Notes on a community forum on violence in the county jail


Some personal responses to the experience of a community forum on violence held in the county jail. To protect privacy I have changed some names to initials

In Quaker Meeting today I was called to speak about Thursday’s jail forum, specifically about JS, a mother who is accused of killing her son just a few days shy of his second birthday.

I met JS the first time last May — although I did not know her name then. May 8 to be exact — the day of our Weld Street PAC-TAC saturation.

It was a huge event. Apparently Deputy Chief Sheppard was inspired by my talk in a community meeting about fighting against drug dealers as another face and phase of the civil rights movement. At the meeting that night he committed the police command van to be on Weld all day. And then he and Commander Brunnet and Lt. Mark Merklinger joined us as we knocked on doors, talked to people, and handed out pamphlets on how to call 911, how to join PAC-TAC, and about the Union St. Gateway Block Club I was trying to get going.

One of the doors we knocked on was [deleted] Weld. I remember a young, very pregnant Hispanic woman coming down stairs. We told her, of course, that we did not expect her to join PAC TAC, but perhaps the other handouts we had could be helpful.

There were many children in the yard, and I took pictures of them.

Nearly two weeks later I was in Maryland helping an old college roommate celebrate her 60th birthday. I remember checking the D&C online for news — and seeing the brief story about LD. I looked up the address on Google Maps to be certain, and studied the images of the family home that were up on the web. Yes, I knew I had been there and spoken to her.

I checked my photos. I may in fact have the last photo taken of LD. But I had no way of confirming that.

Last Thursday I met her again, at the forum. Apparently what I said about a friend on Weld ([deleted] Weld to be exact — a couple houses away), whom I am helping through recovery from crack addiction, impressed Jessica, and she came up afterward to ask if I could help her.

JS is 24 (according to the news reports), but she looks barely 16. My heart went out to her. I did not want to give her my contact information but got her full name and her jail ID number. I promised I would stay in touch.

In Meeting today I said that for Quakers forgiveness of criminal acts is usually (thank God) theoretical and abstract. I wondered how many of us would be able to find forgiveness in our hearts if this young woman were our daughter-in-law and we had lost a grandchild.

I did not speak of it during worship, as we are called upon to be brief, and also I thought it might be a little too intense for people to handle. But I have two related personal stories.

Many years ago when my daughter (now 34) was LD's age, I was suffering a deep depression. My marriage was in shambles. I was under an incredible amount of stress trying to finish a degree while caring for a toddler. I remember one moment — when she would not stop crying -- screaming at her: “Shut up or I am going to kill you.”

When I heard myself say that of course I immediately regretted it. I grabbed her, got into the car, and drove over to my mother’s house in order to stop myself from doing anything worse.

I was lucky. First of all I had a mother I could turn to. Second, I had a car that would take me there.

The other story involves my own mother. This was 1951. My mother had three of her eventual five. My older brother was five; I was three. My sister was six months old. We all lived in a Quonset hut in Denver — married student housing. My father was going to law school on the GI bill. My mother hated being stuck where she was, feeling completely isolated. And she knew that because of who my father was he would never be a lawyer (she was right) and his time in school was a waste. But those were not the days when a woman (certainly not one with my mother’s upbringing) could assert her needs against her husband’s wishes.

And one day my sister would not stop crying.

My mother was worn out and at her wits’ end. She is a petit mal epileptic, and so she had Phenobarbital on hand. She decided to take a small piece of one of her pills and give it to my sister.

My sister slept for over a day. Of course, my mother realized her mistake and was panicked over the fact her baby would not waken. But she was afraid to take her to a doctor as she would have to admit what she had done.

We were lucky. Not only did I get to keep my sister. I also got to keep my mother. Had my mother given my sister just a little more of the drug than she did, chances are good my sister would have died and my brother and I would have ended up with our mother in jail for murdering her baby.

When I was five my father bought my mother a piano. The main purpose of the piano was to give my mother something to “pound on” instead of pounding on us children. It worked. Among the things she would do, when we got too rowdy, was to have us all march around in a circle as she played “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

It is easy to stand in judgment against mothers who hurt their children. But I can say truthfully and with deep conviction — there but for fortune go I.

Posted: Sun - April 1, 2007 at 01:20 AM          

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