by This blog post is part of Locked in Solidarity, CCDA’s national awareness and action week on mass incarceration.
What do we do when interrupting violence isn’t an option? When the act has already been committed and the perpetrators are being punished? This is where I find myself: incarcerated.
My name is Gary, and I’ve been in prison for more than 23 years. I’ve made it my life’s mission to do so much good that “murderer” is the second thing I’m known for. You probably don’t believe that’s possible. For many years, I would’ve agreed with you.
Consider King David. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of him? Psalmist? Ruler? King? Bet it isn’t murderer.
When I came to prison, violence was a purely physical exercise. It was a bruised face or aching hands. My definition of violence has evolved. I now realize how subtle violence can be.
The Subtleties of Violence
The first time I went to the visiting room–where they allow us to see our family and friends–I remember vibrating with excitement. It had been more than a year since I’d been able to touch my mom, and I was finally going to be able to give her a hug. At 20 years old that really meant something to me. I walked to the building and stood in line with other inmates waiting to get in. When I finally made it through the door, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Two men were naked, bent over in front of the officers. To see my family, I had to strip naked, exposing myself completely to two grown men. I remember feeling anger and shame as I realized what I would have to do just to be able to hug my mom.
The degradation of my humanity has been so total; this is the first time I’ve considered it in over two decades. To me, it’s normal. Officers routinely joke about sending us to solitary confinement. Most of the time they aren’t being serious, but their jokes are a constant reminder we’re easily discarded, ensuring we know our place–at the bottom. It’s the small reminders that we’re less than them which is difficult. The double standard of taking our hat off in the chow hall when every officer wears theirs. Being moved out of the way as they walk past as if we don’t even exist.
Over the past five years, all the people I grew up with have left. These guys became like family to me as we tried to figure out how to become men. Since a person on parole isn’t allowed to have contact with convicted felons, they cannot be a part of my life without risking their freedom. My support system has been stripped bare. It’s hard to describe the hollowness I feel knowing the people who had the biggest impact on my life will never be a part of it again.
Interrupt Violence by Showing Up
For a long time I struggled with feeling like I was thrown away. When I was a kid I was told this was my life. I would never be more than a prisoner. With each person I lose, this reality becomes more difficult, alone. But God…
I look at Joseph’s life. His brothers intended to kill him before selling him into slavery. He rose to the top, only to fall to the bottom. He spent time in prison, looking to God for answers as he helped those around him. Even as they forgot him, he continued to fight. He persevered. That’s what I try to do today. Persevere and help those around me. This means spending time with people and challenging them to become better versions of themselves.
I’ve been fortunate to have been a part of teams creating meaningful programs within the institution, which help convicts change. Becoming men their family can be proud of. Men society can trust. This only happens when I’m willing to sacrifice my time. Without genuine connection, I don’t believe any real change can occur. I’m the lead instructor of a program that teaches guys how to create software. For one to three years I spend time with guys who are close to release. Together we are working on building an application that will allow DOC to track the positive things we are doing.
You can easily find any of the negative things I’ve done. It’s impossible to find any of the positive things I’ve done. No one records this. It feels like it doesn’t matter.
Interrupt Violence With Hope
To interrupt violence, we need to give people hope. I feel hope when I’m treated like a human being. When groups like Second Mountain Leadership and the Global Leadership Academy teach us how to be leaders, I feel hope. CCDA also gives me hope, knowing they’re reaching their hands out to help lost and broken people find a way to heal.
Jonathan Irons brought a team of people to this prison to put on a concert and show us we were loved. Christina was one of the people I met. As we interacted, I realized she was the type of Christian I want to be. A Christian who loves unconditionally. I recognized the heart of CCDA as the heart of Christ. During the concert, I looked around at all the people who were there to show us we were not forgotten and realized that to create genuine change, we have to be willing to sacrifice.
True leaders sacrifice. Some people may not want to hear it, but to interrupt violence we need to be willing to sacrifice our time. It’s the time we spend with people that creates real change in their lives. It’s remembering their kid’s names. As we give them our time, they see Christ in us. They see something so love-filled that they become curious. Most people are more than willing to sacrifice money; it’s easy to give. Especially when you have it. I challenge you to give your time.
This is the quickest way to interrupt violence and create lasting change.
About Gary Campbell
My name is Gary Campbell. I am 43 years old and have been in prison for more than 23 years. My goal is to do so much good that murderer becomes the second thing I’m known for.
You can write to Gary at: Gary Campbell #1060788 Digital mailing center-Mo DOC PO Box 25678 Tampa, FL 33622-5678.
Learn more about Locked in Solidarity and ways that you can help interrupt violence in your community.
