In March, a flier at my new prison grabbed my attention. It outlined the prison’s upcoming biannual restorative justice program.
Before I transferred to Prairie du Chien Correctional Institution, a minimum security prison in Wisconsin, I had heard of the concept but never participated in any program. A newspaper article may have a snippet about the practice’s community-wide involvement, a book might mention circle conferences. But I had never been able to fully understand the concept from those readings.
That’s partially because defining restorative justice is a difficult task. At its core, it is a philosophy that sees crime as a violation of people and relationships rather than a violation of law and state, as in traditional criminal justice. But it’s also a flexible concept capable of evolving to meet different circumstances.
Howard Zehr, considered to be a pioneer of restorative justice, wrote in his book, “The Little Book of Restorative Justice”: “Restorative justice aims at helping those who offend to recognize the harm they have caused and encouraging them to repair the harm, to the extent it is possible.”
When I stepped into the prison’s basement conference room on the first day of the program in late April, I was surprised to see so many people. Row upon row of chairs slowly filled as men wearing green prison clothes trickled in.
People joined the program for various reasons. Some, like Derrick G., hadn’t heard of restorative justice before and were simply curious. Others, like Kyle Chay, had heard of the concept but didn’t fully understand what they were in for.
“I heard that there were speakers and a dialogue,” Chay said. “I thought it might be interesting.”
Over the next two weeks, we heard stories from victims of intimate-partner violence, assaults and even stories from family members of murdered loved ones. A particularly powerful video showed a victim and an offender sharing the stage as they both recounted what happened the day their lives collided, and how they chose the path of restorative justice.
“It opened my eyes to who I would consider a victim,” Timothy Sage said. “Victim of circumstance, crime, trauma.”
The real high point of the program for many came from the two in-person guest speakers. I will call them Gary and Janice to protect their privacy. Gary spoke on his early childhood trauma and later struggles with addiction while Janice recounted her experience as the victim of an armed robbery.
Derrick G. could relate to Janice’s story. “A couple of my family members got robbed before,” he said.
Both Sage and Chay connected with Gary’s story due to their own histories of addiction.
“It’s nice to see people who have changed their lives and then can tell us about it, ’cause I want to do that,” Chay said.
Darren Moustache said he initially joined the program just to get the certificate at the end. He noted judges like to see you participating in programs like this one. But the speakers changed his mindset.
“[Gary] said he always gets asked what he sees in prisoners, and he said he sees his brother. A room full of his brothers,” Moustache said. This quote intrigued Moustache and encouraged him to participate more seriously in the sessions.
Not everyone fully participated. During quieter moments of the sessions, people made dismissive comments. “Let’s get this over with,” came from somewhere over my shoulder. During the video where the victim and offender shared the stage, somebody muttered, “Why do I care about the ugly one?”
Could these instances be chalked up to male bravado, trying to save face in front of their buddies? Or could it be that, as Zehr said, the criminal justice system discourages people from taking responsibility for their actions, and that the prison experience causes incarcerated people to “often feel like victims of the system and society”?
“You could tell who was there just to get the certificate. And you could tell who wanted to change their thinking,” Moustache said. “I say that as someone who initially just went for the certificate.”
On the final day of the program the entire group formed one big circle to answer: “What is your plan for living restorative justice?”
As a talking token made its way around, I struggled to think of an answer. I wanted to be truthful. Something I could speak into the world, and by making those words real, hold myself accountable to them.
When the token was a few people away, I recalled an earlier talk about the Japanese art form kintsugi. In kintsugi, broken pieces of ceramic are mended using a golden adhesive. The end result is a piece more beautiful for all its imperfections.
The man sitting next to me passed the laminated piece of paper over. I looked down at it and spoke loud enough so everyone could hear: “I want to repair the damages I’ve done to my relationships.”
Now that the words are spoken, time to make them a reality.
