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More on Restorative Justice

Today a girlfriend said, people are never going to operate from a place of love 100% of the time. I agree. But societally and individually, we could strive for it more often, yes? We can choose compassion over fear and closure. We can choose restoration and transformation over revenge.

If there’s a reaction to every action, what happens when every choice is a punitive, vengeful one? How can we break the chain of spite? I think about this quite a bit, but it’s pretty theoretical. What does it look like to make such choices? This is where the idea of restorative justice comes into play.

“Restorative justice recognizes that crime hurts everyone – victims, offenders and community. It creates an obligation to make things right.”

For many, the righting of things involves a violent response – be it in word, thought or deed. Imagining more ways of righting things becomes the work of restoration.

Restorative justice does not privilege one voice (survivors) at the expense of the others (community members, offenders). It encourages a union or exchange of voices, and action steps that encourage healing.

“Three hallmarks of restorative justice are encounters between victims and offenders, the obligation to repair harm, and the expectation that transformation may take place.”

All parts are critical, and are well-suited as a way of building the caring community required to make decarceration and excarceration viable options. It’s a great example of praxis: engaged theory and practice. It’s not just a way of thinking about things, but also a way of doing things.

Importantly for me, it’s a theory grounded in the transformative potential of people and circumstances. It assumes that people have agency. People can make choices that result in hurt, but that those same people have the capacity to make choices that move toward healing. Similarly, survivors may have been wounded by offenders, but survivors have the opportunity to move toward wholeness. In both cases, people are viewed as fully human, endowed with the ability to grow and evolve.

This sort of primary belief – in the ability of people to change – seems absent from criminal justice discourse. The focus is on punishment: round them up! Get those {insert derogatory word} off the streets. But where is the healing in that? For the survivors? For the offenders? For the community?

It bears repeating: we have to start from a place of love. Believing that all people are indeed fully human is a radical act. But it’s an act grounded in love.

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First Class as “Visible Reward”

As I have often mentioned before, it is said that,
where there is unseen virtue, there will be visible reward.
~Nichiren 

Despite mainstream portrayals to the contrary, some people live lives that are not wholly centered around little plastic rectangles. They may operate in cash, or favors, or may require little in the way of strict identification for one reason or another.

I, on the other hand, am one of those beholden to plastic rectangles. For better or for worse, many of my most important transactions are facilitated via these objects and their imprinted numbers, letters, and/or photos. So when I found a wallet bulging with these Rectangles of Life, my next steps were easy.

Those of us whose lives are married to those plastic rectangles know the frustration, and, depending on your line of work or primary mode of transportation, the near paralysis that comes when any of these little bits of matter become compromised. Whether they are lost, stolen, or sucked in to the ATM abyss, it’s not too far afield of tragic.  I’ve dealt with this, albeit on a very small scale, only a couple of times. Once, someone hijacked my debit number and went on a shopping spree. I had to  cancel my card and order a new one. Before that, an overseas ATM decided I must be a criminal rather than simply barely literate in the host country’s language. It kept my ATM for my own protection.

So that brings us to this afternoon. I settle in at the gatehouse, awaiting my flight. I choose a spot a few seats away from a man, and continued a phone call in progress.

Within a few minutes, it’s time to board. I gather my things and notice a wallet where the man used to be. I look around, guarding it, wondering if he’d touch his pockets and realize they’re a bit lighter. No such luck. Sneaking a peek at his ID, I don’t recognize his face in the swelling crowd.

I present the wallet to the gate agents. Nearby passengers tap their pockets and breathe sighs of relief. Their plastic rectangles are still in tact! One agent summons Scott, who appears from the crowd, not too far from where we’d been sitting.

The other agent decides to give Scott a hard time. She requests that he show his ID. Good-natured Scott pats his pockets and fumbles with zippers on his carry-on.  Obviously unable to produce it quickly, she stops the charade, “How about I show YOU your ID?” She hands him his wallet and he sort of laughs, a dazed, or maybe grateful look in his eyes. “Where did you find it?”

They point to me as the person who retrieved it. Nearby passengers marvel, “Oh there are still nice people in the world! Thanks for that!”

Turns out Scott, handsome, yet also married, has trouble with wallets. He’s lost one before. Some way or another it went for a swim while he was boating with friends. “It took me six months to get my life together after that. I can’t believe I almost lost it again. I owe you.”

The least he could do, he said, was trade seats.

And that’s how I ended up in first class today. 🙂

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Writing Round Up

So an interesting thing happened. I wrote every day in August to build a writing habit. Even though it was difficult, and some days I composed opening lines with a begrudging heart, it seems the habit part stuck. It’s the 6th of September. Purposely, I have not made any attempt to write each day, but my silence has been instructive. I miss writing.

I won’t promise daily posts, although I do plan to hang around this space a bit more regularly. Hope you will, too.

~

Trying something new this month, thanks to a suggestion from Joshunda. In case you missed them, here were the top five posts from August:

  • How do you persevere in challenging times? That’s the heart of sustaining faith.
  • Giving yourself permission to take up space is no easy feat, but it’s worth it.
  • Seems I had a lot to say about continuing when daily life seems hard. Sure, acknowledge the hardships, but don’t stop there.
  • Lots of people have pets and pet allergies, including me. But I love my Missy anyway.
  • Love is revolutionary act. What or who can you change if you start from love?
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A Request

You are not an impostor and you are not alone. This, despite any feelings or supposed evidence you may have to the contrary.

I wish someone had shared this with me before I started graduate school. I wish it had been the hook of a song I was required to sing each morning upon waking. I wish I had repeated it, hand over heart, at the beginning of each class period; a pledge and a reminder.

As it was, I didn’t figure these things out until quite near the end of it all, after many days (years) of wondering what the hell I was doing there. Really.

A former student of mine solicited advice on finishing up away from peers and profs. It’s a good question. There’s enough isolation during the process when you’re surrounded by support; never mind away, with a new job to boot. Vulnerability is not easy among strangers, especially in a professional setting. And there’s something to be said about the implied distance within virtual spaces.

I’ve developed a response, but I’m going to let it marinate overnight.

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Done and Done! | #30in30 #WriteLikeCrazy

The bad news is time flies. The good news is you’re the pilot. ~Michael Althsuler

August was the rare month in which I never wondered, where did the time go? In fact, more than once I wanted to hurry August along.

I had two goals to accomplish. The first and easier of the two: run 50 miles. The second, a sight more challenging: write every day. Publicly. Depending on your relationship to either running or writing, you may have ranked the goals differently. For me, the exercise was no sweat. I’ve run 50 miles in a month previously. It was my first time this year, but not my first time, you know, ever. Barring unforeseen challenges, I assumed it could do it.

The writing, however, is a different matter entirely. Unlike exercise, writing has never been a non-negotiable. Over the years I’ve made half-hearted attempts to write more frequently. Sometimes journaling. Sometimes blogging. And so on. But writing everyday? No. It wasn’t a foregone conclusion that I would make it to the end without doubling up on posts some days, or just giving up.

Writing daily was a bit of a grind. Within the first few days I got tired of recommitting. I had to do it every.single.day. Couldn’t we just skip a few days and get to mid-month already? I wanted to meet my goals without the struggle of working toward them.

Thank goodness time paid me no mind. It’s only fitting that I would finish my goal during a blue moon.

I have more to say in the way of a debrief, but I’ma save that for later. The rest of this space is reserved for celebrating!  I am committed to self-love. That means every now and again I get to shimmy and twirl on my own behalf (you can join in at home):

YOU GO GIRL! YOU DID IT!

*shimmies*

*twirls*

*presses play on the embedded video and sings along*

And after you’re done singing, catch up on the posts you missed!

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Love at First Sight | #30in30 #WriteLikeCrazy

Brida’s mom and dad were soul mates. Yet one day, her mom relayed the story of a loving encounter with another man. She sought solace about life, and headed to church to pray. He was awaiting a mechanic and visited that church to pass the time. The two began talking life and civilizations past (he was an archaeologist). Before long, the sun had set:

There was I, like a 38-year-old adolescent, feeling that someone desired me. He didn’t want me to leave. Then all of a sudden, he stopped talking. He looked deep into my eyes and smiled. It was as if he’d understood with his heart what I was thinking, and wanted to tell me that it was true, that I was very important to him. For some time, we said nothing, and then we said good-bye. The mechanic had still not arrived.

For many days, I wondered if that man really had existed, or if he was an angel sent by God to teach me the secret lessons of life. In the end, I decided that he had been a real man, a man who had loved me, even if only for an afternoon, and during that afternoon, he’d given me everything he had kept to himself throughout his whole life: his struggles, his joys, his difficulties, and his dreams. That afternoon I gave myself wholly as well – I was his companion, his wife, his audience, his lover. In a matter of only a few hours, I experienced the love of a lifetime.

From Brida by Paulo Coelho

I’m becoming more aware of my capacity to love. Or perhaps my capacity to love is expanding. Or both. In any case, I’m actively dismantling the fortress erected after a profound hurt. Walls reinforced by years of covert distrust. It’s been freeing – this heart opening, sharing of self.

Radical moments of vulnerability.  And they remind me that love is timeless. I couldn’t or wouldn’t always admit past love. Yet my delayed realization does not diminish the love that went unnamed.  I think the naming of love opens space for more love.

It is a channel for more of itself.

Or something like that.

And it’s not that I’ve found a soul mate. It’s simply that I’m learning to have more love for every day.  It’s energizing – being able to love, finally. And really, being able to love first. It’s dangerous, they may warn. Why spread love that hasn’t been earned? Is this or that person truly deserving of your love? Won’t it come back to haunt you? It’s the walls that haunt, not the love. They leave you trapped in echoes of distrust, regret, anger. Poison, all.

How much can you apportion (and receive) from your cage?

I say let us craft epilogues of love. And then weave love clear through to the end. Certainly would change a few stories, now wouldn’t it?

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Good News | #30in30 #WriteLikeCrazy

I am so proud of my friend, Oliver. He’s the mayor-elect of Miami Gardens, Florida. It wasn’t a matter of luck; it’s been a dream of his for years. His dad, his name sake, passed away two years ago. “He really would’ve gotten a kick out of this,” he said.

~

I miss my parents. Sometimes the longing appears as a whisper, barely heard above the din of every day. Other times, it’s a bit more demanding. Louder. I hear daddy’s voice. Picture his shoulders shrugging as his body convulses with giggles. There was always a hint of sarcasm. Teasing.

Mama comes bearing warnings and stories in equal measure. Reminds me to tie up loose ends. Flashes me scenes of days past.

I miss them, especially her, most, when there is good news.

Starting a new job, completing a degree, earning an accolade, I want to call Mama. Her happiness would surely top mine. But then I remember, I administered her estate. The phone was long ago disconnected. She’s not there to laugh, to exclaim, “Really!?” There are no follow-up questions, getting all the details to share with all her friends.

“They’re with you in spirit.”

Yeah.

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Beyond the Bright Side | #30in30 #WriteLikeCrazy

Success is not a matter of accumulating more of this or that; it is not measured in quantity. It means changing the quality of your life. Wealth, power, fame and knowledge alone cannot make you happy, no matter how much of these you acquire. Nor can you take them with you when you die. But by improving the quality of your life you will at last approach true happiness. ~Daisaku Ikeda

But how does one change the quality of life? Lots of guidance encourages us to remain steadfast in difficult times; refuse to give up during challenging circumstances. Some people mistake this kind of rhetoric to mean just look at the bright side. This understanding is inaccurate, or at the very least, incomplete. The better reading is that you should become the bright side. It means build the kind of core, that regardless of your surroundings, you can maintain hope and cheer. Furthermore, actively radiate that cheerful, hopeful state of life in the actions you take to change your surroundings for the better.

Easier said than done.

One way to build this kind of core is through a practice of gratitude. Far from something “hokey” or “mystical,” it’s a grounded practice of being present and appreciating even the slivers of goodness in daily life. This does not mean you don’t notice when things are awry. This does not mean you can only see the glass as half full. But it does mean that even if your glass is half empty, you can be thankful for the half that remains. And as a second step, take action to help make fuller glasses more likely in the future. Anyone can sit back and complain, but how does that improve quality of life?

Developing a solid state of life is not a spectator sport. It’s an act of creation. We witness. We appreciate. We build.

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Unasked. Unanswered. | #30in30 #WriteLikeCrazy

I met my aunt for dinner this evening and she surprised me with a gift: vintage photographs of my maternal grandparents and parents. I don’t have access to a scanner, or I’d show them to you.

One photo, black and white, features my grandparents, my tiny mom, and her tinier brother. We figured it was from 1944, as there was no newborn sister yet, and the siblings were born almost exactly a year apart. They sat on the grass in front of the house my grandparents built, looking as people often do in older photos – kinda smiling, kinda uncomfortable. It’s one of the few pictures I’ve ever seen of my grandfather. He passed away when I was very young.

Another photo, color, was taken two decades or so later. Aunt, uncle, grandma, and grandpa are standing on the porch of the same house. Mom and dad are holding center court, sitting on the front steps. My mom was so skinny! She remained small most of her adult life. As an aside, her arms look very toned in this picture. My arms look like that right now…

I see old pictures like this and I am often filled with questions. When did my parents meet? Is it true they only dated 2 weeks before they decided to marry? Why did they elope and keep it a secret for a whole year? What was it like growing up with my grandparents? Five people with one bathroom? Really? Was grandpa a nice man?  What is my birth story?

My parents are both deceased and there are countless questions I wish I had asked them. They weren’t the kind of people who would randomly sit you down and share a story without provocation. And for whatever reason, it never crossed my mind to ask them while I could.  I have relatives who are gold mines of family knowledge, and I plan to collect oral histories to preserve the family memory. But my parents’ own stories of their lives are forever gone with them.

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On Framing Death

Although born with breath in our bodies, at some point we exhaust our share. Our supply runs out. We draw the last one. When that fateful day happens, we die. Whether we merge into the cosmic consciousness and become one with the essence of all there is, take a mystical trip upward or downward, come to inhabit another body, or simply cease to exist, is another matter entirely. I stake no claim on knowing.

But we can say with conviction: no one continues in their current form forever.

Death is something no one can escape from. It follows life as surely as night follows day, winter follows autumn or old age follows youth. ~Ikeda

Since we arrive with the guarantee that we will also depart, I always wonder why some people frame death, especially when it is the result of an illness like cancer, as “losing.” As in, “she lost her battle with cancer.” Such wording, while meant to convey the way a loved one has died, implies they could’ve been immortal if only… They lost, as if, had events gone another way, they could have “won.” But what might winning mean? In a battle for life, death is the certain winner. So perhaps life and death are not best framed as competitors.

It is fair to acknowledge the cause of death. And of course we can acknowledge our loss; our sorrow that our loved one’s time with us was shorter than we, and perhaps they, would’ve liked. But I don’t think we give life or death their full measure when we say someone lost because they died. Our loved ones may leave us, ’tis true, and perhaps it is of little solace that they are immortalized in our memories of them. But I would like to think that if we love them in death, as we loved them in life, they won.