Caring Is Crucial, but Why Is It So Difficult?

CONTENT WARNING: This piece briefly mentions suicide. Please keep this in mind and take care of yourself as you read.

by Liam Schwartz

Here are some sickening statistics that most people cannot fathom: The population of those in prison and jail would be the fourth largest city in America; over two-thirds of people who leave prison will return; the United States makes up about 5% of the world’s population but holds 21% of the world’s prisoners; and a massive drop in the crime rate did not slow the pace of mass incarceration. America is truly an incarceration nation, and yet many people go about their day-to-day lives unaware of the catastrophic problems that occur in our prisons and jails every day. Why is this? Why have we left this enormous issue out of the common discourse? When one in four Americans have a criminal record, how can so many individuals choose to ignore this glaring issue until the system directly affects them? And why should I care? Hopefully, one day in the future, I will know the answer to that question.

As a heterosexual, white, cis-gendered, able-bodied Christian male in the upper-middle class with a “traditional” family, I arguably have one of the most privileged positions in society. I grew up in a largely white suburb in Wisconsin and never really had to think about race on a critical level. I just knew that for a career, I wanted to move closer to eliminating mass incarceration in the US and improving the lives of those incarcerated. I did not know what this meant or how it would play out. I just wanted to focus on a solution to a problem that I saw for no sound reason.

I wasn’t always aware of the problems with our criminal justice system. It wasn’t until I had to do a poetry presentation in Mrs. Behrend’s Advanced Placement Literature class during my senior year of high school when I was 18 years old. In this assignment, we chose a poem and had to analyze it and connect it to other works of literature that we covered in the class. My initial thought was to focus on a soccer poem. However, after further insight, I based my topic on racial injustice using the poem “If We Must Die”, by Claude McKay. Although this poem doesn’t have a direct connection to the criminal justice system, the Black author examines what it means to be Black in a society where there is a clear advantage to being White. This disparity, of course, is painfully clear when inspecting the criminal justice system. Eventually, after much work, I thought I was ready for a conference with Mrs. Behrend to look for ways to improve it and ultimately get the okay to sign up for a presentation date. I couldn’t have been more naïve.

In our conference, Mrs. Behrend asked me, “Why do you care so much about this problem that will probably never affect you?” I panicked because I did not know how to answer. It was at that moment that I realized I didn’t have an answer to the question that I had so hypocritically asked of others from my self-righteous high horse.

For most of my life, I wrestled with an issue that plagues so many people. When I was a child, my mom would describe my emotions as extreme. She would express to people, “When Liam is happy, he is the happiest person alive and when Liam is sad, no one can be sadder.” My mother’s affirmation delineated my entire childhood accurately, but it was not until fifth grade that I truly started showing significant signs of mental illness. I would try to be, and was, defiant in any way I knew how. Psychiatrists tried repeatedly to diagnose me, with guesses ranging from bipolar disorder to oppositional defiant disorder. With each new diagnosis came a new medication, and although they tried to balance my brain chemistry, it took years to get to a place of stability.

During those tough times, I was an absolute mess, living a miserable existence. Life seemed so bleak during those stretches of desperation that I questioned whether I wanted to live anymore. This inability to commit to keeping myself safe got me admitted to an inpatient psychiatric ward on five separate occasions. Psych wards have a very distinct smell that is a mixture of sweat, bleach-based disinfectant, and sorrow. Once back in the outside world, I catch whiffs of this scent now and then, which transports me back to those places. It was on one of these “trips” that I found the answer I was looking for. This answer to a question that nagged at me relentlessly is best summed up by the lyrics of an Elton John song: “I’m still standing better than I ever did / Looking like a true survivor.”

Essentially, I believe I care so deeply about this issue that I will probably never fully experience because I’m still alive—I didn’t commit suicide all those times the thought latched onto me. I’ve been to the depths of despair and experienced the human condition of suffering on a multitude of occasions. I’ve felt completely alone and viewed my future outlook as extremely stark. Then I emerged on the other side of that episode, a stronger and better version of myself time and time again without fail. This has instilled a responsibility in me to use my inherent privilege in productive ways. I cannot imagine what my life would be like now if I didn’t have the substantial support structure that believed in me when I deemed myself so worthless. I only hope that I can help even one individual recognize their value and help open doors that had been closed because they were labeled a criminal.

The fact of the matter is that having so many individuals behind bars is harming society. This points to the idea of community incarceration, which is the concept that when someone is locked up the entire community suffers, not just them. Not only is an employee lost, but all of us also lose spouses, parents, breadwinners, siblings, caretakers, and innovators. Sometimes when I’m walking down the street, I wonder how the United States would be vastly different if we focused on mutually beneficial rehabilitation rather than punitive retribution. If we attempted to return folks who broke the law back into being productive members of society, I believe we could solve many problems and make the world a better place. However, instead, we take away their right to vote, diminish their opportunities for employment and reliable housing, and exclude them from public assistance. The copious amounts of money we spend on our prison-industrial complex are resources that don’t go towards schools, parks, libraries, and universities. None of us are getting a good deal out of this. We are all affected by it, so why don’t more people care? How can we unite with a common commitment to change? I wish I knew the answers to these questions.

This is a human rights issue that affects the over 2.3 million people incarcerated and the 4.5 million under community supervision in the United States, but it does not seem to be at the forefront of policymakers’ minds. Our fellow citizens need so many of us to speak up about this issue and bring its ugly face to the light. Only then, will we see progress.

This structural-based change will be far from a walk in the park. It will be full of setbacks and people invested in keeping the power and resources in the hands of those who have historically held it—the people in my demographic. Because of this, I need to do my part in dismantling the many oppressive systems in the United States. Through practicing radical self-care, I must continue to have hope and persevere, especially when the going gets tough. I will keep challenging my implicit biases and ensure to have patience. I understand that progress takes time and that these systems are complex, deeply entrenched, and took hundreds of years and millions of laws and policies to create.

Maybe once I am involved with a movement that is greater than myself, I will find continuous meaning in my life, and with that purpose, I can finally maintain consistent mental stability. But in the meantime, I will keep fighting for what I hold dear:

justice.