November 8, 2015 - 17:09
Though we spent only half an hour working in the book group after our tour of the prison on Friday, we ended up in an intense and interesting conversation about Brothers and Keepers--particularly about the passage in which John writes about his mother. Wideman discusses his mother's struggle to hold both her son's humanity and the fact that he broke the law and is living as a convicted criminal because of it. She must see him as a whole, incorporating both of those elements of his personhood. Our discussion made me realize that I often go into the prison expecting a certain response from the people inside. I anticipated the women in the group on Friday to identify with John's brother--perhaps to share that they, too, have had family members struggle to see them as whole people once they had been incarcerated. Instead, several of the women identified strongly with John's mother. They shared stories about their own children, explaining how difficult it can be to reconcile your own, unconditionally loving image of your child with society's view of them as difficult, dangerous, or having a temper. The difference between the response I expected and the response I got indicated to me that I, too--even after spending several weeks in the book group with many of the same people--am so very quick to assign the label "criminal" before that of "mother" or "woman." I felt guilty listening to the rest of the conversation, especially after I raised the question of womanhood and how that identity influenced John's mother's struggle. "Nurturing," one of the women explained, "it's as simple as that."
Coming into the book group from the tour of the facilities had a huge effect on how I viewed the group and our place in it. My deep discomfort, something I seem to have shared with other members of the 360, had many layers--but the overwhelming sentiment that sticks in my mind is the utter lack of humanity with which the incarcerated people were treated, and in a manner that seemed far more subtle and deeply ingrained than one mind expect. Images of prison in the media portray guards and wardens as inhumane villains, barking orders at inmates or physically attacking them. Our tour made it clear that this is not the case (at least on a regular basis--the discussion of the pepper spray was certainly alarming). Instead, the deputy warden spoke to the women walking past us in a sweet tone, adding stern notes in what seemed to be a loving, mothering manner. She described the extensive catalogue of programs available to help the people inside, and even demonstrated an apparent knowledge of identity issues as they related to the incarcerated population. However, at the back of my mind was always the unavoidable fact: This is a prison. An institution established for "justice," for punishment, for drawing a thick, concrete line between "us" and "them." As we walked through the prison hallways, when prisoners began to cross our path, the deputy warden glanced at them, greeted them, and in an even, mild tone, demanded that they step to the side. Because there was no sense of danger--the deputy warden did not seem to be concerned that we might actually be attacked (she knew these women to some extent), the expectation of hierarchy and order, in combination with the stark racial difference between our group and the incarcerated people we passed in the prison, brought forth Jim Crow-era understandings of order in my mind--the image of the black man walking along the street who must lower his gaze as he passes a white person, for fear of seeming disrespectful, for one.
When we got to the book group, one woman who had not joined us before asked me and another 360 member what we thought of the tour. My classmate shared that she found it incredibly uncomfortable; the woman quickly responded: "of course, because you see that they don't treat us like humans." I struggled with my internal response to her statement, as I found myself feeling relief at her clear awareness and frustration with her own situation. I wonder if I felt this relief because I felt that I somehow had less responsibility if she was aware of the injustice--we could share this frustration, directed at a system greater than either of us, in that moment. I regret feeling this way, knowing how deeply implicated I am in the complex systems of power feeding into the prison industrial complex.