Please forgive my digression from the weekly Torah portion and the counting of the Omer. FYI - On Shabbat we enter the week of "Netzach" - Endurance - the ability to stand up for what we believe in - commitment to our values. Take time during the coming week to reflect on your relationship to your endurance. Is it stable? Is it firm? Is it connected to the ones you love? Is it conditional?
I feel compelled to focus on COMPASSION. Lately, compassion has been receiving a lot of attention. Articles are being written about compassion within prison. David Brooks' new book discusses the morality of compassion. Compassion is the meta theme of Passover.
Two months ago I began volunteering at Bedford Correctional Facility. "Bedford" is a maximum security women's prison. If you are there, you have done something, or at least been convicted of doing something really bad. Once a month I visit "JF". She is 34 years old and entered prison when she was 19. She has two daughters, 19 and 17. Their father was killed in a motorcycle accident ten years ago. They were not married. JF has a brother and a sister. Her mother raised her granddaughters and is very supportive. She is Jewish (and Puerto Rican) but wasn't raised with Jewish tradition or culture. Her grandmother used to tell her stories about where she comes from and what her family was like. JF's personal interest in and exploration of Judaism began a few years ago. "It's a way to keep myself sane. To keep myself from going crazy in here." I would not say that she is optimistic but she is hopeful and looks towards her release.
Bedford has a rabbi/chaplain that visits once or twice a week. JF participates in all of the sessions. Typically, the only Jewish women who visit Jewish inmates are Orthodox. JF received several visits from two Orthodox women and enjoyed learning about Psalms and stories in the Torah. But when she told them she was gay, they stopped coming. JF starts her morning with "Modeh Ani" and celebrates Shabbat. JF observed Passover, on her own, in solitary confinement. She received a punishment of 45 days of solitary, in what they call "SHU" - special housing unit, for being part of a fight. She says she wasn't part of the fight but was trying to help a friend by pulling her out of the fight.
I take the train from Harlem to Bedford Hills, a quaint, wealthy, small town about 90 minutes outside of Manhattan. I get off of the train and feel like I am stepping into a life sized doll house. While I wait for my cab to take me to the prison, I look out onto an adorable bakery with a pink ruffled awning, a real estate agency that operates out of a miniature English tudor home, and a post office with curtains - lace curtains. It's one of the cutest places I have ever been. The cab ride from the bakery to the prison is a little under five minutes.
I enter the visitor's "reception area", place all of my belongings, except for my ziplock bag of quarters and my license, into a locker, fill out the required form and wait for the guard to call "next visitor" over the loud speaker in order to be processed. My picture is taken, I am given a visitor's pass, I walk through a metal detector, and my hand is stamped with black light ink. A guard buzzes me in through three different sets of bars and then I walk the path from to the building where visitors are "received".
I show my pass to another guard. She checks for my stamp under the black light and then buzzes through two sets of bars. I enter the visitor's room, hand my pass to another guard and she tells me where to sit and wait. I usually wait 40 minutes for "JF" to enter the room. She greets me with a smile and a hug. She sits down and our visit officially begins. We talk about family. She's very worried because her oldest daughter is not doing well. We talk about Shabbat and Counting the Omer. She asks me questions about Jewish practice, belief and philosophy. She makes references to her past without divulging specifics. I listen. We pause to get some food and beverages from the row of vending machines (stocked with everything from ice cream to shrimp with broccoli). This is why I need the quarters. "JF" cannot touch any of the money. In fact she needs to stand behind the black line and point to the items she would like. "JF" is not allowed to operate the microwave.
We return to our appointed table and resume our conversation. She asks me questions about how I observe Shabbat and what prayers help me focus. and I do my best to offer helpful guidance. Right now she is wanting to make decisions that lead to constructive behavior (as opposed to destructive behavior). I do my best to offer helpful guidance. And while we sit and talk, and eat our chips, in a completely bizarre way it feels like I am talking to a friend.
But, we are not friends. She did a terrible thing and has already been in prison for 15 years (she has 10 more years before she is even eligible for parole). We are not friends, and yet I find myself connecting with her and I want to help her. I think about ways to make her "stay" more tolerable. I even ask her what I can do to be helpful. Fresh vegetables and a book on Counting the Omer are at the top of her list (I will bring them next month). There is actually a common area on her unit where she can cook and often does, along with other inmates. I think about "JF" cooking with her friends on her unit and I think about the many times I have cooked with my friends.
We continue talking and I realize four and a half hours have passed. I need to get home and there is a part of me that feels badly that I have to tell "JF" that I need to leave. I will see her again in a month.
I am surprised by the connection and commitment I already feel. I am overwhelmed by the amount of compassion I have for her. I am surprised by how much I think about her. I carry her story with me. There is no judgement. (I am not condoning her behavior and value being held accountable for one's actions.) And, I can't help wonder, if JF's father had been loving and nurturing, if she had lived in a safe environment when she was younger, ate 3 meals a day, received medical care and attended a good school (a private Catholic College offers courses to inmates), would she have ended up a "25 to lifer"? I find myself wanting to support her. I want her to know that I care about her. I want her to know that I hope we know each other when she is released. I actually imagine a time when she will be at my shabbat table.
A surge of gratitude, deep and heavy, runs through me as I think about my childhood, my upbringing and my reality. I didn't choose the womb. I am fully present and fully aware of my privilege and my access. My skin color and my socio economic level gave me an abundance of opportunity. The likelihood of me ending up in prison is practically zero.
On the one hand it's a shame and heartbreaking that the cycle is very hard to break and the other hand it's great.
The only thing I can DO, the only thing I can provide is compassion. Maybe compassion is the response that leads to real change? Maybe compassion is the element that provides dignity? Maybe compassion is more than enough.
Mekor Ha'Chayiim, Source of Life, as we move into Shabbat and make our way closer to Shavuot and receiving the Torah, may we have the ability to respond to the other with compassion.
What could happen? What could be possible if we lived and led with compassion?
Shabbat shalom u'mevorach,
Laurie
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