Offering an Alternative Paradigm: Young American American Men and the Prison System

I scheduled this post to run later in the week; however, I thought it would be a logical follow-up to the conversation on yesterday. And thank you to those who happened by and thank you to those who contributed to the conversation.

On Friday, November 27, 1989, the day after Thanksgiving, a police officer from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office came to my home, and in front of my children and wife, he arrested me in a case of mistaken identity.

Ironically, the white arresting officer recognized it to be a case of mistaken identity, but the African American sergeant who arrived on the scene shortly after simply looked at me, looked at my family, looked at my home and neighborhood, and then with an unmistaken look of contempt on his face, told the white officer to take me in anyway. The white officer protested, but the African American sergeant just sneered and told him we would work it out at the station.

So, I was taken down to the city jail. I was booked. I was fingerprinted. I was photographed. And for the next twelve hours, I sat in a cell awaiting bail to be set.

When my wife picked me up from the station, she was hoarse from having yelled and screamed for twelve hours straight in the face of anyone and everyone at the city jail. But I was calm, too calm for her. So, she demanded to know why I was not angrier, why I was not absolutely infuriated at my treatment. I tried to explain it to her; I tried to articulate my emotions, but she could not be made to understand.

In a word, I felt relieved. Not relieved to have finally made it out of jail, but finally relieved to have made it into jail. You see, by the time I was arrested, I had witnessed so many young black men go to jail, and I had worked with so many young black men who, despite my and others’ greatest efforts, ended up in jail, that I actually began wondering why I was yet to go to jail.

The more I achieved, the more I realized some measure of success, the more apprehensive I got. The more frightened I became. And it all didn’t make sense because when I was growing up, prison, or as my grandmother called it—the pen, was frowned on. It was shameful. If a family member happened to go to “the pen,” then the family lied and said he was in East St. Louis or something. If he was from East St. Louis, then the family lied and said he was down South.

But my point is this: Despite my upbringing, despite my education, despite my achievements, if all that was going on around me, if all I witnessed could work to convince me that going to jail was inevitable as a young black man, what must those young African American men still stuck in inner-city, crime infested neighborhoods, those still under the thumb of poverty, feel. What do they believe their life prospects to be?

It appears to me that incarceration or having family members incarcerated has become an all too familiar part of African American lives. I read somewhere that for young African American males, going to jail has become almost a rite of passage. And remnants of prison culture are creeping into the mainstream culture, for instance the sagging pants and tattoos.

But we all know how ruinous a prison record can be, what an absolutely devastating effect a prison record can have on a young person’s future.

But the challenge then becomes to counter this normalization of deviancy with another paradigm. For all those images of deviancy we must counter with images of success and acheivement. I believe that those of us who have managed to make it out, those of us who have managed to achieve some measure of success, have an unequivocal responsibility to return and serve as role models, as mentors, for those still looking for a way out.

Have you had an experience similar to mine? What do you think can be done to reduce the number of young African American men entering the prison system?

Additional web resource: Genpop.org

Am I My Brother's Keeper?

Did I ever tell you I have a brother who is currently incarcerated? In fact, I have two brothers on lock down. I never told you? I suppose it just never came up in conversation. It’s funny how family dynamics work. Out of my mother’s children, four went on to college and then professional careers, while two ended up in jail.

It’s that it suddenly comes up because my brothers are due to be released soon. And my mother is just beside herself with worry. I mean, she is glad that they are to be released, but she is worried that they will just end up right back behind bars. This is not the first time they have been in prison. And it is almost pretty much assured that if someone does not step in, they'll go right back.

And my mother is really worrying me to death about this thing. She’s begging me to talk to them. She’s begging me to be ready to help them when they finally hit the streets, and give them whatever support they need, whether it be emotional or financial. In fact, she has all but said, you are responsible for your brothers; you are your brothers’ keeper.

And I get angry at Mom. I get frustrated. After all, I attempted to talk to them even before they got involved in the foolishness that got them locked up. I supported them emotionally, and often financially, before they got into trouble.

But, of course, the guilt sets in. I know they aren’t all that different from me. We are brothers after all. We all grew up in the hood. We all got into all kinds of foolishness coming up, nothing crucial, mind you, but for young African American men growing up in the ghetto, the temptations are great and many. To tell you the truth, most of the early foolishness they got into, they were simply following me.

That brings up the question, why. Why them and not me? At some point I set aside the foolishness and went off to college and then grad school. I always knew I would. They went to jail. For me the foolishness was just momentary distractions, but for some reason, they chose to make a life of it.

Guilt drives me to go out and buy more money orders so they’ll have money on their books even though I promised my wife I’d cut back on the money I was sending them. Guilt drives me to accept more collect and third party calls even after I’ve already accepted too many.

One of my brothers even suggested he come live with me when he gets out so he can stay out of trouble. I promised him I’d discuss it with my wife, but I never did. I know she won’t go for that shit. That negro is straight hood!

But I feel I should be doing something to help them, to keep them out of prison yet another time. After all, they are my brothers. But just what is my responsibility to them? I’m simply lost as to what I can do. How do I save grown ass men from themselves? Perhaps I’m just absolutely horrible in my role as my brothers’ keeper.

But let’s take the time to make the necessary extrapolations. Right now there are almost 1,000,000 African American men and women in prison. And before you look down your nose at them, before you wash your hands of them, they are much more similar to us than we would like to admit. Some of us have been involved in all arrays of foolishness; we just didn’t get caught. As my grandmother was fond of saying, “If only for the grace of God.”

And keep in mind, the majority of these African American men and women currently incarcerated are someone’s brother or sister. They are our mothers and fathers, uncles and aunts, sons and daughters. What is our responsibility toward these people? We always talk about the African American community, so what is the community’s responsibility toward these people?

Do we simply shake our heads and dismiss them? Do we escape to the suburbs inside our gated communities so that we don’t have to look them in the eye on a daily basis? Just what do we do?

You see, my individual, personal dilemma is very similar to our collective dilemma. My solution then becomes our solution. So allow me to ask you again—Am I my brother’s keeper?