The death penalty

I absolutely had to share this link to a fascinating New Yorker article I read this weekend.  I have been opposed to the death penalty for as long as I can remember, long before I ever met a prisoner.  I don’t believe that it protects the sanctity of life, but rather undermines it.  My opinion was certainly strengthened by seeing firsthand the racism within the criminal justice system–this has always been a key argument for death penalty opponents, that there is an unacceptable racial disparity in the death sentence.

The interesting thing about this article by David Grann is that it is not really a polemic about the death penalty: rather, it’s one part the story of an unlikely friendship between a death row inmate and a writer/teacher; one part exploration of the science (or non-science) of arson investigation; and one part reflection on the ethics of a system which took the life of an innocent person.  It’s a bit lengthy and obviously sad (three children have died at the outset), but there is a tragic beauty in there that really moved me.

If you give it a read, let me know what you think (I thought it was amazing, but sometimes feel like I lose track of how interesting other people will find these same topics).

A few random thoughts

1.  The rash that I introduced you to here is still with me.  It ranges from consistently annoying (during the day) to how-in-the-heck-can-I-get-this-skin-off-me (during the night).  On Tuesday, I see doctor #5 who will weigh in on the itch that keeps on giving, and likely disagree with at least doctors #1, 2, and 3.  This is the way it works, no?

2.  So obviously sleep has eluded me fairly consistently since mid-June.  And it’s given me a lot of time to think (too much if you ask Neal).  I’ve also written quite a bit in the middle of the night and then debated whether such things should see the light of day.  Some days I tell myself that this is my blog and I can post whatever I want, even if some of it comes from less-than-happy moments.  But then I think about how blogs generally work and all the life-affirming comments people would perhaps feel compelled to make, and I decide that this is not the place.  But then I think about a friend from church (that’s you, Rachel C.) and how when I shared something really sad one day in Relief Society, she said she was glad because it seems like people don’t really talk about those things.  And I just go back and forth…care to weigh in anyone?

3.  At least one of my loyal readers (that’s you, Auds) probably feels quite betrayed that I started this blog ostensibly to chronicle my thesis work and let people into the world of incarceration, and have really failed miserably at doing this for many months.  So here’s a little tidbit from one of my interviews, not so much about incarceration, but probably just about people, society, etc.

Me: How do you feel about money?

Andy: It’s the best thing.

I know I have a more ambivalent/agonizing relationship with money than a lot of people, but I just can’t get past this thought.  Perhaps it’s as much the way he said it, as the actual words.  He was such an understated, not very talkative guy.  He wasn’t making a statement, just answering my question.

I wish I could say why I’m so haunted by his answer.  Perhaps it is the exact words afterall, because they take me back to a beautiful scene from an amazingly, beautiful book (Toni Morrison’s Beloved).  A mother tortured by the loss of her child, “She was my best thing.”  And her partner’s response, “You your best thing, Sethe. You are.”  I guess I just want weightier things to be attached to words like “best thing.”

“I have a kid out there”

Meet Michael, a 19-year-old African American from the South side of Chicago.  He never met his mother.  He barely knew his father.  He spent the first years of his life with his paternal grandmother, who would sometimes give him “whoopins.”  Starting at age nine, he moved in and out of group homes, with the occasional juvy stint beginning at age 10.  At 15, he got his own apartment through the state’s independent living program for foster kids.  And, in his own words, “from there on I’ve been in jail.”   [NOTE: My questions are italicized.]

So are there things that as you leave [jail] that you want to try to do differently than you’ve done in the past?

Ah yeah.  I mean, just basically I’ma keep on, keeping track of my goals, you know.  I have a kid out there.  Just thinking what’s the most important to me.

And what would you say is the most important thing to you?

Family.  Think about them, think about my family.  Keep going to school, keep working.  I shouldn’t have time to mess up.

Do you have a son or a daughter?

It’s a girl.

How old is she?

She will be born in January.

Do you have any particular resources or strategies you plan to use when you get out to help you get back into everything and transition?

I’m gonna to either go to the hospital, go to their parenting classes.  Or I know the Clinic, they got a lot of parenting things, I go to there. . . . I’m gonna try to get a couple jobs and not too much worry about what I’m wearing [the area he is most tempted to spend his money].

I kinda, just the first, like, she [his girlfriend] told me she was pregnant I kinda put away money.  The baby money and trying not to touch it.  I have touched it, but I try not to.

Michael is just one example of the people that surprise you, even astonish you.  Some of the men we met don’t pay much attention to the flesh-and-blood children they have living down the street from them.  And the ones that do are usually older, thirties and forties.  They’ve taken years to get their “craziness” out and decide that they want to leave a better legacy for their children than criminal behavior or drug addiction.  But here is a 19 year old, planning for his baby girl, not to be born for another five months [this was in August].  And not just any 19 year old, but one who has never experienced a loving, intact family.

So you tell me, how do you decide that family is the most important thing when you’ve barely even seen it?  How do you decide that jail is not for you anymore, when it’s about all you’ve experienced in your 19 years?

“Grandma make it better”

I’ve been back in the transcribing business for the last few days, trying to finish these interviews so I can get on to the data analysis.  Today I’ve been revisiting my 19 July interview with Bryant Carter.* He was nearing 40 and in and out of jail/prison his whole life.  He was one of my favorites because of his rich and honest way of describing his childhood, even recreating conversations, voices from his past.  I am particularly struck by the story of his strong, black grandmother.  Could a better person have ever been born?

Here’s part of her story, in Bryant’s own words:

My grandmother raised me and mostly practically the whole family, rest in peace.  She deceased now, but that’s who we looked for, towards, you know. At the time, my mother wasn’t . . . she was young and then on top of that, my mother had a addiction.  So uh, growing up, it was just like my grandmother took responsibility of me and my sister, my older sister.  Then, you know, as time went on, my grandmother took on all of us, including my cousins and you know.

How we was raised, we wasn’t really into father. The father figure . . . cause my grandmother was my mother and my father.  She took care of all the grandchildren.  She had 13 kids of her own.  So it was just mainly my grandmother, you know, just trying to carry, you know, the whole . . .

I mean, she know what we do out there, but in her eyes, we couldn’t do no wrong.  You understand me, she didn’t see us in no type of way.  My grandmother understood and she talked to us. She talked to the way.  Grandma asks us, she tell us where.  She did things that nobody ever do. She understood, you know.  And she sat down and talked to us and she knew that, you know what I’m saying, we was goin the wrong way.  She asks why, you know, explain to her what did she do wrong. You know, but it wadn’t nothing she did.  She raised us good, it wadn’t nothing she did but she, uh, it was just. There was too many of us, she couldn’t.  She did everything in the world she could do, but it was out of control, you know what I mean.  But hey, you gotta house full, you know.  You saying about 15, 15 to 20 of us in the house, you know.  All of us didn’t live there but we might as well have lived there. Because that’s all we, that’s all we knew. Aunties and uncles, some of ‘em was good parents and stuff, but then they didn’t know how to raise no child like my grandmother raise a child. They raised us with, with belts and whoopins, you understand me. She did that every now and then, you know, “go out there and get me a switch.”  But we had to dang near, you understand me, we had to dang near, uh, we hadda, I mean, it’s unquestionable what we had to do just to make her whoop us with a switch.

Grandma make it better. Mama couldn’t come close to it.  Mama gonna whoop you.  That’s who we loved, my grandmother.  She was there when nobody else ain’t there, you know.  Hard times. Like now, she, you know what I’m saying, she . . . “Grandma, I need you, I’m in trouble,” you know.  “I’m gonna pray, babe.”  “I need that, I need praying.”  She uh, made sure.  She’d say, I ain’t got it, but I’m gonna try to get it.  You know, she had it, you know.  And she did whatever she had to do to get us outta here.  And she did what she had to do to try to keep us outta here, outta trouble.  You know what I mean, it was her life.  She used it.  To her last breath, she used it, you know. And um, I gotta say, my grandmother, she was special, she really was.  She was a special person and she is.  I, I, you know, I was tellin you, there’s no wrong we done in her eyes.  She know we messed up.  She know we did wrong.  “Stand up and try it again,” that’s her word, you know. “You tired yet?”  “Yeah, I’m tired, momma.”  “Well, you say you’re tired, you know what I mean, let’s try it again.”  My mama, she messed up.  Before you even mess up again you know, momma always say, “You know you’re gonna mess up again.  You know you’re gonna do that.”  That wadn’t my grandmama, you know.  That was a special love that she had for us, I guess.  Yeah, that, that was a special love my grandmother had.  Yeah, it, there wasn’t no looking back, with each and everyone of us.

Watching her, you know what I mean, she seen three generations pass in front of her before she died in ‘03, you know. That’s love; that was a blessing.

*Name changed, as always.

Conference Report…and Religiosity

This picture is actually from 2 conferences ago, but since this is my go-to outfit for any presentation, I was wearing the exact same thing at the Pacific Sociological Association conference in April (although I’m sorry to admit that my hair looked much worse this time around; even my mom agreed something was just not right about it!).

So I presented about my incarcerated men’s expectations after leaving jail way back on April 10, which means I’ve taken my sweet time in recapping the event.  But I’m happy to say that it was a great success!  This was, by far, the most nervous/frustrated/crazed I’ve ever been about a presentation (for proof, see here, here, and here) because I just wasn’t sure my findings were coming together at all.  Because I didn’t have anyone to really bounce ideas off of this time around, I kept thinking, “Maybe I’m using this variable all wrong! Maybe I’m interpreting this totally inappropriately!”  You get the idea…

I was particularly worried about my religiosity variable (I pray daily, My faith impacts many of my decisions, etc.).  A little background: there is a lot of contention in the corrections literature regarding the impact of faith and religion.  Some studies argue that it is absolutely essential in the rehabilitation process, while others find it irrelevant.  Because I study at BYU, I think I’m much more sensitized to how people will perceive me discussing religion than if I worked at a secular university (there is very good reason for this in the family studies field that I won’t go into at the moment).  So although my findings were clear and robust, with high religiosity being the best predictor of men’s plans to avoid risky behaviors when they reentered society, I spoke almost tentatively, not wanting to seem as if I was focusing on religiosity purely because it confirms my own religious beliefs (the dreaded confirmation bias and all).

Because of this hesitancy, I was extremely gratified by some of the comments from other researchers in the audience.  One academic specifically commented on the fact that religiosity can be a very tricky variable to use in the type of analysis I was doing, but that I handled it very well.  Even more interesting, though, was my discussant’s comments.  He basically called me on my tentativity (how would you actually say that?) and said that my findings were compelling and I should be more straightforward and confident about them.

It reminded me of something very important: despite what some may say or believe, faith does not undercut scientific inquiry.  In my own life, I have clearly seen faith give direction, enlightenment, and vitality to my academic work.  There’s nothing tentative about that.

You did WHAT?! Shut your mouth!

I’m feeling sassy.

I just emailed my paper to the discussant.  It’s not great, it’s not nearly up to my anal-retentive standards, but it’s good enough for now.

Hallelujah!  I have my life back!

Good vibes

I must take a moment before sleeping (don’t tell Neal–it’s already past my 10:00 bedtime) to thank everyone for the good vibes sent my way today.  It really worked!!!  I can’t say that I’m done yet, BUT the part that I was having the most difficulty with finally came together today.  Hallelujah!  Tomorrow I finish the results/analyses and then tackle the dreaded discussion section.  But I’m feeling more hopeful and upbeat about this paper than I have in many weeks.

I have no doubt that this progress was truly a tender mercy of the Lord because in other areas of life, this was an extremely difficult day.  I probably spent about 2-3 hours weeping and mourning for life’s tragedies and losses, some mine, some others’.  But making progress on this once hopeless paper really makes me feel like I can keep going.  This youtube video (must watch until at least 1:22) and these pictures also helped:

Asian otter babies

Orangutan baby in a diaper

Cuddling leopard cubs

Maybe someday…

This freaking paper is still not done.  And it’s not because I’ve neglected it…if that gives you any idea of my state of mind!  If I never write the word “Post-detention expectations” again, it will be too soon.  Sadly, I will be closing this window shortly and…wait for it…writing “Post-detention expectations” again and again and again.  I hate my life.

I have had other ideas for blog posts, but I’ve decided that it’s perfectly appropriate to keep posting these paper-writing updates.  This of all things gives you a sense of how not exciting the “research process” is sometimes.  It was great when I was meeting people from the projects in Chicago everyday; now…not so much.

One final note of a blog-related nature: I am getting a lot of google hits on my blog some days.  Apparently, one of the popular search terms that leads to llcall is: “kids in washing machines.”  This blog post I wrote is what prompted it, but I am beginning to be creeped out by how often it comes up in google searches.  Hopefully, people are looking for some cute image like this (and not something more nefarious):

Today…

My conference presentation is still April 10, and now I’ve got 15 pages.  I know it doesn’t sound like I’ve done that much since my Wednesday promise to the blogosphere, but believe me, I have done little else.  I worked for a solid 13 hours on Wednesday.  This is what I looked like by the end of the day:

A few things I’ve learned over the last few days:

• I hate multiple regression.  I know there are worse things (like meta-analysis, Vickie or learning Mplus, Emily), but there’s something screwy going on with my sample size and thus far, I can’t create an evenly remotely interesting AND statistically-sound regression model.  Hours of life wasted…
• I was crazy to write a proposal that requires a different set of literature altogether than I have spent the last year studying.
• If you focus on something too long, it will invade your dreams.  Last night I dreamt (seriously) about dividing my sample into different age groups and running mean comparisons.  Crazy thing is, it might actually be a good idea.  Sweet statistical dreams.

Tomorrow…

My conference presentation is 10 April.  My paper is 11 pages and ridiculously incomplete.  Tomorrow I have to hit this paper so hard, it just might kill me.  Seriously.  But I have to do it to save my marriage (Neal’s such a drama queen sometimes )

By this time Thursday, I will have written this paper: Post-Detention Likelihood to Succeed Scale: Adaptation to an Adult Incarcerated Population (positive psychology).

Now I’ve given my word to the blogosphere.