were taken. Governor Nelson Rockefeller refused to negotiate directly and approved plans for the State police to storm the prison. They did so, resulting in the killing of ten hostages and 29 inmates. The political aftermath was intense. In 1973, the so-called Rockefeller Drug Laws were enacted, laws whose harsh sentencing mandates have resulted in an explosion of our state's prison population from a nominal 12,500 to well over 70,000 today. There was also a positive aftermath. New York State's Department of Corrections decided to encourage corrections behavior in prison--sounds logical! They deftly linked funding available through federal Pell grants with inmates who qualified. Contracts were written with colleges and universities statewide to provide a college education to prison inmates. This college program was a win-win for prisons, prisoners, colleges, and society. It cut recidivism in half and saved New York taxpayers a bundle of money.
Spurred by this opportunity, a number of Sing Sing inmates earned their undergraduate degrees. A cluster of these college graduates, encouraged by their academic achievements and supported by their chaplain, sought the further challenge of graduate work. New York Theological Seminary responded, with the timely advocacy of an Assistant Commissioner of Corrections, who was a recent graduate of the seminary. In the last few years, the political climate has undermined the will to publicly fund this cost-effective program that has done so much to cut recidivism. The opportunity to pursue an undergraduate education in prison is now offered by thoughtful inmates who have completed their degrees. They serve as teachers for the next generation of college graduates in prison.
Over the last 18 years, close to 300 men have received their Master's degrees from New York Theological Seminary, while incarcerated at Sing Sing. It is an arduous program. Courses are taught by professors from the seminary. Expectations are high. Funded through the seminary by private foundations and individual donors, this graduate program in Professional Studies equips men with the skills critical for working in community agencies and church-based settings outside the walls. While still confined, they begin teaching and counseling their fellow inmates. For some, Sing Sing will be their only field of practice.
It was during my first visit to Sing Sing that I met Isaac Taylor and Roberto Vasquez, students in the Graduate Program. [Issac and Roberto stand] While in prison, Isaac earned his GED, his Associate's Degree, and his BS in Behavioral Science, as well as volunteering for a host of youth assistance and pre-release programs. Roberto obtained his GED, his Associate's Degree, a BS in psychology and a Master's degree in sociology, as well as using his bilingual skills to assist Spanish-speaking inmates through peer education and counseling. Both men were steeped in the study of ethics, sociology, psychology, and theology. In roundtable conversation, Isaac offered his commentary on the crises of our day.
Isaac:
Look at the economic problems out there.... the gap between the rich and the poor, the feeling of some that blacks take jobs from whites, violence in the mass media, what we discovered through Columbine--that violence isn't confined to communities of color. We have to involve ourselves deeply in the struggle. People have to have something to do, meaningful work. The privatization of prisonsguarantees your prison population.
In a paper Roberto wrote for the graduate program, he reflects on what that program meant for him, and he names and analyzes what he sees as the greatest problems faced by marginalized people in this country:
Roberto:
I would certainly not deny that some individuals need to be locked away to protect society, but very few prisoners fit into this category. Incarceration in the US today has little to do with protecting society or reforming offenders. It is a profit-motivated/hate-driven shameful business. Sociologically speaking, the Prison-Industrial Complex serves two primary functions. It provides a new enemy, a new war to rally around, and it serves as a jobs program. The raw material for the prisons are the disenfranchised, mostly Black and Hispanic men. Many of the rural communities that lost jobs as a result of the downsizing of the US military and industrial flight are now receiving prisons Prisons give Americans an illusion of participating in the war against its new enemy-the marginalized.
A few years ago, the journalist Ted Conover went undercover as a corrections officer at Sing Sing. His reflections and research fill the pages of Newjack: Guarding Sing Sing. Conover echoes the views of Isaac and Roberto.
The eruption of violence at Attica in 1971 was a double-edged sword for justice in New York State. While Governor Rockefeller sought to implement some of the approved reforms-drug rehab programs, the college program for inmates, he pushed through the legislature anti-drug laws, whose rigidity led to a 560 per cent increase in the prison population over the next 25 years, the building of 50 new prisons, and the elevation of the status of the Department of Correctional Services to New York State's second-largest employer after Bell Atlantic-I guess that's Verizon now! (204)
The marginalized among us, alluded to by Isaac and dubbed by Roberto as America's new enemy, is given further voice by Conover in his capsule version of the societal roles of guard and inmate:
"The essential relationship inside a prison is the one between a guard and an inmateThe guard is mainstream society's last representative, the inmate, its most marginal man." (207)
While still in prison, Isaac and Roberto resisted the status of the marginal man by committing their energies to a rigorous academic program founded on strong spiritual soil and a relentless faith that they could make a positive difference. I attended the ceremony in which both were awarded their Master's Degree from New York Theological Seminary. Family and friends filled the Visiting Room, glowing with pride over the accomplishments of their sons, brothers, husbands, fathers. It was a celebration of non-violent resistance to a system that in so many ways renders over two million men and women in this country invisible, less than human.
I am not saying we don't need prisons. I am declaring from the bottom of my soul that we don't need institutions whose captive audience is not given every possibility to transform attitudes and behavior so that they rise to the highest level of their humanity. I am declaring from the bottom of my soul that we don't need institutions that house non-violent offenders for ten to 20 years, offenders who are disproportionately young men of color.
Isaac:
When I first went to prison, I felt I was dealt an injustice. I don't feel that now, though I don't think I deserved the time I received. Sentences are disproportionate to the crime. African-Americans and Latinos serve longer sentences for the same crime committed by European Americans. A stronger educational background permits stronger legal representation. So many African-Americans and Latinos haven't benefited from that privilege.
In my subsequent correspondence with Roberto, I had asked what folks in a church like ours could do to support prison reform. He replied:
Roberto:
You ask what can be done by good-willed people to make a change for the better. According to law, every prisoner is supposed to be afforded an unbiased hearing in which only the individual circumstances regarding that person's case are considered. Politics is not supposed to enter the decision making process, yet it reigns supreme. College and other beneficial programs must be brought back into the prisons. It is in the interest of society that these institutions once again become places that facilitate the reformation of lives, not simply human warehouses.
Isaac served 16 years; Roberto served 20. Isaac is now employed as director of a substance abuse program and a mentoring program for a faith-based organization in the city. Roberto now works as a substance abuse counselor at an outpatient clinic. Their accomplishments are eloquent testimony to the effectiveness of non-violent resistance to a political ethic, a social ethic, and yes, even an all too mainstream religious ethic, that is punitive to the bone and nonrational in the extreme. As Bill Webber describes it, "The criminal justice system is a unique structure in our society. It's the only major institution we know of whose success is dependent on it being a failure at what it says it's trying to do."
Roberto, Isaac, Bill, and the students and professors at Sing Sing are models of faith that serve us well in resisting such a system. There have been other models of faith-some call them prophets. Jesus, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr. all reached out to the invisible men and women of their time. They lived example after example of how to confront abusers of power. None of them was passive. None of them was violent. They showed us a third way.
Consider, for example, that passage from the New Testament Gospel of Matthew, read earlier by Roberto.
Speaking to the marginalized men and women of his day, oppressed by the Roman occupation of Palestine, Jesus offered this advice:
"You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' But I say to you, Do not resist one who is evil. But if any one strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also; and if any one would sue you and take your coat, let him have your cloak as well; and if any one forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles."
(Matthew 5:38-41)
The New Testament scholar Walter Wink (Engaging the Powers, 1992) sheds new light on this passage, long interpreted as a gentle Jesus meek and mild message to simply cower to power. On the contrary, Wink points out that in the cultural milieu of the time, the term "resist" should be rendered "resist violently." Don't resist violently, Jesus admonished. The rest of the passage is a series of strategies for nonviolent resistance.
Turning the left cheek is part of a convoluted dynamic of which hand an officer of the Roman Empire might use to strike the intended victim and how, without incurring a penalty on himself. By turning the other cheek, the intended victim was placing the perpetrator at risk-at risk of embarrassment at the very least-and reminding him that he hadn't succeeded the first time in humiliating him. In fact, he hadn't succeeded at all.
The second strategy is even more inventive. You are being sued. Clearly you are quite poor, or you would not be sued for your coat. So what does Jesus suggest? Give the greedy creditor your cloak as well. In other words, give him your very underwear. March out of court stark naked! Nakedness was taboo in Jewish culture, but the heft of the shame fell on the person causing the nakedness-in this case, the creditor!
And then that bizarre advice about walking the second mile. It was common for Roman soldiers to demand that their Jewish subjects carry their packs-and heavy packs they were. But Roman law, variably enlightened as it was, forbade soldiers from demanding that their Jewish subjects carry these heavy burdens further than a mile. Distance markers were even placed along the roads as reminders of such a limit. The penalty for exceeding it-the penalty inflicted upon the soldier-was commonly a flogging. So imagine. You have been ordered to carry this guy's pack. Your chest is heaving. You're sweating. You're angry and resentful. You'd really like to kill the brute, but you don't dare do that; no, you carry his pack another mile. It is an act of nonviolent resistance par excellence.
Of course the powers that be would catch on quickly, and it would not take long to modify the legal code. Yet what is being suggested is a style of strategy that enlists the most creative cunning in resisting the brutish imperialist power of Rome. Jesus is refuting violent resistance, not resistance altogether.
A more current example is given by Wink in his reference to the 1965 March from Selma to Montgomery, a march in which our own Rev. Richard Leonard actively participated and documented. When the civil rights workers crossed the bridge in Selma, they did so without a parade permit and forced the authorities to a decision. They could allow the march to continue, recognizing its legitimacy, or they could stop it by force, exposing their violence to the world. (Wink, 192) Their choice of violence proved catastrophic to the power which had propped up their racism. The nonviolent, though nonlegal, choice of the marchers spoke moral truth to immoral power.
The price of the second mile is paid not by he or she who walks it, but by those of us who wield power and demand that our burdens be carried on the backs of others in the first place. The price of the second mile is exposure of those of us who would abuse our power. Walking the second mile is an act of nonviolent resistance, the style of resistance advocated and practiced by Dr. King. In his Letter from Birmingham Jail, written in April 1963, King addressed local clergymen who chided him for coming to their city as an "outside agitator." They had cried "Too much too fast. Why direct action? Why not negotiation?" King responded:
Isaac
"Nonviolent direct action seeks to foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue.we who engage in nonviolent direct action are not the creators of tension. We merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. We bring it out in the open where it can be seen and dealt with."
And he did not mince words in taking them to task:
Isaac
"Shallow understanding from people of goodwill is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will."
I contend that Isaac and Roberto have walked the second mile. Ordered to serve lengthy prison sentences, they took up their burden--not necessarily in a state of innocence--but with the opportunities presented, they walked the second mile. They walked the second mile in their academic tenacity. They walked the second mile in the service they performed on behalf of their fellow inmates. They are walking the second mile in the good work they are doing now in our city. And any system that would marginalize such possibility, such promise-no matter what my friends had done to land in prison in the first place-has egg on its very soul. Nonviolent resistance can, has, and does succeed in speaking truth to power.
When I asked Roberto what he thought a congregation with considerable privilege and primarily white, most needed to hear, he told me this:
Roberto
the fear. Understand the fear that is exploited by systems of power so that those of us outside the prison system don't complain about the use of tax dollars to build and sustain the system of prisons as it exists.
Roberto is suggesting that we look closely at how our most primal emotions are being leveraged to sustain a system of which we should all be ashamed and do everything in our power to transform. Power to do so is resident in each pew of this sanctuary. It is resident in the pulpits of this sanctuary. It is resident in each task force and committee of All Souls.
The words of Derrick Bell-author, scholar, professor of law, African American--return to me, words spoken when he was here at All Souls this past October:
"We must listen carefully to those who have been most subordinated. In listening, we must not do them the injustice of failing to recognize that somehow they survived as complete, defiant, though horribly scarred beings. We must learn from their example"
(Derrick Bell, "Wanted: A White Leader Able to Free Whites of Racism," 10/22/00, All Souls)
It is easier to celebrate Dr. King's birthday than to act on his vision. It is easier to celebrate the birthday of a prophet who lived and died 2,000 years ago than to consider what he was really up to. It is easier to nod our heads at Isaac and Roberto than to take to our phones, our computers, and maybe even the streets and demand through our representatives in Albany and Washington a system of justice that doesn't betray itself.
"Always it is easier to pay homage to prophets than to heed the direction of their vision." But since when, since when was ours the easier way? Amen. Copyright AllSouls 2001.