Her first day in kindergarten was my first day in prison… The beginning of a four-month journey of restorative justice.
By: Mike Rusert
Tags: Healing, Vulnerability, Compassion, Prison Reform, Restorative Justice

Her first day in kindergarten was my first day in prison… The beginning of a four-month journey of restorative justice. Mike Rusert Follow Sep 9, 2019 · 5 min read

Here we are on Day 1!

Thursday after Labor Day, was my daughter Etta’s first day of kindergarten, and it was my first day in Stillwater Prison. While she begins her elementary education, I’m beginning a four-month Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) unit exploring restorative justice. CPE is an educational program where theological/philosophical/psychological training integrates with spiritual care through practical application (300 hours of direct care in a clinical setting) alongside processing experiences in a group of other practitioners (100 hours).

This CPE unit is the first of its kind, in that our group of eight students consists of four people from outside the prison and four incarcerated men. We’ll carry out our group processing as peers within the locked doors of Stillwater. I can’t tell you how excited I am to have this opportunity. I anticipate fears and prejudices within me breaking down and giving way to wisdom and compassion. I imagine dehumanized pieces of myself and my peers being restored through our shared commitment to honesty, patience and acceptance. I sense these four months will radicalize me in our work of building an Intertwine community deeply and creatively engaged in healing and restorative justice.

That being said, my first taste of the prison — a mandatory Department of Corrections orientation that occurred a week prior — seemed bent on orienting me to fear and suspicion of those incarcerated, not on restoring our shared humanity. In the training the incarcerated men were solely referred to as “offenders.” Along with a tour, we were shown a video of one “offender” sharing in depth his process of manipulating staff into sneaking in contraband. It was one piece of fear-evoking information after another.

Now, I’m not totally naïve. This is a federal prison, and it can be very dangerous. In fact, a fight occurred on one of the cell blocks in that short three-hour window of my orientation. But, if we are ever going to experience justice that is truly restorative, don’t we have to risk moving beyond single story (e.g., offender, criminal, dangerous, etc.) that sees the other only as a threat to be sequestered? I left the training feeling sad, confused, and more nervous than I anticipated. How will this CPE play out? Do I have to fear these guys and filter my sharing? Are they a threat to me and my family? The tension of these fears alongside my desire for shared healing lingered with me all week.

Thursday, as Etta through the art-covered door of her kindergarten class, I walked through a metal detector and a series of locked doors and gates to get to my classroom — the prison chapel. There, I was greeted by the men with whom I’d be spending those 100 hours of group processing. Almost instantly, I knew I did not need to fear. Theirs was an energy not of danger but gentleness. But there was also a noticeable anxiety they carried. It seemed they wondered if they were safe with us. Would we be able to see their humanity, or would we see them as criminals and “animals in the zoo?”

When we got to introductions, I shared that I had just watched my daughter get on the bus for her first day of kindergarten before getting in the car to drive to Stillwater. I shared about some of the emotions I experienced, and then shared my anticipation for what this CPE could be. When one of my incarcerated peers introduced himself, he thanked me for sharing about sending my daughter off. He said it reminded him of the day he watched one of his children get on the bus for the first day of pre-K. That was years ago. He’s been locked up for over a decade.

Stillwater Prison (John Autey / Pioneer Press)

Later in the day, I remembered orientation and seeing the room where family visits occur. It’s a large room filled with tightly-lined rows of chairs facing across from each other separated by some six or so feet. I imagine it feels like a mile for some inmates and their families. Front and center in the room is a small black mat. Maybe five feet by four feet. Two guard platforms loom above. This is where prisoner and family member can have a brief and closely watched physical interaction, whether it be hug or a short kiss. There was also a row of chairs along the far wall where, occasionally, children under the age of six are able to sit in their father’s lap long enough to have a book read to them. It brings tears to my eyes thinking of it. Within hours, I would be driving home to hug Etta and hear all about her first day.

I was reluctant to share this with the group. I didn’t want to say something that might sadden my incarcerated peers. But something within me said that this is the kind of thing that needs to be shared. I shared the story about the small black mat and what I would drive home to. I shared that I felt guilty. But then I realized it wasn’t guilt. It was grief.

Several of the imprisoned men shared their appreciation for my honesty — even encouraged more of it. We all agreed that bringing our full selves and risking honesty is exactly what this group should be about — even, or maybe especially, when grief or suffering may be involved. It seems that’s where healing may be found…

Father Greg Boyle, founder of Homeboy Industries and long-time pastor to gangbangers and others caught up in the destructive nature of gangs, writes in his book Tattoos on the Heart — The Power of Boundless Compassion:

[W]e imagine no one standing outside of [the circle of compassion], moving ourselves closer to the margins so that the margins themselves will be erased… At the edges, we join the easily despised and the readily left out. We stand with the demonized so that the demonizing will stop. We situate ourselves right next to the disposable so that the day will come when we stop throwing people away.

Back to school, and the first day of this class on the margins was amazing. More healing awaits.