The Soft Spot of Exemption

09/07/2020 by J. Nelson

A pathological adherence to: “It’s okay if I do it because I’m a good person” is America’s worst curse.

It’s hard to fathom the conscious human brain hemorrhaging the idiocy required to esentially set off fireworks on a 118° day in one of the few California forests not already engulfed in a sea of flame, but here we are.

And I say “we,” of course, because the assumption that we’re not, at times, idiots, criminals, or racists applies to everyone. It’s a delusion arising from the same soft spot in our psyches that produces the two things we deny the most: stubbornness and cowardice.

A “gender reveal” smoke bomb ignited the 8700+ acre El Dorado fire because some asshole simply assumed safety would accompany their self-congratulatory antics. The fire rages because a “good person” believed this “goodness” was the totality of their identity.

It’s a line of thinking reminiscent of:
Well, I’ve have NEVER been mean to a person of color, so…
Or
…but it’s a pipe bomb in honor of MY baby!
And now, of course,
Bikes are freedom! Nobody’s telling me to wear a mask at SturgiCon!

If you’ll pardon a little excuse theory, what’s hiding behind an excuse is often the most interesting part, because it says something about all of us. We spend our lives buying and selling justifications, training ourselves to accept various levels of self deception, leaning on more shades of gray than there are rain clouds. We cite mitigating circumstances before we can damn near walk. In every conceivable aspect of our behavior we allow ourselves to escape consequences whenever we can. When we take things too far and wind up pulling something illegal or stupid, we even feel betrayed by these pillars of rationalization, because somehow they don’t save us.

And to think, gender reveal parties were lame as hell before this.

Whatever amount of restitution this family is expected to pay, they’ll never escape the fact that their monsterous entitlement resulted in the death of a career-skilled firefighter, the destruction of 20 homes, and 22,600+ burned acres of forest.

That’s a lot to own for such a frivolous gratification.

In Support of AB-2147

09/01/2020 by J. Nelson

UPDATE: AB-2147 is now law. Each year, more than 2,000 inmate firefighters battle California wildfires for less than what we civilians pay for a cup of coffee. These current and formerly incarcerated offenders will remember 2020 as the year their hard work was finally recognized and their professional skills ratified.

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If Governor Gavin Newsom signs California AB-2147, former inmates who have successfully participated in the state’s Conservation Camp program may soon see employment barriers related to their past criminal records lifted.

These ex-inmates would be able to request accelerated expungements and apply for a number of state emergency technician licenses, all of which would put to use the training, experience, bravery, and heroic skills they honed during incarceration, but which have so far been deemed valueless outside the perimeter walls.

AB-2147 would acknowledge the contributions Conservation Camp inmates make each season in assisting professional firefighters, including the danger they put themselves in to defend the life and property of Californians like you and me. That includes finger pointers who’d prefer to keep them locked up forever as well as people who say things to “relate” to ex-felons, such as, “Heh-heh. The only difference between me and you is I never got caught.” And finally, it would mean de facto recognition for the three inmates who have died containing our state’s wildfires.

But maybe you’re not quite ready to call these guys “heroes.” Fine then. Call ’em “survivors,” as in, California wildfire containment survivors. If even that makes you grit your teeth, I’d like to see you stand up to a wall of flame for between $2.90 and $5.12 per day. Assemblywoman Eloise Gomez Reyes, one of the key sponsors of AB-2147, put it clearly: “I would hope that most of us would agree that an individual willing to face down a fire and smoke is much more than the sum of their previous mistakes.”

I last addressed the misadventures of inmate firefighters as they were being bureaucratically bounced between the California Correctional Peace Officers Association (the crafty union representing prison guards) and the professional firefighters relied upon by California’s prison system to select and train volunteer inmate-applicants. The passage of this new bill would send a needed and powerful signal about the sorts of sacrifices we truly value.

For a fresh take on AB-2147’s promise for both Camp program graduates and California taxpayers, check out Los Angeles Times columnist, Erika D. Smith’s relevant reckoning.

There’s a reason why some call Conservation Camp participants the “special forces” of California inmates. Here are some of the questions and qualifications offender-applicants are expected to meet.

And of course, here’s AB-2147 for your perusal.

“My Fellow Convict Americans”

08/26/2020 by J. Nelson

Hi, I’m a convicted American.

As a convicted American, I know what it’s like to be formally and publicly disqualified from society –– to accept the consequesnces and their impact.

I know what it’s like to slam a book shut with the realization of what it means to lose the right to vote.

Human dignity isn’t something a sentencing judge extracts from a defendant in the courtroom, and its surrender isn’t part of any plea bargain. The loss of dignity occurs informally, away from the public, in places where cruelty, rage, and fear are picked from one’s eye like dust.

As a convicted American, I know what it is to witness a man’s dignity being taken from him. In describing one of the pillars of prison life, I often say it’s not so much the savagery you witness as the savagery you’re forced to silently bury.

I’ll never be free of those memories: they will always return to haunt me — and also to recharge my values.

I know the feeling of begging a Corrections Officer (or worse, a prison guard) for toilet paper and soap. No lubricating eye-contact, my lips squished into a gap between steel and concrete. I remember smiling a survivor’s smile, too, at the freedom from having to swallow my pride, the first punch line of prison life.

And I remember official documentation. For every little thing, one needs papers, signature proof, double verification, a case file, a blue copy, a white copy, a canary yellow copy, and so on. Life behind bars is like living inside a Department of Motor Vehicles office located in a parking structure.

But here’s what else I know:

As a convicted American, I know the life-affirming relief of chatting about fighter jets or lighting or even God with the man locking you in for the night.

And I know what it feels like to have my voting rights restored.

“I’ve paid my debt to society” sounds like a cliché from the movies until you’re the one saying it. And when you’re no longer nibbling at meals through an annual split lip, goddamn it feels good to say.

Last night, I watched Trump pardon Jon Ponder. Ponder stood in humility as the entirety of the government’s power was summoned to declare him re-fit for anything American, even elected office or a shotgun collection.
Staged as the ceremony may have been, I wondered if Ponder was thinking, “Just keep being nice to the man. It’s just like back on the row. You know this drill. You want your issue, right? Keep it cool. Get that paper. Play along. Hi, nice lady.”

I certainly would have been, ’cause as a convicted American, I know a lot about dangled carrots, false hopes, and the journey of becoming my own man with my own principles based on hard won lessons. I know what it feels like to slam a book shut with the realization that dignity and self direction have gradually been inching back.

This morning, there are probably equal numbers of Trump campaign strategists patting themselves on the back for proposing the Ponder presidential pardon as there are critics questioning its timing, politics, the RNC, or that Ponder pled guilty and has no right to a pardon.

None of that matters when you’re holding the bearer bond, and Jon Ponder just walked away with one.

And as a convicted American, he knows the value of official documentation.

Good for you Jon, my friend in restored dignity.

Take a minute to check out Jon Ponder’s Hope for Prisoners –– building and strengthening skills “necessary for employment readiness, leadership development and success throughout the reintegration process.”