The troubling U.S. incarceration rate and the dubious governmental policy of overcriminalization have been frequent topics on this blog. The toll of the overcriminalization policy on citizens and their families is incalculable.
Part of the problem in modifying this destructive policy is that the constituency of current and former prisoners and their families is not powerful politically. But another aspect of the problem is that most well-meaning citizens who could make a difference on this issue politically have never experienced the hell that is most prisons in the United States. Itís human nature to avoid addressing even an important issue that one has never had to confront personally.
Thatís why this A Public Defender post is important ñ it provides penetrating insight into the destructive nature of our governmentís overcriminalization policy:
I sat in a prison cell yesterday. . . .
There was a bed ñ a small bed ñ that was the length of the room. At the foot of the bed a metal toilet, with no cover. Just beyond that the heavy metal door, with a slit for a window. The door was maybe 3 feet wide, if that. At the head of the bed, if you were laying on your right side, youíd be about half a foot away from an ugly metal desk with holes that pretended to be drawers. This could not have been more than a foot long. The bed was flush with one wall. The desk with the opposite.
The bed looked hard, cold and dirty. And thatís it. This particular cell happened to have a window at the head of the bed. A window looking out onto nothing. Any future inhabitant of this particular cell would have it good. It was a single. Across the narrow passageway from this cell was another, identical in every respect except two: it was a double cell and there was no window. (Hereís a post I wrote a while ago about a different take on prisons in a foreign country.) [. . .]
I willed myself to stand there, though, for a minute. To look around at the bare walls, the bare desk, the dirty toilet and imagine someone ìlivingî there.
I even briefly closed my eyes and tried to picture myself there, day in and day out, for months, which turned into years, which turned into decades.
Would I survive? How does anyone? Would I give up and stop bathing, shaving, eating? Would I maintain my sanity or would I quickly decompensate? How long would it be before Iíd want to kill myself? [. . .]
People in cells are lucky, though. The next portion of the tour took me to the dorm-style housing. Which is nothing like any dorm youíve ever lived in. Imagine instead the makeshift MASH hospitals, or perhaps the busiest train station in your neighborhood at rush hour, except instead of standing, people are milling about a hundred bunk beds on that tiny platform.
There is no privacy, there is no solitude, there is no being left alone. You are part of a large crowd. You are in someoneís face and they are in yours. You are a collective. Day in and day out. You share your bedroom with 125 other people.
Leaving the prison, I asked my colleague: cell or dorm? Thereís no debate. Cell. Iíd rather lose my sanity by myself.
A truly civilized society would find a better way.