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Anonymous ID: dd529b April 26, 2020, 4:36 a.m. No.8926667   🗄️.is 🔗kun

https://www.nydailynews.com/new-york/ny-obituary-richard-hake-20200425-m2j4nd24sjar7fut3egevhcyoa-story.html

Anonymous ID: dd529b April 26, 2020, 5:13 a.m. No.8926789   🗄️.is 🔗kun   >>6793 >>6820 >>7000

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/ellen-degeneres-prison-covid-19_n_5ea31d83c5b6f963981456d1

 

I have two immediate family members who have served prison sentences, one for 13 years and one for five. There is no way for me to understand their incarceration, but I have felt the reverberations of their lack of freedom.

 

My father went into Riverfront State Prison in Camden, New Jersey, from 1994 to 1999 — during my formative years. I was 10. Like a ghost, he simply vanished, and letters kept us loosely tethered. He became abstract to me at that young age. A memory.

 

My former stepfather was also released from prison just last year after 13 years.

 

Both served time for nonviolent crimes, a result of a system that punishes people — rather than rehabilitates them — for mental health crises and drug addiction issues. Both have my full compassion.

 

Discounting The Reality Of The Incarcerated

Knowing their experiences led me to work for PEN America’s Prison Writing Program while I was in graduate school, and that program gave me the opportunity to encourage incarcerated people to write poetry and stories, and to share resources with which they could learn about writing.

 

DeGeneres — and the many people tweeting about their so-called prison of self-isolation — are discounting the reality of the incarcerated.

 

Where we have books, television, a phone and a window — many of us even venture out for solo walks and outdoor time — many incarcerated people find themselves crammed into tiny, dark, dank spaces without options, without protective masks or gear and, for many, without medical treatment.

 

When DeGeneres used her platform and privilege to joke about the experiences of incarcerated people, I talked to my father.

 

“Dad,” I said. “What the hell? What would you even say to that?”

 

My father replied: “At home, you are surrounded by loved ones, and you have the freedom to express yourself physically and mentally.” And even in quarantine, he added, “you are able to choose whether you want to lie down or sleep or eat or bathe. Whenever you want.”

 

In prison, my father said, “you are surrounded by dangerous people, treated like the worst scum by your jailers, and you have no freedom, no rights and no choice.”

 

My father told me about the time someone started a fight with him. He defended himself and was punished by being put into solitary confinement for two weeks — with a broken jaw. When he finally received medical attention, his jaw was wired shut, and he was thrown back into the hole.

 

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“In prison,” my father said, “you’re living in a cell not fit for an animal — let alone a human being — sharing space with a stranger that doesn’t care if you live or die. You live with only survival on your mind.” For incarcerated people today, he said, “they are extremely vulnerable — with no access to relevant facts regarding the pandemic.”

 

My father summed it up clearly, honestly and painfully: “Ultimately, at home you still have choices and you have access to information.”

 

Our Obligation To Speak Responsibly

So if it isn’t clear yet, life in quarantine is difficult, yes— but it is not the same as life in prison. And when we use our language so flippantly — even if our intentions are to joke — we diminish the suffering of the incarcerated, many of whom received unfair prison sentences based on racism or because they did not have the money to defend themselves.