Opinions
Throwaway people in our midst
‘Just Mercy’ helps change the narrative on criminal justice
I recently met a grizzled panhandler walking along 16th Street in downtown Washington. He was cursing that nobody would hire him because of his criminal record. He told me that he slept in an alley, and pointed to a trash can that he had searched four times that day.
He was afraid of dying in the cold, but didnāt feel safe in homeless shelters, so he carried a knife. Somehow I was less concerned about a convict with a knife walking beside me than about the fellow five blocks south, without a conviction, who joked and complained on the same afternoon about being impeached.
Why did that homeless man return to the same trash can several times a day? It was beside a stream of people who could afford to waste food. Not only was he familiar with the most promising trash cans, he knew the locations of several ATMs where kind souls could get him cash. Such is the life of a street survivor in our throwaway culture.
āYou never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.ā So said Gregory Peckās Atticus Finch to his daughter Scout in 1962ās To Kill a Mockingbird. His performance as the quintessential white savior defending a wrongly accused black man won him an Oscar and inspired many people to become lawyers. His halo was snatched away when Harper Leeās novel Go Set a Watchman, published in 2015, revealed that Atticus served on the white supremacist Maycomb County Citizensā Council.
Speaking of points of view, Mockingbird was perfectly designed to make white people in the civil rights era feel better about themselves. Six decades later, there is more diversity among filmmakers. The current movie Just Mercy, starring Michael B. Jordan and Jamie Foxx, which also concerns an unjustly accused black man, is partly set in Monroeville, Alabama, the real place that inspired the fictional Maycomb. This true story, however, is told from a black perspective. A black sensibility permeates the film.
The contrast between Bryan Stevensonās meeting with the wrongly convicted manās family and the comparable scene in Mockingbird is telling: in Just Mercy, the defense attorney is not just paying his respects but seeking input. In Mockingbird, polite Negroes are plentiful on the porch and in the courtroom balcony. In Just Mercy, black people are active participants: they have agency. The danger Stevenson faces as a black attorney from Harvard, just by being there and persisting, is palpable. The portrayal of the prisoners whose cells are next to that of Foxxās Walter McMillian is as humane as I have seen.
Stevenson says, āWe have a system of justice that treats you better if you’re rich and guilty than if you’re poor and innocent.ā According to the Equal Justice Initiative, which he founded, āMr. Stevenson and his staff have won reversals, relief, or release from prison for over 135 wrongly condemned prisoners on death row and won relief for hundreds of others wrongly convicted or unfairly sentenced.ā
Reform is hard. As Paul Butler describes in Chokehold, āBan the Boxā policies (for which I myself testified in 2012) āprohibit employers from conducting criminal background checks until late in the application process. The hope was this would give people coming home from prison a better chance at landing an interview, but studies have shown that BTB policies have actually done more harm than good for black men. When employers donāt have actual information about whether people have a criminal background, they tend to assume that young African American men do.ā
Butler writes, āThe truth is that the vast majority of black men have never committed a violent crime. Itās a stereotype that … can be supported by a selective view of the evidence.ā
The homeless, including former prisoners, transgender people, and veterans with PTSD, represent systemic failures, as in criminal justice. Filmic truth-telling like Just Mercy can further efforts like Stevensonās to change the narrative.
Things are not always as we imagine. If we stop throwing our fellow human beings away, all of our streets can better reflect the society we have long told ourselves we are.
Richard J. Rosendall is a writer and activist at [email protected].
Copyright Ā© 2020 by Richard J. Rosendall. All rights reserved.
Commentary
Sexting with younger guy has me asking: How queer am I?
Reflections on LGBTQ life in 2024
Once upon a time, not all that long ago, a man sexted another man.
There were words. There were pictures. There were filthy questions and even filthier responses. You know, the way a good sexting convo ought to be, for those who dabble.
One man was 33. The other, 24. And while it comes as no shock that I was the 33-year-old, it may be more surprising to learn it was the 24-year-old who grabbed the reins.
What kinks you into? he asked.
Shit ā I didnāt know. I barely even bottomed before the pandemic, and now I had to know my kinks?
Iām open, I replied, evasively. You?
His response left me coughing: āLove musk sweat ws public group rough bb verbal bate edge roleplay and very open-minded.ā
Now Iām no prude (in fact, many would call me a downright whore) but this young man articulating his kinks and fetishes in such detail blew my mind. When did he learn what he liked? At 24, all I wanted was to top a guy and leave with as little communication or attachment as possible. At 33, I wasnāt sure what a few of the items he listed even meant.
Perhaps I shouldnāt be surprised when young men ā and the younger generation across the LGBTQ spectrum in general ā have already figured out their sexual interests. I arrived in D.C. from Idaho in 2008 as a fresh-faced 18-year-old; I came out three years later in 2011. Attitudes toward queerness have shifted substantially since then, and these days it is undeniably easier for younger people to explore their sexual and gender identities (which, by the way, is fantastic).
But this conversation left me wondering: What do I like? I havenāt sought out that many new sexual experiences, and while fetishes, kinks, and sexual desires can seem trivial, theyāre inextricably intertwined with gender and relationships. If I canāt articulate what I like in the sack (or in public, if I dare), then how do I know what Iām seeking from a long-term partner, or if thatās even what I want?
As soon as I came out, I thought my job was done. All I needed after that was to snatch up a cutie and settle down. Instead, my identity centered on building my career in politics, where sexual openness isnāt as appreciated. I, like many D.C. queers around me, moved here bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to change the world for good.
Then came a tough lesson: Just because I wanted to improve the world didnāt mean people wanted me to. I was inexplicably fired from not one job but two, and suddenly the do-gooder in me grew jaded. The career I dedicated years to was suddenly ripped from my hands, and I became so disillusioned I didnāt even want it back. Oh, and the cherry on top: My boyfriend dumped me two days later.
Once everything unraveled, I wondered: Was the me of the past the me I truly wanted? Or was I reflecting back what I thought everyone wanted me to be?
Well, a few major meltdowns and an extended slut phase later, my life couldnāt be more different. I now work at a new gay bar in town to support myself, and Iāve given myself space to pursue the arts. This former straight-laced, type-A, tightly wound gay abandoned the safe track and he couldnāt be more terrified. He also couldnāt be more excited.
But losing my old career also left an existential-sized hole in my identity. So, as I sexted this 24-year-old with newfound awareness of my limitations, I decided this must change.
How? As I said, I work at a gay bar in one of the queerest cities in America. Now more than ever Iām surrounded by those who are LGBTQ and every shade in between. Why not learn from those around me, whether younger, older, or around the same age, but whose experiences are no less queer? Why not carve out time to have in-depth discussions and discover what the possibilities are?
If being queer means to go against the established norms of gender and sexuality, then thereās still plenty of territory for me to explore. No longer can ābottomā or ātopā be my only options.
So, the purpose of this column ā aptly titled Queer Quest ā is to capture my exploration of queer identity. Itās not to teach you as much as it is to teach myself, and you can either learn alongside me or simply be entertained. At the very least, Iāll have a series of portraits on what itās like to be queer in the mid 2020s. At most, Iāll have a better understanding of who I am as a queer person.
Then maybe, just maybe, Iāll become a better sexter.
Jake Stewart is a D.C.-based writer.
Commentary
What will you do to make Pride safe this year?
Anxiety reigns among American Jews after Oct. 7
Each year, hundreds of thousands of Jews and supporters of Israel attend Pride marches. With a few exceptions, these spaces have always been safe and welcoming for the broader Pride community.
But this year is different.
For American Jews, anxiety reigns as we head into this Pride season. The appalling rise of antisemitism since Oct. 7 forces us to ask difficult questions. As many Jews increasingly feel alienated and excluded from progressive spaces, weāre left to wonder: If I wear a Jewish symbol, march with a Jewish group, or wave a rainbow flag adorned with the Star of David, will I be safe at Pride?
Even before Oct. 7, LGBTQ Jews had plenty of reason to feel trepidation about their safety at Pride. From blanket bans on Stars of David at past Pride gatherings to antisemitism on display at the recent Sydney Pride, too often Jews feel forced to choose between their LGBTQ and Jewish identities and hide their connection to Israel.
Since Oct. 7, terms like “apartheid,” “genocide” and “Zionism equals racism” are increasingly thrown around casually, often without a nuanced understanding of their impact or the realities they oversimplify. This rhetoric not only alienates but also endangers Jewish queer people. It makes us feel emotionally unsafe. It increases the chances that we will be physically unsafe as well.
We must not allow the Israel-Palestine conflict to be imported into Pride.
I will always remember the euphoria of the first Pride rally I attended. I was barely 18 years old, in a crowd of people of all ages, races, genders and gender orientations ā and they were like me. Queer. It felt safe. It was the first time I experienced that feeling of safety, and it will always stay with me.
Like Pride events everywhere, it was a vibrant, colorful space for LGBTQ people to celebrate our true authentic selves, without fear or reservation.
But that feeling of safety wasnāt shared by everyone in my small New England town. I soon noticed a few people scattered throughout the crowd wearing paper bags over their heads, with eye holes so they could see but not be seen. I later learned that those faceless people were teachers who, in those days before civil rights protections, needed to protect their identities and their careers.
They did not feel safe. Will Jews and those who are connected to Israel feel safe this year?
The history of Pride is a testament to courage in the face of adversity. It wasn’t long ago when attending Pride events was a defiant act against societal norms, where participants like those teachers faced tangible threats of discrimination, ridicule and even violence. Even today in some places, our queer community still navigates a gauntlet of hatred as we try to celebrate who we are.
It’s crucial to recognize that within the Jewish community, there is a wide spectrum of views on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, including many who are deeply committed to advocating for Palestinian rights. In fact, many of the 1,200 innocent Israelis murdered on Oct. 7 were Zionists who devoted their lives to reconciliation and peace with their Arab neighbors.
We are at a pivotal moment, one that demands action: What can we do to ensure Pride remains a safe space for everyone, including Jewish participants?
It’s imperative that Pride committees around the country proactively address these concerns. They must implement training programs focused on de-escalation and fostering an environment of understanding and respect.
As individuals who stand in solidarity with the values of Pride, each of us must consider our role in this effort. Will you march alongside those of us who feel vulnerable, offering your presence as a shield against intolerance? Will you engage in dialogues that challenge the importation of external conflicts into Pride, advocating instead for a celebration that unites rather than divides?
The true test of inclusivity at Pride lies not merely in welcoming a diverse crowd, but in ensuring that every participant feels safe and valued. If we remain indifferent to the vulnerabilities faced by Jewish queer people this Pride season, we will fall short of the very ideals of inclusivity and solidarity that Pride stands for.
Just as we expect schools to protect trans and nonbinary students like Nex Benedict, we have a responsibility in the LGBTQ community to ensure that people can carry an Israeli flag or a Palestinian flag, wear a yarmulke or a hijab and be safe.
As we look forward to this year’s Pride, let us commit to making it a space where safety is not a privilege afforded to some but a right enjoyed by all. Let’s engage with our local Pride committees, advocate for comprehensive safety measures and stand in solidarity with those who feel at risk.Ā
Only then can we celebrate the true spirit of Pride, rooted in love, acceptance and the unwavering belief in equality for all.
Ethan Felson is the executive director of A Wider Bridge.
Opinions
How to protect your sobriety on St. Patrickās Day
Celebrate with a supportive friend and carry a mocktail
Sobriety can be challenging, whether you overcame alcohol or drug addiction or chose to abstain from alcohol for a healthier life. Holidays like St. Patrickās Day can serve as a reminder of the past or could be looked at as another day.
Many celebrate St. Patrickās Day sober, as there are generally family-friendly gatherings, community events, or even sober celebrations. If you have concerns about your sobriety, there are practical tips you can use to protect it on St. Patrickās Day.
For instance, remind yourself why you are sober, and donāt do it alone. You can still have fun and celebrate but do it with other sober people. Everyone has their reasons for stopping drinking; remind yourself of those reasons and hold yourself accountable.
Know your triggers; it doesnāt matter if you are a recovering addict or have removed alcohol from your life. Be cautious around possible triggers that pose a challenge. Most people in this situation choose to skip the bar and find something fun to do or go to a sober St. Patrickās Day celebration.
Keep a non-alcoholic drink or mocktail in your hand. People will not bother you to ask if you want a drink if you already have something to sip on, like a mocktail. This also leads to planning how to say no. You will encounter social pressure if you go to a bar on St. Patrickās Day. Itās unavoidable. Itās wise to practice ways to refuse alcohol.
Finally, if all else fails, take a walk outside if you feel overwhelmed. The most straightforward solutions are usually the best. Remove yourself from any situation you know will lead to relapse. This is also why itās essential to be with a sober friend or loved one; there is accountability and someone to lean on.
The benefits of being sober are plentiful, along with the numerous health perks, such as better quality sleep, more mental alertness, and lessened anxiety or depression. Yet, there is one benefit that is not necessarily always spoken about.
Being sober on St. Patrickās Day or any day removes all chances of impaired driving. Unfortunately, days that promote heavy alcohol use may increase the chances of drunk or drugged driving. For example, in Washington State, impaired driving has been involved in roughly half of fatal crashes for decades. In 2022, 52% of traffic fatalities involved an impaired driver, according to the Traffic Safety Commission.
Moreover, drivers ages 21 to 30 make up one-third of impaired drivers in fatal crashes, and another 20% are ages 31 to 40. If you are celebrating St. Patrickās Day sober, take the necessary precautions and look out for one another. If you choose to consume alcohol, drink responsibly, know your limits, and do not drink and drive.
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