Frank is Emptiness

March 3rd, 2024

Stefan came to visit us today. Stefan is our youngest son. He’s tall and muscular. His arms are completely covered with animal tattoos. He has a menagerie drawn with multicolored ink on his biceps and forearms. He sports a short reddish beard and moustache. He shaves his head. He gives people the impression that he is not a man to mess with, and that is accurate. Stefan does not suffer fools gladly.

Our son is a journeyman in the Ironworkers Union. He belongs to a macho culture, one that is perhaps even more so than the military. He is currently the welding instructor for his local, which is impressive seeing as he is only thirty years old. Generally, an older, more experienced member of the union would hold that position. However, he was selected to teach the fresh-faced new apprentices. When he isn’t teaching, Stefan is working at jobsites. Lately, he’s been working on a new high rise that is going up on the Milwaukee lakefront. He’s been working on the Couture.

When he stopped at the house, he talked to me about the project he is going to start tomorrow at that construction site. He is going be working with a crew to dismantle the tower crane that has been used to build the structure. This is a big deal for him. It is the tallest crane in Wisconsin, and this is a type of work he has never done before.

The Couture is 44 stories high. The yellow crane in the foreground of the picture is taller than the building. That tower crane is what Stefan, and the other Ironworkers, will take apart piece by piece. They will be walking on the crane as they dismantle it. Stefan tried to explain the process to me, and he sent me a video to watch. It seems very sketchy. The Ironworkers will remove sections of the tower, starting at the top just under the boom, and then, one by one, take off each section below the first piece to be removed. Essentially, the crane will collapse upon itself in slow motion. This will take days to accomplish. The last thing to be dismantled will be the boom itself.

Stefan is both excited and terrified by the project. He told me how nervous he was, but he also made it clear that he wanted to do it. He will get massive overtime by participating in this project, but he could get overtime in a number of other ways. No, he wants to be part of this particular mission.

I asked him why.

He told me, “It isn’t often that you ever get to take down a crane like this. I will get to say I did it. It will keep me from getting shit from these other guys.”

I asked him, “You get shit from the other guys?”

He replied, “I’m a teacher. Guys go at me because they think the grass is greener where I am. They don’t realize that I have to water the fucking grass every day to keep it green.”

He went on, “Very few guys ever do something like this. It takes fucking enormous balls to go up the crane and tear it down.”

“So, you’re anxious about this job?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“But you’re going to do it anyway?”

“Fuck yeah.”

I smiled to myself.

That’s my boy.

February 29th, 2024

I go to a lot of libraries. Mostly, I go to them with my toddler grandson, Asher. Especially in winter, when the weather is nasty outside, a library can be an oasis for a little person who is getting cabin fever. Libraries have changed over the years. They are more child-friendly than they were when I was a kid. There are many more activities for young ones in the children’s library nowadays. Sure, there are still plenty of books to read, but there are also games to play. And there are story times. The story times are the big draw.

Asher and I go to a different library each day. Every library has a story time that is a bit different from the others. There are some commonalities. Every story time involves reading a book or two. All of them have some type of physical activity to get the kids moving. Often there is an effort to slip in some kind of academic instruction. Maybe, the story has something to do with letters or numbers or shapes or colors. I think any child who goes to a story time will learn something, without any specific educational goal. Trying to teach a three-year-old a skill that might help later in school is mostly a sop to the parents and caregivers.

Depending on the library, there can be different emphases and styles. On Tuesdays, Asher and I go to the Islamic Resource Center. It has the largest collection of books about Islam in the state of Wisconsin, and it also has a decent children’s library. Story time there is usually an intimate gathering, with maybe half a dozen kids. Ms. Jenny generally reads two books to the children. The first is a story about a Muslim child. That makes sense considering that most of the audience is Muslim. Almost all the moms there are wearing hijabs. Asher isn’t Muslim. Nor am I. However, we like the stories anyway. A story, a good story, can have strong cultural connotations, but the story also transcends the culture. A classic story, like a centuries’ old fairy tale, is universal and can strike a chord in the soul of any child regardless of their background.

Ms. Emma at the Oak Creek library reads from a book too. We saw her yesterday. She, like Ms. Jenny, incorporates music into her presentation. She uses a stuffed animal, Opal the Owl, to help explain things to the kids. She likes to show some things on a screen, like song lyrics. I’m not a fan of having Asher look at a screen more than absolutely necessary, but that is how things are in our day and age. Both Ms. Emma and Ms. Jenny get the children involved. They do a good job.

Today we went to the Greenfield library to listen to Mr. Mark. Mr. Mark has a very different style than Ms. Jenny and Ms. Emma. Ms. Jenny and Ms. Emma read from the book and show the pictures to the children as they read. Mr. Mark has the story memorized. He stands in front of the kids and tells the story with his voice, face, and body. He shouts or whispers. He smiles or grimaces. He waves his arms and stomps on the floor. He is the story. Today he told the children a Vietnamese folk tale about a toad and some other animals who went to the Jade Emperor to end a worldwide drought. Mr. Mark asked the kids to croak like toads. He asked them to roar like tigers. He asked them if they could thunder like the god of lightning. Asher laid on his belly and watched and listened to this myth from long ago. Asher was entranced.

Not everyone can tell a good story. Storytelling is an art, just like painting or music. In traditional cultures, storytellers are admired and respected. These men and women pass down the history and values of their people. As I listened to Mr. Mark, I could imagine him standing in front of a fire at night, surrounded by children. He is follower of an age-old tradition. He is the spiritual descendent of shamans.

A true storyteller sucks the listener into the tale. A child who listens to a good story told be a gifted speaker will learn things, but not about numbers or letters. A story that touches the heart is not like a lesson plan or a sermon. It is more than that. The child will learn about courage and loyalty and kindness, and not even realizes that he or she is learning those things. The child just falls in love with the story, and that is enough.

March 6th, 2024

Years ago, the pastor at our church gave a homily in which he mentioned addictions. The priest, Father Aufdermauer, stated that an addict is trying to fill a hole in his soul with drugs and other material things. However, because the longing their soul is insatiable, it can only be filled by something or someone that is infinite, which is by definition, God.

At the time, I thought that insight was profound. It sounded simple and truthful. Now, after having had a couple more decades of life experiences, I think his explanation was a bit simplistic. I don’t mean that our pastor was wrong. I mean that the issue is more complicated.

A few weeks ago, I had coffee with a friend of mine. He is a retired physician, and we met at a Bible study a long time ago. He made the comment that all people are addicts in some way. The main question is: “What are you addicted to?” The follow up question is: “Is the addiction harmful, and can it be changed to something more positive?”

My friend’s observation is actually very Buddhist in a way. In Zen, a great deal of emphasis is placed on detachment. Attachment to people or things is what causes unhappiness. For an individual to get off the turning wheel of suffering requires that they are not attached, or addicted, to anything, including ideas. We tend to look at the obvious and gross forms of addiction: drugs, booze, gambling, sex, whatever. Ideas and beliefs are also hooks.

There are many rehab programs to help people to deal with destructive addictions. These recovery programs generally focus on the most harmful attachment: maybe alcohol or smack. Other addictions are tolerated or actively encouraged. It is not unusual to see a group of people standing outside of a building and smoking just before a 12-step meeting starts. Coffee always flows freely at these meetings. Hard drugs are considered to be bad. Nicotine and caffeine, not so much.

It seems that at these meetings the goal is to shift the addiction from whatever is causing the person serious problems to an attachment to a “higher power”. Sometimes, having the addict hook up with God works splendidly. Sometimes it doesn’t. Is the individual connecting with a higher power, or is that person simply listening to the voices in their head? Has the person only found a more socially acceptable drug? Is it just a new idol? If you worship something or someone, you’re addicted to that thing or that person. It doesn’t matter if it’s heroin or Jesus.

Meister Eckhart, the 13th century priest and mystic, once prayed,

“God, rid me of God.”

That’s a rather enigmatic prayer, but a valid one.

Meister Eckhart wasn’t trying to literally free himself from God. He was trying to get free of his notions about God. He wanted God to clear away his illusions, so he could see the truth. Since God is infinite, and humans are not, we can’t ever see all the aspects of the Divine. That’s okay. We are drinking from a bottomless well. We don’t need all the answers. The joy is in the search.

How does a person know if they are addicted to God, or to a mental construct? There is a litmus test in the real world. If my relationship with God makes me angry, resentful, and bigoted, then I am probably hooked up with an idol of my own making. If my attachment makes me humble, generous, and tolerant, then I’m on the right track.

I’m going to be an addict regardless of what I do. I might as well get hooked on something good.

February 20th, 2024

“Dad. Hey Dad.”

Those words slipped into a dream I was having. I couldn’t match the words with the voice of anyone in the dream. Then I heard them again, a bit more insistent.

“Dad. Hey Dad!”

I suddenly became aware that the words were coming from outside of the dream. I woke up with a start and looked toward the open bedroom door.

There was a faint light in the hallway from the solatube in the ceiling. The silhouette of my youngest son was in the doorway. This caused some initial confusion in my mind.

Stefan immediately began to speak as I started to get up. He said,

“I’m sorry to wake you up, but I need the key to the Corolla. I got a job starting at 6:00, and I forgot to take my work stuff out of the back seat. If you give me the key, I’ll grab my shit and go.”

I had trouble understanding what was happening. I was trying to mesh the jagged remnants of a dream with pieces of a new reality, and it wasn’t going well. I vaguely remembered that Stefan had borrowed the Toyota for a few days while his truck was in the shop. I also remembered that he had brought it back to our house during the previous afternoon. I then remembered that Stefan had a house key, which explained why he was in my bedroom.

I stumbled to my feet and asked him,

“What time is it?”

“10:30.”

I had been sleeping for maybe two hours when he came to the house. Everyone else was still asleep. I preferred to keep it that way, as did Stefan.

I found my pants and pulled the car keys out of right pocket. I handed them to Stefan. I became aware that I needed to piss.

Stefan was very apologetic. He quickly told me,

“Thanks. I’ll get my tools and be on my way. I’ll leave the keys on the kitchen counter. Sorry about the night terrors.”

He walked away. I heard the front door open and close. I then realized that I was standing there holding my pants, and that I still needed to piss.

Eventually, I laid down again. I was no longer sleepy. I thought about what Stefan had said about night terrors. It’s true that I had been abruptly awakened, but that did not qualify as night terrors. Oh no, night terrors are a whole different animal. That much I know.

A few nights after that, my wife got me up. She was not nearly as gentle as Stefan.

“WAKE UP! You’re screaming in your sleep again! You’ll wake up Asher!”

I woke up. Karin was standing at the edge of the bed. She sounded annoyed.

She asked me, “Are you okay?”

I mumbled, “Yeah.”

She didn’t hear me. She asked again, “Are you okay?”

I said a bit more loudly, “Yeah.”

She stated, “You were dreaming again. You almost woke up Asher.”

Asher is our three-year-old grandson.

I replied faintly, “Okay”.

Karin left the bedroom.

I laid back on the pillow. I had just participated in night terrors again. It’s really hard to describe them, because I don’t remember much of the experience. Night terrors are like virtual reality gone bad. The dreams are absolutely terrifying and real while I am inside of them. Usually, all I can recall is that I was in a life-or-death struggle with some amorphous, dark force, something blacker than black and utterly evil.

As I laid in the bed after Karin left me, I felt totally drained. The bed cover was thrown all around me. My throat hurt from screaming. My heart was pounding way too fast. All my muscles were still tense. There was adrenaline pulsing through my body. I was wide awake.

My wife is wary when she tries to wake me up from night terrors. While in the dream, I flail about with my arms and legs, so she keeps a safe distance away. I am in the fight-or-flight mode, and in the past, she has been hurt trying to rouse me. I’ve seen the bruises. Her current technique is to yell at me until I come back from the Matrix. It works.

I am loud during night terrors. My daughter told me,

“When you dream, you scream things like: ‘I’ll fucking kill you, you cocksucker!’ It’s pretty intense.”

Indeed.

Night terrors leave a bitter aftertaste. Sometimes, my throat aches and my muscles hurt the next day. I feel like I have been in a street fight, and actually I have. My mind has been in a psychic battle royale, and my body went along for the ride.

I am scared after night terrors. It takes a long time to fall asleep again. I don’t want to go back to sleep, because the I don’t know if the demon is still lurking in my unconscious. I never have repeat performances during the same night, but I am still on edge.

I don’t know what causes my night terrors. I don’t think anyone knows. There are no warning signs. The episodes appear to be completely random, which increases the fear factor. They just happen, and they have been happening for years.

Stefan startled me during the night, but that wasn’t too scary. Night terrors are scary. Really scary.

February 24th

This is a letter to the editor from me to The Dallas Morning News. It was published this morning. It concerns Texas AG Paxton’s suit to shut down Annunciation House in El Paso. Annunciation House has been helping migrants for almost fifty years.

“I had the opportunity to spend several days at Annunciation House in El Paso back in 2019. I help with migrants in my home state of Wisconsin, and I wanted to learn about the situation on the border. I was deeply impressed with the work performed by the volunteers at Annunciation House. They were selfless and compassionate toward the people who came to them for assistance. I learned a great deal during my visit to the shelter. The volunteers live the Gospel.

I am shocked and appalled that Attorney General Ken Paxton wants to shut Annunciation House down. That is both cruel and unnecessary. His actions will cause enormous suffering among people who just want to be part of our great country.”

February 20th, 2024

We arrived in the lobby outside of the courtroom half an hour early. We were there for the woman’s third court appearance. The young woman expected to meet up with her newly appointed lawyer from the public defender’s office before the hearing started. She had not yet met the lawyer, and they had business to discuss. We waited and waited. Finally, the woman looked at the time on her phone and asked me,

“Should we just go in?”

I nodded.

We walked into the courtroom and the young woman checked in with the bailiff. We waited for the public defender to come. She didn’t. No reason was given for the lawyer’s absence. The court commissioner called the woman’s name. She came forward. The commissioner set up a preliminary hearing for March 4th. The woman never had the chance to enter a plea. Nothing changed. Nothing was resolved. Basically, she was told to come back in three weeks and try again.

The whole process took less than half an hour. As we exited the courtroom, I said,

“We didn’t get anything done in there.”

She replied by saying, “Well, at least I wasn’t sitting in jail waiting for it.”

True.

The young woman is not in custody. She is out on a signature bond, at least for another three weeks. She was in custody for a week back in December. That was unpleasant. Some people sit in jail until they get to see a judge, and that can take weeks or even months. The young woman had been with other women while in jail. She told me that they were there mostly because “they hit somebody”. I found that to be interesting, considering that this woman is also accused of a violent crime. Why is she free and other women are not?

I don’t know the answer to that. There seems to be a certain amount of randomness in our judicial system. It might be that other women were repeat offenders or flight risks. It might also have to do with the fact that some people cannot come up with the bail money. That means that these folks are incarcerated prior to their hearing just because they are poor.

Even though the young woman is on the outside of a jail cell, it does not mean that things are all good. At some point in the future, the hammer will fall. We just don’t know when or how. It’s not like when we walk into a courtroom for the fourth time, the attorney for the State of Wisconsin will just shrug and say,

“You know, we thought about it, and we are just going to drop the battery charge. Go on home. Have a nice day. ”

No, that’s not going to happen. In some as yet unknown way, the woman’s life will be turned upside down. This slow and arduous process is subtle form of torture. She cannot make any plans for the future. Neither can the other people in her life. Everything is tentative, and that causes enormous anxiety. She has this doom hanging over her head, even though she not incarcerated. She is free, but not really. This is American justice at work.

The young woman has a little boy in her life. Her son adores her. If she goes to prison, she will be temporarily absent and that will hurt the lad. Even when she was only in jail for a week, her boy asked me,

“Where is mama? When is she coming home? Why isn’t she here?”

I had no answer that would have made sense to him. I had no answer that even makes sense to me.

I have often heard the statement, “Play stupid games. Get stupid prizes.” That’s true. If someone commits a crime, they should be punished. The problem is that there is always collateral damage. Innocent people suffer along with the offender. If this young woman does time, her son will be traumatized. That is guaranteed. He did nothing wrong, but he will be hurt.

I don’t know what the final verdict will be. I don’t know what is in the future of this young woman. All I know is whatever happens will affect both me and a three-year-old boy.

February 17th, 2024

“A story is told of him (Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Bereditchev) that once, right before the Kol Nidre service, the opening service of the Day of Atonement, he stood before the ark as the sun was about to set. For a long time, he stood silent, still, as the evening approached. Noticing that the time to begin prayer was upon them, his students and disciples became uncomfortable worrying that the Rabbi might begin too late. At the last possible moment, he spoke.

‘Dear God’, he said, ‘we come before You this year, as we do every year, to ask Your forgiveness. But in this past year, I have caused no death. I have brought no plagues upon the world, no earthquakes, no floods. I have made no women widows, no children orphans. God, You have done these things, not me! Perhaps you should be asking forgiveness from me.’

The great Rabbi paused, and continue in a softer voice. ‘But since You are God, and I am only Levi Yitzhak, Yisgadal v’yiskadah sh’mei rabah’, and he began the service.”

from The Healer of Shattered Hearts by David J. Wolpe

Ash Wednesday is the Catholic version of the Day of Atonement. It is a day for fasting and prayer. It is a time for repentance, a turning back to God (t’shuva in Hebrew). The constant refrain on Ash Wednesday is “From dust you came, and to dust you shall return.” – Genesis 3:19. The day is set aside for self-reflection and for understanding of a person’s place in the scheme of things.

My wife, Karin, wanted to go to the Ash Wednesday service in the evening. Just a couple hours prior to the Mass, a person who we love had a drug relapse in our house. Every relapse comes as a shock to me, but somehow it is also a trip down memory lane. The episode activates the PTSD inside of me and unleashes a torrent of raw emotion. It’s a mix of panic, frustration, and sorrow. All plans are abandoned, and the priority is figuring out how to deal with an individual who is not thinking straight.

Karin and I decided to take our little grandson, Asher, and go to the Mass together, leaving the impaired person at home to sleep it off. I had the gnawing fear that we would return to find a squad car and/or an ambulance in front of the house. That is a legitimate concern. The cops have been to our home enough times that they have our address listed in favorites.

Asher was wound up tight when we got to church. Apparently, he was absorbing all of the Sith energy I was radiating. He would not sit still, not even for a moment. I spent most of the service following him around as he toured the church. It generally does not bother me that he is mobile during Mass. Years ago, I would have felt embarrassed. Not anymore. Karin and I have gone to number of Latino and Native American liturgies, and it normal for kids to run wild during those services. The people in our congregation have never complained about Asher’s activities. They are just happy to see a child in their midst.

It was hard for me to pray during the service. I wasn’t feeling very remorseful. I was more upset with God than anything else. If I did pray, it was like,

“Hey, you know, I’m trying to do the right thing, and You keep fucking me…”

I’m pretty sure saying that is not appropriate on Ash Wednesday, but it did come from the heart.

At one point, Asher and I were in the back of the church next to the holy water font. Asher was dipping his arm into the water up to his elbow. Other people were in line to get ashes placed on their foreheads. After everyone else had been smudged, the lady who was applying the ashes walked all the way from the altar to where we were and gave me a small black cross on my head. She said,

“From dust you came, and to dust you shall return.”

The approved answer is “Amen.”

All I could think of was, “Yeah, I know.”

I thought a lot about Rabbi Levi Yitzak. I understand how he felt.

May God have mercy on us all.

February 15th, 2024

This letter from me was published today in the Capital Times in Madison, Wisconsin.

“Several years ago, I traveled to six Native American reservations in the Puget Sound area. I had the opportunity to meet with some of the tribal elders. I asked them what it is that makes an older person an “elder.”

They explained to me that age is a factor in qualifying to be an elder, but wisdom is also necessary. Age and wisdom are not synonymous. Part of this required wisdom is the ability to place the needs of the community before personal gain.

I think about what the tribal leaders told me when I read about the presidential competition between Joe Biden and Donald Trump. As far as I can see, both men are driven by raw ambition. They attempt to cling to power despite the fact that younger and more capable individuals can take leadership.

Biden and Trump are not primarily concerned about the needs of our country. They are not elders. They are old, but not wise.”

February 12th, 2024

Our little grandson, Asher, is asleep. He is lying in the bed, breathing loudly because he has a head cold. I just gave him a warm bottle of oat milk a little while ago. He woke up thirsty, and after drinking the bottle, he got tired and dozed off again.

Asher has more than a cold. He probably has pink eye. Yesterday his eyes were slightly swollen and reddish. The right eye had a small amount of yellowish discharge. He seemed to have no pain or discomfort. My wife and I decided to wait until this morning to get him in to see his pediatrician, rather than drag him to urgent care or an emergency room.

Yet, I feel anxious. We are his fulltime caregivers, and we worry about the boy like he was our own son. I feel sure that we won’t have a problem getting to see his doctor, and the pediatrician will probably prescribe some kind of antibiotic to clear up the eye trouble. It’s just that we care about the little guy, and we don’t like to see him sick. I will feel much better when we know what is wrong with him, and how we can fix it.

I also feel exceedingly fortunate. I can take Asher to his doctor’s office, which is fifteen minutes way from our house, and quickly get him treatment. Other people in other parts of the world can’t do that. Parents in Gaza have no chance of getting medical care for their kids. They can only comfort their children on their own and hope for the best. The fact that I have help readily available for Asher and families in Gaza do not seems fundamentally unjust. Why are we the lucky ones?

I need to check on Asher.

February 1st, 2024

“In 2023, over five million people are under supervision by the (U.S.) criminal justice system, with nearly two million people incarcerated in state or federal prisons and local jails. The United States has the largest known prison population in the world.” – Wikipedia

Last week, I took my grandson, Asher, to a local library to hang out. Libraries are good places to do that. The children’s section often has games and toys in addition to hundreds of books for kids to read. Asher is only three years old, so he can’t read yet, but he enjoys looking at picture books.

While we were there, he started playing with a little blonde girl who was only a month or so younger than him. The girl was grumpy. Her mother, a young woman sporting an oversized knit cap, tried to convince her daughter that she should share her toys with Asher. The child was having none of it. Asher didn’t care. He played with her anyway.

As the toddlers interacted, I struck up a conversation with the young mom. Generally, I don’t have much to discuss with new parents. They belong to a different generation, and it is hard for me to find common ground with them. Except for the fact that we were both raising little ones, I didn’t know what else to talk about. Somehow, I mentioned to the woman that I knew somebody who had done prison time. Surprisingly, she volunteered the fact that she had been in prison too. After that, we had plenty to talk about.

The young woman looked just like all the other mothers herding their children in the library. There was absolutely nothing unusual in her appearance. There was nothing strange in how she related with her little girl. If she had not told me about her past, I would have never guessed that she had been incarcerated. Maybe, years ago, I would have been astonished by her confession, but I am used to this sort of thing now.

I had a similar experience a few weeks ago. I was at lunch with three former coworkers. We are all retired, and we are just typical old white guys, living in the suburbs and trying to make sense of our lives. While we ate burgers and drank beer, the subject of jails and prisons came up. All but one of us knew somebody, a close friend or a relative, who was doing time or had done time in the past. We had a very interesting, albeit depressing conversation.

Based on statistics, it really is not that odd that so many people in our country know someone who has been incarcerated. Actually, it is just as likely that a person knows an ex-prisoner as it is that they would know somebody who has been in the military. Millions of Americans have spent time behind bars. Some segments of the U.S. population, based on race and socio-economic status, are more heavily represented in this enormous group, but nobody is excluded. Hell, I was in jail, and I am generally rather law-abiding.

Being a felon does not quite carry the stigma that it used to have. That is because we have created so many of them. Especially in today’s tight job market, employers don’t give arrests or jail time that much weight anymore. I know somebody with four drunk driving convictions. They applied for a job and had an interview. The only question the interviewer had for this person was, “So, do you have a way to get to work every day?” Likewise, drug possession convictions are pretty standard in our day and age. Those black marks hardly raise an eyebrow in some industries.

Why does the United States have so many of its citizens in jails or prisons? I think that there are several factors involved. First, the prison industry is exactly that; it is an industry, a profitmaking operation. Prison cells are like hotel rooms; they only make money for somebody when they are full. Even when prisons are run by the government, there are numerous private vendors making vast sums by providing goods and services to inmates at premium prices. Prisons are often located in isolated rural locations where jobs are scarce. Prisons bring money to struggling local economies.

Second, there is a political fetish in our country about getting “tough on crime”. I have heard that from politicians since I was a teenager. Yet, after all these years, I don’t feel any safer. We lock up more people, but there is still violence. I will grant you that there are individuals who are dangerous and need to be kept away from the public at large. However, many people in prison are there for nonviolent crimes, and many of them are there because they are mentally ill. I know from experience that incarceration has nothing to do with rehabilitation. Prisons are just warehouses for humans who have run afoul of our nation’s laws. It is rare that a prisoner reenters the outside world as a better person.

So, what should we do? Well, locking people up doesn’t seem to help. We have to look at how we can reintegrate ex-prisoners back into society. Restorative justice may be useful. The idea of the felon making some kind of amends to the people they hurt could be healing for everyone involved. The point is that unless we want these ex-prisoners to commit more crimes and once again occupy a cell, we need to make them into useful members of their communities. It can be done. I have seen it happen. We just have to want it.