“What just happened?” The court-appointed lawyer repeated Jackie Summers words, then replied tersely. ”You got f***ed.”
During a car accident, everything happens in slow motion.
♦◊♦
I had always wanted an American muscle car. They were built in a time when there was no shame in speed and no embarrassment in excess. It came as no surprise that the first time I laid eyes on Veronica–Ronnie for short–I fell madly, deeply in love.
She was a ’72 Buick Skylark custom convertible, canary yellow. 350 V8 engine, white leather bucket seats, canvas top, and a deep, throaty growl every time I hit her accelerator. The twelve miles I got per gallon were well worth the rumbling thunder of her idle, and the roar of power vibrating up my spine every time I hit the gas. Ronnie was 3,000 pounds of pure American steel and arrogance.
With the help of Louie, my mechanic, I’d spent the better part of two years restoring her to showroom condition. Louie spewed a contiguous stream of curses so rank it could singe your ear-hairs, but he was honest, reasonably priced, and trustworthy. With the top down and the wind in my hair–I had hair back then–I left my parents home in Jamaica, Queens, and enjoyed the warmth of the summer sun, setting on my face.
Someone ran a stop sign.
Time dilation has been described as how the perception of time changes in the eyes of the observer, relative to the events occurring. “Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour” according to Einstein. “Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT’S relativity.”
Being in a car accident is like watching a Michael Bay action sequence at 1,000 frames per second. Your rational mind can’t wrap itself around the concept that it’s actually happening, much less that it’s happening to you. The events of the next several moments seemed to stretch out into forever.
I saw the car run the intersection; I tried to swerve out of its way. For those of you who have never been in a car collision: there’s an earth-shattering kaboom, complete with the sound of metal wrenching, tires screeching, the smell of rubber and oil burning, and the clanging of parts which were once connected, now banging into each other impotently. I felt my amygdala shut down my frontal lobes and flood my brain with dopamine, snapping instantly into crisis mode, as the offending vehicle slammed into Ronnie’s passenger door. Had anyone been sitting in the passenger’s seat, they would have been killed, instantly. If I wasn’t surrounded by two tons of American steel wrapped in canary yellow paint, I would have been killed too.
I remember spinning backwards and headlong into oncoming traffic, instinctively, desperately–and ineffectually–trying to steer out of the spiral. I remember the look of panic on the driver’s face as he slammed unavoidably into Ronnie, the force of gravity doubling and then doubling again as I screeched to an abrupt stop.
I hopped out of Veronica miraculously unscathed. I checked to make sure everyone else in the accident was unharmed–including the moron who’d hit me. And then, I turned my attention to the mangled hunk of metal that moments ago had surrendered her life to protect mine. The damage was catastrophic. I removed her fuzzy dice, sat on the street where she bled transmission fluid, and cried.
How I survived without a scratch is God’s own private mystery.
It didn’t take long for the police to arrive. They made sure no one was in critical condition, wrote down stories, and ran checks on licenses. It was at that moment I discovered my license had been suspended, due to an unpaid ticket.
A first-time, misdemeanor offense, the officers had the option of writing me a $75 fine, along with a summons for a court appearance: the minimum penalty for this particular offense.
I’d just survived a major car accident. I was shaken but generally unharmed. I was lamenting the death of my beloved Veronica when the pendulum of law swung about as far from justice as I believed possible. I was handcuffed, shoved into the back of a squad car, and taken to central booking.
♦◊♦
In prison, everything happens in slow motion.
♦◊♦
Being arrested is a lot like that slow-mo Michael Bay action sequence, expect instead of watching, it’s happening to you. My mind couldn’t wrap itself around what was going on, but I wasn’t given much of a choice. The events of the next several days seemed to stretch out into forever.
The next 127 hours of my life might as have well have been 127 years. I’d had a previous–entirely unwarranted–encounter with central booking once before, having been incarcerated for 12 hours without being charged. I knew to be extra careful not to mouth-off to the officers entrusted to my care, as I’d no desire to repeat the Abner Louima incident. The eternal descent to the holding cells known as “the Tombs” were an unwelcome memory I’d hope never to repeat. It was a Sunday, which was good only because it meant I didn’t have to rot the entire weekend in a six-by-six room while awaiting trial. I used my single phone call to tell my parents where I was. I wasn’t given the opportunity to post bail, or hire a lawyer.
I was given five minutes to talk to a court-appointed attorney–who reeked of cheap cologne and hair dye–prior to standing, handcuffed, before the bench. I was never given the opportunity to speak for myself. I watched helplessly as my parents, who were present in court, watched a judge dole out my sentence. I received the maximum possible penalty for my first-time, misdemeanor offense: a five-day sentence at Riker’s Island, a maximum security. I couldn’t believe my ears. “What just happened?!” I asked Mr. Grecian formula 16.
“What just happened?” he replied tersely. “You got fucked.”
♦◊♦
A small, unmarked road in northern Queens leads to the two-lane bridge that is the only way on or off Riker’s Island. The largest prison in the nation, it’s daily population–about 20,000 inmates–is the size of a small city, and about as expensive to run, at a cost of about $850 million per annum. It is also infamous for being one of the most dangerous penal facilities in America, with at least 4 inmates a day being slashed or stabbed. Despite–or with the collusion of–the army of corrections officers, bad things happen here.
To a casual observer, it would be easy to mistake prison transport for a school-bus. This bus, however, isn’t yellow; it’s blue and white, and the reinforced steel cages that line the windows and doors serve as a constant reminder that a different kind of education is taking place. Hands and feet are handcuffed, and then a waist-chain is attached to the adjacent prisoner, which is daisy-chained to the prisoners in front of and behind you. Movement is slow, quiet, and awkward.
In a receiving room, you’re cataloged. You are stripped naked and an incredibly thorough cavity search is performed, which I discover after my release, is illegal (in the case of non-violent misdemeanor offenders). You are divested of your clothes and personal effects, interviewed, and then given a full medical examination. Blood samples are taken; your DNA is put into a national registry.
As I watched blood drain from my arm and fill several carefully annotated vials, I silently vowed to myself: never again would I ignore a ticket.
♦◊♦
There are actually ten separate jails on Riker’s Island. There’s a permanent infirmary. Two are juvenile detention centers. There are two facilities for women, although they place the transgendered among the general populace, at great peril. There’s gay housing and there’s a mental health center.
At the time of my incarceration, I knew none of this, nor did I care. My only thought was: survive.
Once they determine your housing, you’re outfitted with a jumpsuit, and given a blanket, a pillow, a toothbrush, a bar of soap–sans rope–and three changes of underwear and socks. You’re hand and foot-cuffed again as you’re escorted to your destination. Actual barred cells are reserved for historically violent offenders; most of the housing at Riker’s is dormitory-style: 100, 2′ x 6′ cots, one foot apart, in one gigantic pressure-cooker of a room.
Although I was assigned a cot in a “dorm,” I knew I was surrounded by individuals of nefarious intent. I recognized gang tattoos: Crips, Bloods, Latin Kings. The population is 90% black or hispanic, and factions form almost immediately. Being born and bred in New York City, I somehow knew the unstated rules: respect everyone, fear no one. Look everyone in the eye. Know when to look away but never drop your head. I’d never been more terrified in my entire life, but I knew I couldn’t let it show. I heard people talking about what they were in for: rape, homicide, assault, armed robbery.
I wondered if I should invent a better story.
♦◊♦
While my cot was comfortable enough, you never really sleep in jail; at least, I didn’t. You hear the things that go on after the mandatory lights out. People were having sex in close proximity; not all of it consensual. That’s when I realized how to tell short-term people, like myself, from folks with longer sentences: the latter actually slept. A five day sentence meant–in theory–that I was just passing through. Clearly, some of my neighbors were at home.
In jail everyone wakes at the same time. Everyone showers. Everyone lines up to be chained together for meals, although you can’t by any stretch of the imagination call what they serve, food. No one complained and everyone ate fast, or went hungry. Hierarchy determines where you sat in the cafeteria; I made a decision early on to move about quietly, but not to isolate myself. The light was entirely gone from some of the eyes that met mine, and when a person with everything to lose meets a person with nothing to lose, it’s like the force of heavy stones on eggshells. The last thing I wanted was to unintentionally antagonize a resident; any incident could either prolong your sentence or shorten your life.
Boredom is a serious problem among inmates. After breakfast I found a chess game, being careful not to win more than I lost. There was a phone, but there was a pecking-order, and I didn’t rank high enough to use it. I watched violent arguments break out over how long a phone call went; even though I didn’t see any, I knew there were weapons in that room.
It takes one hour for everyone to line up and be chained together for the one hour of sunlight allowed, per day. Once outside, everyone separates quickly. When all you have is one hour a day of “freedom,” every second counts. Hardcore bodybuilders hit the weights and their bodies defy everything Men’s Health told you about nutrition; based on their diets, building muscle should be impossible. Baseball, football and basketball games form; it’s clear that in order to participate, you need to have a pre-existing club membership. Transactions take place. Deals are made between corrections officers and inmates. Things and people are bartered, bought and sold. It takes another hour to line up, to be re-chained, after the daily allotment of “fresh air” has passed.
There’s one other way to tell those with short sentences from those with long: time dilation. I was given a five-day sentence. Every second took an hour and every hour took a day and every time a corrections officer showed up at the gates with a stack of papers, I desperately hoped that it would be my name they called. For inmates with longer sentences, time had lost all meaning. It didn’t matter what day of the week or what week of the month or what month of the year it was: they weren’t going anywhere. I tried–ineffectually–to erase all signs of hope from my eyes, as I didn’t want to give someone with no fear, no good intentions, and no hope, a reason to remove mine.
♦◊♦
How I survived a week at Riker’s Island without a scratch is God’s own private mystery. The damage was not catastrophic.
After serving my sentence without infraction, I was released. The bus ride back to freedom over that interminably long bridge was even longer than the one that brought me there. I knew it wasn’t over until my feet hit the pavement.
When they finally released me from detention, It was five o’clock in the morning and I had no idea where I was or where I was going; I just wanted to run until my lungs burned and my legs collapsed. I’d survived an entire week in America’s most dangerous prison, and I was shaken but generally unharmed.
♦◊♦
While it is true that laws are meant to be “race neutral,” those charged with dispensing the rule of law, are not. I always believed the severity of my sentence was directly related to the color of my skin, but until a week ago, this was all emotional and circumstantial. Jennifer Adger, a PhD candidate at Columbia University, is originally from Alabama, a state with one of the highest incidences of death penalty sentencing. Her thesis proves statistically that, counties which historically had a high incidence of lynching retain the highest rates of capital punishment.
As Lisa Hickey pointed out in her essay “You Do The Math” there is great disparity in terms of minimum and maximum sentencing. While it’s easy to scream “racism,” a study published in the American Journal of Sociology AJS Volume 109 Number 3 (November 2003) by Angela Behrens and Christopher Uggen of the University of Minnesota, and Jeff Manza of Northwestern University actually present historical argument behind institutionalized racial disparity in criminal punishment, and their insidious reasons:
“Disproportionate criminal punishment of nonwhites constitutes, in part, a reaction to perceived racial threat. The most common formulation traces racial threat to economic relationships between racial (or ethnic) groups. Levels of racial hostility may therefore be greater in places where a dominant group has higher levels of economic marginality. The racial composition of state prisons is firmly associated with the adoption of state felon disenfranchisement laws.
“The expansion of citizenship to racial minorities, and the subsequent extension of suffrage to all citizens, threatened to undermine the political power of the white majority. By restricting the voting rights of a disproportionately nonwhite population, felon disenfranchisement laws offered one method for states to avert “the menace of negro domination.” The sharp increase in African-American imprisonment goes hand-in-hand with changes in voting laws. Felon disenfranchisement provisions offered a tangible response to the threat of new African-American voters that would help preserve existing racial hierarchies.
“It was not until the 1965 passage of the Voting Rights Act (which effectively eliminated state voting restrictions that undermined the Fifteenth Amendment with the intent to diminish the voting rights of African-Americans) that near universal suffrage was finally assured.
“We conclude that racial threat is reflected in the composition of state prisons and find that such racial disparities in punishment drive voting restrictions on felons and ex-felons.”
♦◊♦
In a free society, ethical progress is the slowest motion of all.
–
photo: pudig / deviantart
© Jackie Summers 2011
About Jackie Summers
Jackie:
You can’t read this and not be moved. Thank you. I just don’t know how we as a society can keep doing this. Every time I have been in prison, by choice, I come away scared to the bone by what I have seen equally inspired by the men living the nightmare and terrified that by some random sequence of events I might become one of them. You did and lived to tell the tale. But honestly my belief is that we collectively are judged by how we treat our weakest members, those most vulnerable. And the fact that we choose to lock so many of them up based on race or poverty or mental illness is a crime against humanity–theirs and ours.
Tom, having done everything possible to avoid trouble with the law my entire life, I hope this story adequately describes my abject terror at being incarcerated. I don’t have good solutions for how to fix what’s broken like Lisa or Theresa; I just hope good men–and women–can make better decisions.
JFB
What an incredible story. So here’s mine, and I’m a white woman, so you’ll see how differently it went for me…
I noticed my registration had expired so I put it on the passenger seat and was on my way to the RMV. Someone slammed on their brakes down the road, causing everyone to put on their brakes, and I rear-ended the car directly in front of me, severely damaging my car but not his, which was much bigger. I was only slightly injured, but incredibly upset. I got out of the car and stood by the side of the road waiting for police to arrive. When they did, they all went over to talk to the man I had hit. They appeared to know him. No one talked to me. Finally, I went over and asked what was going on. I then found out who I had rear ended–the chief of police in his personal car!! It soon came out that I had caused this accident in an unregistered car. The irony of the fact that I was on my way to the RMV to sort it out was not funny to anyone. But guess what?? I was not handcuffed. I was not put in a police car. I was not taken to jail. I was not sentenced. I was simply given two tickets and two fines–for the accident, and for the expired registration. I had a wrecked car too, but that became my biggest problem, not a lack of justice. Jackie, your story appalls me, and I cringe at the thought of how unfairly you were treated compared to me. Fabulous, fabulous article.
Jesus. If I rear-ended the chief of police they’d have put me UNDER the jail.
Sorry about your car but glad you were okay and glad you didn’t face injustice. But PAY THOSE TICKETS!
JFB
Oh My God this actually made me remember a court date on a speeding ticket. Swear.
What a story, Jack. Geeze. So glad you weren’t scarred by that whole thing any worse.
This is a beautifully told story. Chilling. Honest. Terrifying. When Obama became president, it was widely suggested that we were witnessing the end of racism in our country. That proved to be false very quickly. Racism—among citizens as well as our tax-paid law enforcement officials—continues apace, sub rosa in some instances but traditionally overt in others. It’s not just different skin colors we’re dealing with; it’s also different cultures. And contemporary American society seems governed by a single and sometimes dogged approach to executing our laws. Frankly, I think the 2010 midterm elections were not so much a negative reaction to Obama’s leadership but to a rarely spoken but deep-seated hatred of his color.
Mervyn, I don’t think we’re living in a post-racial world yet, but we’re making slow, steady progress. The internet has shown us that, despite our cultural differences, at the core we’re more alike than we are different. Hopefully, the want and need for a better society will compel us to drive beyond both sub rosa and overt misapplication of law and justice.
JFB
Thanks for sharing this Jackie. I’ve been thinking a lot about this specific topic this week because I was called to jury duty. At some point I was thinking about writing a piece about the things I’ve gotten away with. I have a story where a cop in the southwest literally said to me (before letting me go) “Well you look like a nice white man…”
In all fairness, Jake, you ARE a nice white man. I mean really, if Red Sox fans and Yankees fans can get along, can’t we all?
JFB
…well Arod struck out to end the Yankees season, so I love all Yankee fans today…
I’m still having trouble sorting this out…
First of all, I’m not surprised you were arrested for driving with a suspended license. That happens all the time. And even in the lily white suburbs people are handcuffed and arrested. I believe that is the appropriate action and I don’t fault the police at all.
However…
Prison?? For driving with a suspended license and no prior offenses?!?!?!? I have never, EVER seen anything like that happen. And I’ve dealt with my fair share of crooked judges and seen some very curious shit. But jail time for that?? It’s mind-boggling. And I’m not trying to say I don’t believe you because I know you wouldn’t just make something like this up. I’m just completely incredulous.
Usually there’s no sentencing at the arraignment. It’s just a time to set a date for a pre-trial conference and determine if there’s a question of bail. And since that was your first offense, it’s almost a given you’d be let go on personal recognizance. At the most a few hundred bucks for bail. The fact that you were sentenced right there at the arraignment and given 5 days in prison for driving without a license doesn’t make me question if the judge is a racist, it makes me think he/she is completely batshit crazy!
Wow.
DF, I wish I could tell you my experience was unique. The predisposition is to the most severe sentencing, as evidenced by the reference material quoted. Sentencing as a form of controlling relative power–voting in this case–of minority groups, has been happening since the abolishment of slavery, and has become more covert since the civil rights movement. It’s not the judge per se that’s crazy, as much as the entire system that’s skewed.
JFB
“We conclude that racial threat is reflected in the composition of state prisons and find that such racial disparities in punishment drive voting restrictions on felons and ex-felons.”
This is precisely right. If anyone hasn’t yet seen the film American Violet, I highly recommend it. Based on the real life story of Regina Kelly who fought with the help of the ACLU against fabricated, racially-based drug charges from a corrupt legal system (I don’t call it a justice system anymore) in Hearn, TX, you can see plainly that this sort of thing is no coincidence. Here’s how it works:
1. Poor, minority communities are targeted for “enforcement”, even on completely false charges.
2. Priced out of the justice system and unable to afford a vigorous defense against this abuse, these victims are offered and usually take plea bargains.
3. The plea bargain has several detrimental effects that perpetuate the cycle:
3A. It may involve pleading guilty to an offense that disqualifies them from voting eligibility. They are now disempowered from helping to get abusive prosecutors, judges, and other officials out of office.
3B. Their guilty plea will almost certainly make it impossible for them to serve on a jury, thereby removing from them the power to refuse to convict others being maliciously prosecuted.
3C. Their plea bargain may involve an implicit or explicit deal in which they are enticed and or bullied, intimidated, and threatened into falsely accusing others who will then be targeted for malicious prosecution. In fact, this often happens absent a plea offer.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
When you take a higher level lab science class, one of the first things you learn about is the difference between random error and systematic error (aka bias error). This system is rife with blatantly systematic error. We do not have a justice system in this country. We only have a legal system.
I hope that anyone who has the opportunity to serve on a jury realizes that they are part of an increasingly rare safeguard against unfair laws and malicious prosecutions. There is a reason that plea bargains and non-jury trials are becoming increasingly common. Simply put, juries are the only part of the system not making a living off of malicious prosecutions. They are, therefore, the part of the system least susceptible to this systemic error and most likely to deliver justice.
Unfortunately, they are becoming more abused as the voir dire process is perverted to stack them in favor of easy prosecution, as judges limit the types of evidence they are made aware of to give the prosecution an advantage, and so on. Neither are juries made aware of their true power- to judge not only the facts of a case at hand, but also to refuse to convict if they believe a law is unjust or if it is being unjustly applied. I hope people will visit the Fully Informed Jury Association before they are ever called for jury duty. It is important that we all understand our power as jurors and fulfill our duty to refuse to convict one another simply because the State tells us to do so and leads us by the nose in that direction.
Bravo Kristen. Thank you for your scientific acuity, your emotional resonance and unwavering moral support.
JFB
From Queens and Brooklyn South:
We fabricated drug charges against innocent people to meet arrest quotas, former detective testifies
Yea, I saw this. While it comes as no surprise, there are still those who would claim these were “rogue officers” operating independently, and not institutionalized practice.
Like you said, not random: systemic.
JFB
Very true. I’ll add this one here to further make the case for anyone still on the fence:
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/29/nyregion/officers-unleash-anger-at-ticket-fixing-arraignments-in-the-bronx.html?_r=2&pagewanted=1&hp
I’m not sure of the New York Times’ pay wall protocol, but I can click through to the entire article right now and I’m not a subscriber. It is well worth reading for anyone who subscribes to the “a few bad apples” theory. A few teaser quotes from the article:
“A three-year investigation into the police’s habit of fixing traffic and parking tickets in the Bronx ended in the unsealing of indictments on Friday and a stunning display of vitriol by hundreds of off-duty officers, who converged on the courthouse to applaud their accused colleagues and denounce their prosecution.”
“As the defendants emerged from their morning court appearance, a swarm of officers formed a cordon in the hallway and clapped as they picked their way to the elevators. Members of the news media were prevented by court officers from walking down the hallway where more than 100 off-duty police officers had gathered outside the courtroom.
The assembled police officers blocked cameras from filming their colleagues, in one instance grabbing lenses and shoving television camera operators backward.”
“The unsealed indictments contained more than 1,600 criminal counts, the bulk of them misdemeanors having to do with making tickets disappear as favors for friends, relatives and others with clout. But they also outlined more serious crimes, related both to ticket-fixing and drugs, grand larceny and unrelated corruption. Four of the officers were charged with helping a man get away with assault.”
“Prosecutors said the bulk of the vanished tickets were arranged by officials of the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association, the city’s largest police union. All the officers charged with fixing tickets are either current or past union delegates or trustees.
As the investigation unfurled, the union played down its significance and consistently referred to ticket-fixing as “professional courtesy” inscribed in the police culture.
Patrick J. Lynch, the union president, said in a news conference that the officers had been arrested on something “accepted at all ranks for decades.” He did distance himself from those charged with graver offenses.”
“On Friday morning, on the street outside the courthouse, some 350 officers massed behind barricades and brandished signs expressing sentiments like “It’s a Courtesy Not a Crime.” ”
It’s very clear- hundreds of New York police officers believe they are above the law. This is not a few bad apples on the periphery. This is culturally-ingrained privilege blatantly on display.
I don’t know what to say… except that… no, not even that I’m glad you’re ok, because nobody comes out of these things ok…. I’m glad you’ve survived, and I hope that this, in some way, goes toward change…
G, thank you; I am okay. What I find fascinating–and repulsive–is the people who doubt the veracity of this experience because it isn’t something they can relate to. More to the point, I’m flummoxed at the sheer volume of individuals in the world with a hole in their soul where compassion should be.
Thank you for your kind words G. Let’s move towards change, together.
JFB
Truth is stranger than fiction. I’m familiar with both. Nothing about this story reminds me of fiction.
Jackie – you told this story so well, with no hint of self pity, just great self awareness and absolute clarity about what happened to you. I was moved and shocked – it goes without saying. Thanks you for writing this. I’m going to spread it around the web in the hopes that it will help people to understand what is wrong with our legal system. Bravo for writing it.
Gabi, I don’t feel sorry for myself or angry over what happened. Like JFK said, “forgive your enemies, but remember their names.”
JFB
Wow. I have lived, I have seen, I have read, but this piece, your story, was incredibly moving and so outside my scope of comprehension. I believe that everyone needs to have an experience that changes their life and changes their perspective on others’ lives. I had one that effects me to this day. I can’t i agine what those 5 days must have been like for you (and for all those that experience something similar). The only thing I can do is to live my life so that I can make someone else’s better.
Brenna, if telling this story helps to increase the awareness of some of the ways our legal system is broken, I’m glad to have shared it. I believe you will make other people’s lives better; reading your comment already improved my morning.
JFB
On reading this, I don’t know whether to be furious or just plain sad.
Kitti, I appreciate your support. I’ve neither anger nor sadness around this. I’ve acute awareness, which I hope will serve as impetus to initiate change.
JFB
What an amazing story, Jackie. I’m really touched that you have responded to each commenter, but I should not be surprised. I wanted to write to you about this from the moment I read this line: “when a person with everything to lose meets a person with nothing to lose, it’s like the force of heavy stones on eggshells.” That you know this is amazing to me, because you seem to know this not from having been crushed, but from being whole and sensitive. It’s why I love reading what you write. I was in your grip through this whole tale, not just because, like most people reading it, I’ve never been incarcerated and am terrified and fascinated. We rubberneckers want to know both how bad it is and how to avoid it. You notice things, and know things, that a writer and a tour guide through Hell should notice and know.
But more than that, you are heroic. My husband is fond of saying, “suffering does *not* ennoble.” You were in a bad place, unjustly, and looked around and saw people who were worse off. You went into a place where people have no hope in their eyes, and you met their gaze.
This story sounds about par for the course, but I disagree with seeing the conclusions of the Sociological articles as the full story. Being a recent Sociology graduate myself, I can tell you that they had to limit what they were looking at in terms of direct effects on a form of power in marginalized groups. There are similar studies involving maintaining economic power. The most recent one I read that I can remember is that in a controlled study a black man without a felony has a lower chance of getting called back regarding a job application than a white man with one, and a black man with a felony has something like half the chance of getting called back as a black man without one. Other studies analyze the impact of prison time on accumulated wealth potential, community cohesion and childrearing (the latter two are widely accepted as solid indicators of future incarceration rates among juveniles), cultural capital (learning the ‘rules of the game’ needed to succeed in the dominant, middle class culture – see “hardening off” criminological arguments and comparisons of incarceration rates between the US and the Netherlands, for instance), and social capital (meeting people who can help advance your career or quality of life).
In other words, EVERYTHING to do with anything sociologically is affected by widespread and lengthy use of prison time as a deviance deterrent, and minority groups are most likely to receive harsher penalties, thereby disproportionately affecting their communities. This isn’t just a race problem; women are statistically more likely to get harsher sentences than men. It’s the pervasive influence of a very sick, dominant culture.
And, being a white man with a rather serious brush against the law in the past myself, I can sympathize. It sounds horrible to say, but I thank God that I wasn’t born a black man in this country. I wouldn’t have nearly the same opportunities that I’ve been given in my very privileged life, and, to be honest, I’d probably still be in prison. I’m just glad that you have grown from this injustice instead of hurting people because you’ve been hurt.