Back in the 1990s, I was at the top of my career. The California Probation, Parole and Correctional Association named me “Parole Agent of the Year.” The American Correctional Association included me among the “Best in the Business.” Most gratifying of all, the Transitional Case Management Program I planned, implemented, and managed—became the second program in the 150-year history of California Department of Corrections (CDC) that reduced recidivism and saved taxpayer dollars.

These achievements didn’t come easily. As a survivor of childhood abuse and abandonment, I was no stranger to pain and struggle. I even lost one of my own sons for a while to the ravages of drugs and incarceration. These experiences simply made me work harder, determined to increase transparency, reduce conflict, and heal broken lives on both sides of the bars.

That struggle took its toll. After 16 years, I left CDC feet first due to a stress-induced heart attack at age 47. Lying on that stretcher—I knew there had to be a better way. I vowed if I lived, I would find it. As I healed physically, restorative justice found me and helped me heal emotionally and spiritually.

Following my recovery, I attended a Summer Peacebuilding Institute at Eastern Mennonite University and studied with people from around the world who are working to spread the message of restorative justice. I traveled to Fiji, Thailand, and Nigeria, where I heard horrific stories and witnessed moving personal transformations among both victims and perpetrators.

While in Nigeria in 2004, I received staggering news: my 19-year-old granddaughter had been charged with capital murder and was facing the death penalty.

What was I to do? My grounding in restorative justice showed me the path: to encourage her to tell the truth and be accountable for her actions. I couldn’t just tell her that—I had to model that behavior for her.

Our adversarial legal system encourages silence to avoid self-incrimination and discourages honesty and accountability—two critical components of restorative justice. Without these two, Kimberly could never heal. We spoke intimately about this need. Kimberly pled guilty to capital murder. But the culpability did not stop there, for we—her family—are all culpable at some level.

Before her sentencing hearing, the judge allowed me to read the following statement to the court:
 

“Today I speak to you from my heart, as Kimberly’s grandmother. I pray that we may begin today to heal this trauma.

How do we get started to repair this harm?

I start by asking for forgiveness. Forgiveness of Clarence Thomas Spear. I pray that your eternal soul finds its peace.

I also ask forgiveness of your family and loved ones. No punishment can ever restore their loss or yours.

I do not beg that my granddaughter be set free. Even without prison, she would not be free.

What Kimberly faces in prison will feel like home to her, in many ways—well within her comfort zone. Abandoned and traumatized as a child, Kimberly did what she knew best. She spread the trauma around. She was hardly more than a child when she committed her crime.

No, the harsh reality of prison life will not be new to Kimberly. From childhood, she learned the harshest reality of all—the absence of loving care and protection she had every right to expect. As Kimberly’s grandmother, I will always ask myself—‘What could I have done differently… to help her find a better path?’

I tell you, Kimberly’s time in prison will not be harsh enough, because she knows that life already. Young as she is, she knows the drug underworld that accepted her when she felt she had nowhere to go. A world where the most brutal people are the most admired and respected; a rigid hierarchy where life is a mean game.

No, prison won’t be much different for Kimberly than the life she knew outside.

Where does this path to prison lead? To even greater disconnection and hopelessness. Another life wasted. No accountability, no pressure to face her actions in the sober light of day—no motivation to accept responsibility or to do the work required to heal and to help others find resolution to their pain.

Yes, prison as we know it is much too easy—for all of us. It’s too simple to lock people away and forget them, to wish them the worst during their time behind bars. The trouble with this approach is that the trauma of the crime continues to eat away at us—at all of us. We stay stuck as crime bleeds out from the prisons into our streets.

Today this tragedy connects us. We are all prisoners, locked in our roles: victims and perpetrators, family and friends, criminal justice system and community. We all have a stake in today’s outcome.

As a former officer and manager within California’s Department of Corrections, I know there has got to be a better way to find justice and make amends. Here is my prayer: let us work together to find a path to move forward together and heal.”

For a long time people have told me “you can’t change the system.” I have news: we ARE the system. Every time we turn our backs on injustice, every time we turn a blind eye to someone’s need—including our own—we lock ourselves behind emotional and spiritual bars and reduce our own power to heal and be healed.

Today I believe in a simple truth that is an essential part of Native American cultures: justice is healing. Globally, indigenous peoples are leading us back to this holistic approach to justice. There is no “us” and “them,” for we are all one.

Until we realize and practice this truth, we are doomed to lose our children and our grandchildren to the violence of denial, drugs, and desperation. I have seen and lived the outcome of that violence. That is why restorative justice is my cause and my faith.



Vicki Sanderford-O’Connor
vicki05@clariquest.com
July 2006