I REFUSE TO LET OTHERS DEFINE ME WITH MY MISTAKES

There was a time in my life when, not so long ago, I found myself in solitary confinement at a correctional facility in Alaska. I sat in a 6-by-9-foot cell with no access to a window or a book or any means of telling time. I read and reread the etchings on the underside of the top bunk and made up word games with the scratched motivational quotes of the women who came before me.

One month earlier, on the day before my trial began, a professor of mine, the late Sol Neely, handed me a copy of “Yuuyaraq: The Way of the Human Being” by Harold Napoleon (Yup’ik). The book included a note from Sol that read, “I hope this helps.” In Yuuyaraq, Napoleon defines the Yup’ik word nallunguarluku as “pretending it didn’t happen” and shows how strength is built by confronting painful circumstances. I brought the book to the courthouse and read it during my most anxious periods of waiting: before the doors of the courtroom opened in the morning and during jury deliberation. Though I only had his brief note, I knew that Sol’s gift was meant as a road map to resilience where kinship and reciprocity serve as the compass. But as I sat in solitary, thinking about what I would write if I had some tool for etching, nothing came to mind.

People who live on this side of the criminal legal system face a deep sense of rejection, not only from former colleagues, perhaps friends and family, but from society as a whole. The dominant view of incarcerated and formerly incarcerated individuals lies in the titles we are given: felon, criminal, convict. Words that erase us as people and replace us with our convictions. We carry these titles on our backs at every job interview, or when filling out every school admission or rental application. The shame this brings is a residue that colors how we move about the world.

What many don’t realize is that, in the United States, there are an estimated 79 million people who have a criminal record of some kind, with 19 million of those facing the collateral consequences of a felony conviction. As terms like “mass incarceration” have made their way into the vocabulary of many Americans, so too has the mainstream idea that access to broader areas of education should be afforded inside correctional facilities and upon reentry. Of the 19 million people with felony convictions, those with lower educational attainment often find ourselves without financial resources or social support systems post-conviction or release. This leads to higher rates of reincarceration and harms the social and economic viability of the communities we return to. In turn, higher rates of recidivism reflect a failure of the criminal legal system as a whole.

For a long time, I saw my trial and subsequent conviction as terminal. I often wondered if after I served my time there would be any space for healing, for something better. When I decided to apply for a graduate program at the Kroc School of Peace Studies at University San Diego, I knew I wouldn’t be accepted. It wasn’t for lack of a good GPA or the amount of volunteer work I’d done, it was because I thought a school as prestigious as USD would never want someone like me. I was wrong. Not only was I accepted and given a scholarship, I was also offered a job with Torero Urban Scholars, a new program on campus built to provide support for justiceimpacted individuals seeking higher education. Since then I have seen our program grow, with new students like me being welcomed on campus to pursue their educational dreams.

This is not a redemption story. I am, and always will be, someone who wears the heavy stigma of a felony conviction. My employment, housing and interpersonal relationships will always be affected. I reside in a liminal space between the title of felon and knowing that I am more than that word. Through Torero Urban Scholars, I have found resilience in speaking about being formerly incarcerated. I have found power in turning away from nallunguarluku. That is because I know I am not alone. Though writing this for a newspaper is daunting, if I can reach just one person who thinks they would not be accepted or does not deserve an opportunity for a higher education, then that is worth everything to me. As my professor Sol wrote to me: “I hope this helps.”

Ainza