Criminals are humans, too. It seems very obvious to say, but in America, this is actually a radical idea. If it weren’t a radical idea, how would we justify the inhumane and degrading conditions of prisons and jails, the disregard with which we speak to the accused, or the post-release disenfranchisement of convicted felons? I am not here to argue for anarchy, but I am here to argue for humanity, and this is why I have chosen to write this column on criminal justice reform.
I would divide criminal justice reform into two categories: The first is to reform the system such that innocent people are never charged or incarcerated in the first place, and the second is to reform the conditions of probation, jail, and prison so that they are more humane. While both issues are extremely important, this column will focus primarily on the latter — it would not do true justice to either issue to write on both.
I became passionate about criminal justice reform after my mock trial team placed first in Massachusetts for successfully defending a policeman against a charge of excessive use of force against a person of color. Frustrated by what I saw as a miscarriage of justice, I then travelled to Alabama on a civil rights trip to learn more about race relations and the justice system. I wondered if the situation outlined in our case occurred in the real world. Boy, was I in for an education.
Fast forward a few years to my senior capstone project, which my high school called “Ma’avar,” or “Passage.” I decided to spend my month working for Massachusetts State Senator Jamie Eldridge, Senate Chair of the Massachusetts Joint Committee on the Judiciary — and Co-Chair of the Criminal Justice Reform Caucus — whose work on the 2018 Criminal Justice Reform bill I admired. When it was clear that COVID-19 would continue into the fall of my first year at Harvard, I decided to take a gap year and pursue criminal justice reform internships.
During my year off, I had the chance to work on solitary confinement reform bills in Massachusetts and intern for the New Hampshire ACLU’s Smart Justice Campaign as well as the New Hampshire Public Defender’s Office. In these three offices, I was privileged to hear from and work directly with those impacted by the criminal legal system, whether that meant attending four-hour hearings, soliciting testimony from directly-impacted individuals on their experiences in county jail, or interviewing defendants in our cases to learn their backstories before trial.
It was their backstories that touched me the most. My first case was a gentleman who was accused of a violent crime with terrible consequences. It was a complicated case involving multiple police departments, small children, and conflicting narratives and timelines. The story of the day in question was disturbing and left me with chills. Based on what I knew about the events that unfolded, I had many expectations of what he would be like as a person — but when I observed his jail call — for which he paid out of pocket — he was totally different.
He seemed like a sympathetic, scatterbrained dad who missed his children while locked in jail. He eagerly asked his children how they were doing, just like my dad would ask me, and they said they were fine, just like I’d respond to my dad. He had two eyes, a nose, and a chin. He laughed when they made a joke. He said, “have a nice day,” when he got off the phone. He was just a regular guy, except he had very likely committed a horrible crime.
Now, I may lose some people here. The argument, “So what if he’s a normal dude? He is a psychopath and if he is hungry or cold or sad in jail, he deserves it,” is a very natural and understandable position to hold. But I would argue that he and every single person, no matter their crime, still deserve basic human rights and amenities — the chance to communicate freely with family members, in this case — which the current system is not affording them.
Why should this be the case? Because of two powerful truths: First, every human being is a human being. And second, every human being has the capacity for change.
First, every human being is a human being. This simple fact arouses my empathy for the human condition. I know what it feels like to be cold, so therefore so does most every human being. I know how it feels to be hungry, so therefore so does most every human being. I know what it feels like to be lonely, so therefore so does most every human being. The fact that I am human makes it intolerable for me to see other human beings being treated as though they are not. This is not to say that no one should be punished, but punishment in its current form in our country destabilizes my understanding of what it means to treat humans as human.
Second, every human being has the capacity for change. I emphatically believe that no human being is permanently lost, permanently irredeemable. Looking at data on recidivism in the US doesn’t prove that people can’t change — it shows that the way we punish is not rehabilitative. Repentance, rehabilitation, reentry, I believe that these are possible if we only recognize our flaws and our ability to change, and apply our understanding of our own ability to slip up to those whose flaws may be more than our own.
Whether we believe that every human being is made in the image of the Divine, that every human being has inherent worldly value, or that we should treat others how we wish to be treated, human beings deserve humane treatment. Over the course of this semester, this column will explore inhumane aspects of the criminal legal system, sometimes proposing alternatives and sometimes just bearing witness to these practices and spreading awareness of them. I hope you will join me.
Image by Damir Spanic is licensed under the Unsplash License.
