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I’m here! Let’s do this!

Jamila Hodge at podium

I can’t tell you how excited and honored I am to be in this seat and in community with you for the first time. It has only been a short time at this point, but the energy and passion from the amazing EJUSA team about the work is inspiring.

We can’t do this important work alone. Will you forward this piece to one friend or family member you think is hungry for a new justice system?

Some of you may have already learned a little bit about me, but I want to be clear about how I come into this work:

…I am the daughter of a survivor of violence…

…I am the sister of a Black man who was ensnared in our system of mass incarceration…

…I am a former prosecutor who ultimately recognized that our current justice system is a machine of harm that simply needs to be replaced…

…Perhaps most importantly, I am a mother to two young girls who deserve to live in a world where violence is rare, where they are safe, where they can thrive free of racial oppression.

I took this role because the more I learned about EJUSA, the more I saw a unique focus on solutions that address violence by promoting community-based responses that center those most impacted by harm. Our framework for a new justice system — built brilliantly by our former leader, Shari Silberstein, and the EJUSA team — will deliver something that the current system does not: safety, healing for everyone impacted by a harmful event, and accountability that truly repairs.

I can’t wait to grow the work that will make our vision real. And, honestly, we can’t wait. The tragic murder of George Floyd changed the way millions of Americans see our justice system. They are questioning its purpose, recognizing the racism on which it was built. They want something new.

We know what that new thing looks like. But we can’t do this alone. The EJUSA team, our community partners driving the solutions, and I need your support. The difficult work of change takes all of us.

So I’m asking for a favor as I settle into this role: Share this post with one friend or family member who is ready for this new vision of justice. Urge them to sign up to follow our efforts and learn about opportunities to support us as we work toward making this new vision of justice real.

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While We Wait: Talking Trauma during a Global Pandemic

teenage boy and woman talking with police officer at a whiteboard

In 2020, at the dawn of a global pandemic, the world witnessed the brutal murder of George Floyd at the hands of a Minneapolis police officer.  The collective response included uprisings in cities across the nation; calls to defund the police, to climate qualified immunity, and the demand for the immediate imprisonment of Derek Chauvin, George Floyd’s killer. 

Something was largely missing from the national conversation, though.  We weren’t talking about the trauma of witnessing police murder another Black man — especially as its felt by those who live in heavily policed neighborhoods everyday.

Many in Newark, NJ, were prepared for a different conversation. The Brick City is led by Mayor Ras Baraka, who committed to building a police department, and an entire city, , that understands the community’s trauma and addresses it. To that end, he brought our Trauma to Trust program into the city with the goal of  addressing the impact of law enforcement on community.  

The traditional format of Trauma to Trust is intense, and hard work: 16 hours, spread across two days, with anywhere from 15 to 25 community members and law enforcement agents in the same room. Given the health risks of the pandemic, that format was impossible, even though the trauma-informed training was more necessary than ever. So like every other event in 2020, we had to make Trauma to Trust a virtual experience.

Initially we had no idea how to transition an intensive training, designed for healing and transformation, to an online format. How could we bring the person-to-person connection, the deep discussions, and organic healing to a virtual platform? 

In the end, we knew it was impossible to recreate the sort of safe space required for the full trauma training online, so we decided to create a triage training of sorts. We built the Trauma To Trust Primer, a two-and-a-half hour conversation on trauma and policing, designed to ensure that community members had a safe space to communicate their needs and law enforcement officers had a space to understand the concerns of citizens. 

This primer is not intended to replace the full training but to hold space for the immediate impact that traumatic events can have on communities.  Even community members who had already experienced the full, in-person training returned for a much-needed “safe space” in the madness of the pandemic.

As we move into a post Covid-19 world, we are taking all of the lessons we’ve learned into a new and improved, in-person training, when safety allows.  The virtual primer has allowed other cities to discover our work as they explore how to transform their cities through trauma-informed policing. Until we can gather again, we will use the tools we have to ensure that we continue to have these conversations, push the needle forward, and demand for ourselves and our civil servants a commitment to reimagining justice in our communities.

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Bridging the Gap

Nicole Scott and BRidge Team

Nicole Scott started The BRidge Agency with the goal of it acting as the bridge connecting community members and the resources needed to meet their needs. Her own experience living in Baton Rouge is proof that families that are struggling are often unaware of the help that’s available.

Nearing its fifth anniversary, the scope of Nicole’s organization is far reaching. Notably, The BRidge serves the city through food outreach and trauma healing. Nicole knows that deficits in these areas are at the root of violence, and community-led solutions are the way to create safety.

As an EJUSA Trauma & Healing Network member, she uses the network as a way to partner with other advocates to build responses to violence that address all forms of trauma.

You’re not talking about coalition building in Baton Rouge if you’re not talking to Nicole Scott. She holds connectedness at the center of her work — a critical reason she joined our Trauma & Healing Network (THN). A strong sense of community contributes to her resiliency and has pulled her through some difficult times in her life. 

Nicole cites the pain of her parents’ divorce as well as the witnessing of violence at various points in her life as significant early challenges. But a few months in 2016 changed the trajectory of her life. 

On July 5, 2016, Baton Rouge police murdered an unarmed Alton Sterling outside of a convenience store, triggering protests. A week later, a gunman hunted down police officers, shooting six, killing three. 

Just a month later, historic rainfall unleashed massive flooding on the Baton Rouge community. Over a matter of weeks, her entire city experienced astonishing levels of trauma and drove Nicole to found The BRidge Agency and  bring healing through collaboration to her community.

Her relationship with the THN seems like a natural one, as she values the more remarkable, collective effort that can be made through collaboration. 

As it nears its fifth anniversary, The BRidge Agency runs 10 programs that serve the Baton Rouge community. The program scope ranges from faith-based leader programs and food outreach to trauma and mental health. 

Nicole named the agency for its goal to be the connection between families and the resources they need. “We intentionally connect the community to resources,” she said. “It could be a person on the corner or someone that works a 9-to-5 job. Some community members might not know that there are laws that give them access to resources that can meet their needs. So, we ask, ‘Did you know this law exists?’ Then we show them how to access it.” 

Although she started the organization five years ago, Nicole has been an advocate for more than 23 years. She worked with former Mayor Kip Holden on a grant to address the social drivers of crime, find solutions for communities living in disenfranchised neighborhoods, provide access to mental health resources, and improve relationships with police. Even as a young adult in college, she worked to connect youth to continuing education programs and job opportunities. 

Nicole’s passion for serving Baton Rouge stems from her life circumstances. She and her family needed the same resources that The BRidge provides today. “I was a single mom, helping to support my mom, working minimum wage jobs, three to four contract jobs, donating plasma all to make sure my son has access to opportunities,” said Nicole. 

She recalls living in a dilapidated house and “heating water on the stove for baths.” Nicole and her family weren’t aware of the help that the city could offer. With a keen awareness of how families can suffer when they aren’t aware of the support available, The BRidge helps families connect with housing programs. They are helping “the grandmother that needs help with her home and doesn’t know these programs exists.”

As her organization is making strides in advocating for individuals in Baton Rouge, Nicole still seeks out new solutions. She calls herself a “forever student.” 

Along with other organizers from Baton Rouge, she visited Newark, NJ, to see EJUSA’s work to reduce and prevent violence through community-led initiatives and foster healing relationships between community members and law enforcement (Trauma to Trust). Looking back on her experience, Nicole asserted that “Newark has the right model. It fits, it works, and there’s a need for it. The model should be replicated across the country.”

As a THN member, Nicole will partner with other organizers across the country to discuss ideas and strategies for building responses to violence that address all forms of trauma. “Everyone gets to hear and engage,” she. With her work at the The BRidge Agency and her experiences with THN, she calls this phase in her journey a time when she’s “sitting at the table and creating solutions, and it all feels possible because of collaboration.”

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EJUSA’s Next Executive Director!

Jami Headshot

Former prosecutor brings history and passion to transformative vision for justice

Equal Justice USA announced today that Jamila Hodge will be the organization’s next executive director, and just the second in its history. She will step into the role in September 2021 as the nation continues to reckon with the damage done by a system overrun with injustice. In this same moment, EJUSA’s vision for a new system built on healing, race equity, and accountability that repairs is gaining traction across the country.      

“The past 15 months have amplified how desperately this nation needs EJUSA’s vision for a transformed justice system, and Jami is without question the right leader to advance the work that will drive that vision,” said Jesselyn McCurdy, chair of EJUSA’s board. “Her experience — at the Vera Institute of Justice and in her many prominent government roles — will be invaluable as EJUSA continues to grow and change the way the country approaches justice.” 

Hodge has worked in and around the justice system for more than 15 years. Most recently, she was the founding director of Vera’s Reshaping Prosecution Program. She helped launch the program in 2018 and built a 17-member team that works with progressive prosecutors, community-based organizations, and people impacted by the system to develop policy and practice reforms to end mass incarceration and reduce racial disparities within the system. One of the signature initiatives she launched is Motion for Justice, which centers racial equity in transforming the role of the prosecutor and aims to implement concrete racial equity strategies in partnership with community-based organizations. 

In addition, Hodge has served as an expert on panels addressing reform around racial justice, prosecution, cash bail, decarceration, and the criminalization of poverty. She has appeared on CBS, MSNBC, ABC Nightline, and many other media outlets. 

“As a former prosecutor and White House advisor, I know how difficult change from within can be,” said Hodge. “Work to reform the system must continue, especially in this moment of history. But over the past year so many Americans have come to understand, as I have, that patching up a system rooted in racial oppression isn’t enough. We need to build solutions to violence that heal trauma and repair the harm that violence does to families and communities to make us all safer. EJUSA is the right organization, doing the right work, at the right time. I am thrilled to join this team.” 

Hodge succeeds Shari Silberstein, who steps down after 21 years — and 13 years after launching EJUSA as an independent organization. She was central in ending the death penalty in the first several states to do so, sparking a national wave of death penalty repeal that has continued with EJUSA leadership. Through that work, Silberstein collaborated with hundreds of survivors of violence, particularly Black and Brown survivors, and she developed a new, survivor-centered vision for justice that became the foundation for EJUSA’s work. She recently announced her decision to step down after acknowledging the need to create space for leadership that represents the most impacted communities. 

“It has been the honor of my life to build this organization and contribute to this movement, and I can’t think of a better person than Jami to take the reins and bring this work to the next level,” said Silberstein. “Our nation is craving solutions to violence that create safe, thriving communities for everyone. Under Jami’s leadership I know EJUSA will meet the urgent need head on. Her vision aligns deeply with EJUSA’s values. I can’t wait to see this organization soar.”

Hodge spent four of her 12 years in the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the District of Columbia as a Community Prosecutor, where her role included acting as a legal advisor to law enforcement and training community members on legal issues, including crime prevention. She received numerous awards, including the U.S. Attorney Award for Community Outreach, in 2014. 

During her tenure at the U.S. Attorney’s Office she worked in U.S. Department of Justice’s Office of Legal Policy, where, among other responsibilities, she worked on policies affecting people returning from incarceration. Hodge then spent time in the in the office of then Vice President Joe Biden as a policy advisor on criminal justice and drug policy issues. 

Prior to her career in government, she spent four years working at a private law firm at the beginning of her legal career. 

“EJUSA will benefit profoundly from Jami’s leadership,” said Nicholas Turner, president of Vera. “She carries an ambitious vision for change and also the experience that gives her sharp insights about the system we seek to transform. It is an extremely rare combination, which in combination with her management skills, relationship-building, and lived experience makes her truly one of a kind.”

“Jami is the perfect leader for Equal Justice USA at this critical time,” said Anthony Romero, executive director of the ACLU. “Her depth of experience in the criminal legal reform community at the Vera Institute of Justice and as a former prosecutor positions her as one of the next generation of leaders. At this critical time of racial reckoning and course correction as a country, we need leaders with vision, out-of-the-box thinking, and humility; Jami epitomizes all of those essential qualities.”  

Hodge earned her law degree from Duke University School of Law and her bachelor of arts in psychology and sociology at the University of Michigan. Hodge will work from the Washington, D.C. area where she lives with her husband and two daughters.

For media inquiries, please contact Jon Crane at 203-982-4575.

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Looking Back on 20 Years

Common Justice Shari Silberstein and Lisa Good

From Reform to Reimagining: Lessons and Reflections on the Journey to Transformation

I’ve had the privilege of leading EJUSA through two major transitions – a spinoff from our parent organization to become an independent organization in 2008 and a 10-year process to remake our mission and vision from reforming the justice system to building a new one.  

Along the way we have: 

  • achieved groundbreaking victories state by state that ended the death penalty; 
  • expanded violence prevention and access to healing; 
  • built national coalitions of survivors, Latinx advocates, conservatives, and evangelicals; 
  • developed a groundbreaking program to heal the trauma caused by over-policing in communities of color; 
  • trained and supported hundreds of organizers; and 
  • developed an affirmative, holistic vision for addressing violence without prisons and police.

As I get ready to pass the baton to our next Executive Director, I’ve looked back at some of the things I’ve learned in this messy business of making change and fighting for justice. Here are a few of them. 

 

  1. We have to focus more on what we’re building than on what we’re taking away

People don’t like to give things up – even things we don’t like very much. Losing things provokes anxiety and defensiveness. We may hold on or try to recreate the thing we gave up with something only nominally different. (Some of us spend years in therapy learning that we’ve done this.) 

Imagine taking a toy away from a child – not fun. But give the child a toy they like better, and the old toy quickly becomes obsolete. 

That is our job as changemakers. To dream into being the new and better thing. To paint the picture, build the proof of concept, and let the world see, touch, and experience that there is something so much better. 

Yet some movements spend enormous amounts of time and energy focusing on what we don’t want – the things we want to take away – and not nearly as much time and energy advocating for what we want in their place. 

I spent more than 10 years redesigning EJUSA’s mission, vision, and scope with this in mind, shifting from a criminal legal reform organization to a truly transformational justice organization. We are building affirmative solutions to violence that create safe, thriving, equitable communities, and we have never looked back. The shift has deepened our racial equity practices, enlivened our supporters, expanded and diversified our staff and partnerships, and aligned our values with our strategy. 

Now we don’t just work to make things a little less terrible. We get to imagine something really great – and make it a reality.  

 

  1. Reforms often prop up the systems we’re trying to change

This is true across issues, and it’s clear in criminal justice reform. The justice system, which is really a legal system, can be boiled down to basically one question: what do we do to a person who caused harm? Should we punish them a little or a lot? 

Lost in that narrow focus are the questions vital to actual justice: What caused this harm? How could it have been prevented? How can it be repaired? What does the survivor need to heal? To feel safe? What does the community need to heal? To feel safe? How do we support the person who harmed to take responsibility for what they did? To make things right? To heal so the harm isn’t repeated? How do we do all of this equitably, so that the burden of harm stops falling on Black and Brown people?  

This is a fundamental paradigm shift, from the idea that justice is punishment to the idea that justice is the presence – for everyone – of safety, healing, and accountability that repairs. 

But a lot of justice reform efforts replicate the old paradigm. They too, focus on what should be done to the person who caused harm (arguing for less or no punishment). They don’t challenge the unspoken premise that justice is a legal process in which we determine whether someone did it and how they should pay. A focus on changing one sentence obscures the depth of racism and harm embedded in the entire enterprise. 

This has even been true for EJUSA when we work on reforms like ending the death penalty. Don’t get me wrong – reforms are important. Harm is happening right now and we should stop the bleeding. Some of my proudest moments of the last 20 years come from leading successful campaigns to end the death penalty in the years before anyone thought it was possible. This remains vitally important work and EJUSA will continue to do it. 

But how we do it matters. Too many reform efforts make future change harder. I remember as a young organizer learning the tried and true basics of Strategy 101: take the issue you want to change, slice off a piece that seems winnable, and develop a persuasive campaign around that piece. (And a “persuasive” campaign usually means persuasive to white people.) 

That strategy means that campaigns hold out their slice as uniquely wrong – an exception – which implies that the rest of the system is ok. This is true when we say that death is different, that young people are different, that drug crimes are different. The death penalty, the juvenile justice system, and harsh penalties for drug crimes aren’t different at all. They are emblematic, not exceptional. Each of these policies is a window into just how harmful the rest of the system is. We need care not to lean on arguments that say otherwise. 

It’s harder to change a paradigm than a policy. Let’s do both. 

 

  1. The world we want is already here

Imagining something new is so much harder than opposing what’s wrong. The good news is that we don’t need to conjure a transformed justice system from scratch. People have been finding ways to keep each other safe and heal each other for centuries.

Many of these strategies were built by Black and Brown people over generations with little funding or recognition, because system harm and neglect gave them no choice but to figure out better alternatives. 

Formerly incarcerated people have been at the vanguard of designing and implementing programs to mediate disputes and de-escalate conflicts. These community-based violence intervention programs have seen reductions in violence anywhere from 30-70% in neighborhoods where they are adequately resourced. 

Restorative practices have a centuries-long tradition in indigenous communities. Research has found that crime survivors who participate in restorative justice gain much greater satisfaction than what comes from the punitive legal process. And people who committed harm are much less likely to do it again when they go through a restorative justice process.

Black women have founded hundreds of local healing and anti-violence organizations. Many of these services are the only source of trauma care and grief support available in their neighborhoods. 

We have far more understanding of trauma today than we did even a few decades ago. We now understand how deeply trauma can affect every aspect of people’s lives – leading to health conditions, depression, unemployment, difficulty in school, difficulty forming healthy relationships, and in some cases, leading to future violence. And we know that trauma can be passed down through generations, creating ongoing challenges for entire communities that have experienced genocide, slavery, or other forms of violence and oppression. 

Some of the simplest ideas are often the most profound. Healing trauma can reduce violence, break intergenerational cycles of violence, and reduce barriers to equity. And we know how to do it.

None of these strategies has the funding, visibility, or cultural prominence to compete with policing and incarceration – yet. Our punitive system devours our tax dollars, dominates our imagination, and undermines the effectiveness of community-based solutions. 

But the solutions are here. We need to make them the norm.   

 

  1. Wherever you see a binary, there’s probably a narrative that needs shifting

I recently read an article where the author was lamenting that last summer’s racial justice uprisings have led to no transformative change. Police are still killing Black people (true), and police departments remain largely intact (true), he wrote, so the hope of paradigm-shifting change has fallen flat. 

Change is slow and often invisible up until the end, so it didn’t surprise me that this author didn’t see the any. But I’ve seen dramatic shifts since last summer – including new investments in non-police violence prevention strategies in cities like Newark and Baton Rouge and billions of federal dollars made available to scale community-based safety strategies for the first time. These strategies are the new paradigm in action – the solutions that we’re imagining, building, and scaling on the way to a new vision of justice (see #1). 

It occurred to me as I read this article that the author was stuck in a binary – either everything has changed, or nothing has. 

Binaries define our justice system. Good guys and bad guys (hurt people hurt people – more on that in a second). Winning and losing (as though justice is a zero-sum game). Victims and offenders (even though so many people experience both sides). A new paradigm asks that we see through these false dichotomies and look with new eyes. This is justice reimagined. 

And the building blocks to a new, reimagined justice system, won’t be readily apparent to most folks until we’re almost there. But people need to know about these solutions, so they know how to imagine them in their own community, see them working, and ask for more. 

“Narrative shifting” has become a hot term inside the nonprofit sector, but any one of us can do it. Every one of us can paint the picture for our family, friends, and neighbors – the picture of what’s possible, what’s out there, what justice can be beyond retribution that inflicts more suffering and hurts us all. 

This is the work of EJUSA, and you can join us right now. Because every one of us has the power to shift a narrative, just by seeing through the false binaries all around us and telling a different story. 

  

  1. Do your healing work

This last lesson is a little more personal than the rest, but I believe it makes all the rest of this work possible. If we walk around with our own unhealed traumas, we will hurt people – which undermines the very work we’re trying to do.  

EJUSA’s work really opened my eyes to the reality of the pain all around us. We all experience pain. And our society doesn’t have a strong culture or support systems for healing and processing pain, so many of push it down and move on. But that pain builds up inside of us. 

This is true for pain of every magnitude – violence, child abuse, racism, chronic poverty, a fraught relationship with a parent, a friend who puts you down, a boss who disregards your ideas. It all hurts.

Many of the survivors of violence that I work with use the phrase “hurt people hurt people,” and I have found that to be profoundly true. So many people who commit violence have previously experienced violence or some other kind of trauma. But this isn’t just about significant harm like violence.

In my own life, every time I snap or lash out at someone, I can always trace my behavior back to something that hurt me first, fears that stem from my past. My unhealed parts make it harder for me to hear criticism, harder for me to offer grace when someone makes a mistake, harder for me to slow down and be present for someone else’s struggles.

The vast majority of us go through our days giving and receiving these kinds of emotional paper cuts all day long. We are an unhealed nation full of unhealed people who just keep hurting each other in ways big and small. 

And if our unhealed parts are the parts that hurt other people, what happens when we have power or privilege? As the Executive Director of EJUSA, I’ve learned that my impatience or defensiveness on a rough day has a big impact on the staff. And as the white Executive Director of EJUSA, my impatience or defensiveness can be experienced as racism by staff of color, who already have a lifetime of past experiences being discounted or rebuffed by white people in power. When white people are in pain, people of color bear more of the brunt of it.

I’ve come to believe that white people healing our own trauma and pain is an essential part of our work to be effective allies and co-conspirators in the fight for racial justice. We all deserve to heal because we’re human. But we also have a responsibility to heal, so that we can be our best selves in the urgent work of dismantling the systems of oppression that benefit us. My journey to healing allows me to access humility, acknowledge my blind spots, receive feedback without defensiveness, and provide support instead of needing it – all core ingredients for white people working for racial justice.

Healing is resistance to a culture that says you’re not enough. It creates access to the joy, confidence, and freedom that everyone deserves. It allows us to survive in a painful world. And it gives us the strength we need to keep fighting for a better one.

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Behind the Scenes of a Repeal Campaign

Wyoming capitol building

Wyoming took the country by surprise in 2019 when it came within four votes of repealing the death penalty. That was the closest we had ever come to repealing the death penalty despite lawmakers introducing repeal bills every year for the past decade. 

Representative Jared Olsen, a Republican from Cheyenne, Wyoming’s capital city, carried the bill and has been a champion for repeal ever since. The near miss of 2019 was the first time a Republican lawmaker had sponsored a repeal bill in Wyoming, causing a shift in the way Republicans — and Wyomingites in general — think about the death penalty. 

After the 2019 effort, the ACLU of Wyoming, League of Women Voters, and the Cheyenne Catholic Diocese formed a coalition to end the death penalty in Wyoming . Conservatives Concerned About the Death Penalty (CCATDP) soon joined, and the coalition continues to grow. 

The Wyoming Campaign to End the Death Penalty is often said to be a group of unlikely allies, but we believe that shows how important repealing the death penalty is. We all come from different backgrounds, political beliefs, and religions, yet we can put our differences aside because we agree on this one issue. That’s what makes our coalition so powerful: any argument that death penalty proponents raise, together we find a way to refute it. 

In 2021, once again, four votes separated our coalition from making history. Yes, it’s disappointing to not achieve our goal. But each time we make an effort, we have a better idea of what it will take for the Cowboy State to be freed of this most egregious response to violence. 

The work that goes on behind the scenes of a repeal campaign is so much more than just virtual events and lobbying legislators during session. The coalition builds strategies and tactics that educate the public, and that foster and elevate support for death penalty repeal. 

Specifically for CCATDP this includes planning, designing, and leading dialogues about the death penalty at small gatherings of conservatives, and sharing information about how the death penalty doesn’t fit with conservative values. 

CCATDP works to identify and participate in meetings and events in Wyoming that foster relationships with members of the legal community, faith leaders, current and former law enforcement, family members of murder victims, legislators, and other community leaders. And one of the most important aspects of a campaign is fostering relationships with individuals and leaders of conservative groups working outside of CCATDP’s mission whose interests might align with anti-death penalty arguments (for example, limited government, pro-life values, the power of redemption, and/or other criminal justice reforms).

The work and dedication that go on behind the scenes of a repeal campaign are unmatched. Majority of those involved in the Wyoming Campaign to End the Death Penalty don’t work on death penalty repeal full time. Yet, everyone is equally as dedicated and passionate about ending Wyoming’s death penalty and that shows in the progress the campaign has made in recent years. Because of the efforts and dedication of the coalition we know that the death penalty in Wyoming will be repealed very soon. Until then, we keep working.

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Newark PD Public Safety Awards

Will Simpson NPD Award

For the first time, Newark officials expanded the Public Safety Awards Ceremony to recognize more than just the police department in the quest to build safer communities. EJUSA’s Will Simpson, our director of violence reduction initiatives, was just one of three honorees who is a member of the EJUSA family. 

“The award really belongs to many people at EJUSA,” said Will, “Lionel LaTouche and Tracee Thomas (who run Trauma to Trust), and Zayid Muhammad (our new strategist in Newark), and plenty of others who are helping ensure that Newark is seen as a model for public safety.”

 

 

LaKeesha Eure, Newark’s Director of the Office of Violence Prevention & Trauma Recovery, was one of two members of the EJUSA Trauma & Healing Network honored on June 1. The other was Al-Tariq Best, founder of The HUBB Arts & Trauma Center. 

We are proud of the recognition but far more so of our work in partnership with so many leaders to make Newark safe.

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A Passion for Serving and Healing

Donna Roman Film Award Photo

There have been two constants in Donna Roman Hernandez’s life: trauma and a deep desire to help people. Both elements are deeply entwined.

Donna served her community for 30 years as a police officer in New Jersey, retiring as a captain having commanded a domestic violence response team and police in-service domestic violence training unit.

While still in uniform, she started to study filmmaking, having always had a passion for movies. She continues to explore trauma and healing through her film production company, Blue Force Films, and her book, Battered Blue (coming in the fall of 2021), a memoir about her own experiences with trauma, domestic violence survivorship, and healing.

She brings her entire self and experience, and her storytelling expertise, to the EJUSA Trauma & Healing Network. We sat down with her to discuss her life and work.

EJUSA: What was your motivation for becoming a police officer?

Donna: I was always passionate about serving my community. My father served in law enforcement as a constable. The civil rights movement was a big motivation for me. As a child in July 1967, I watched on television the civil unrest in Newark, NJ, between residents and the police.

I saw people of color being beaten and disenfranchised, and that struck a chord in me. I felt a call to duty to do something good for my city.

EJUSA:  How did you experience trauma as a police officer?

Donna: I came to the job having experienced violence and trauma in my household. My father perpetrated unspeakable acts of control and violence against me, my mother, and my siblings. I hid my bruises beneath my uniform and never disclosed the abuse. My father tried to kill me twice, and nearly succeeded one time. The abuse was my family’s dark secret.

As an Essex County Police Officer assigned to the Patrol Division, I felt empathetic to anyone who was a victim of violence, abuse, or maltreatment. I went out of my way to help and advocate for others whose rights were disenfranchised because I knew how they felt.

As a patrol officer I was often exposed to crisis and trauma. Gearing up for the road and sitting in a police car for an entire shift caused anxiety, knowing that I would be responding to emergency calls for service, accidents, and making officer-initiated car stops. I wore body armor and carried a firearm, but I also had to be mentally and physically prepared for handling crisis and chaos.

I realized that not every officer on the job thought the way I did about policing. This was due in part to the violence and trauma I experienced at an early age. I wanted to be empathetic to victims who experienced trauma and proactive about arresting and prosecuting their offenders.

My mother could see how the job and my history of abuse interfered with my overall fitness, so she suggested that I go to counseling. I took her advice.

EJUSA: How did the trauma show up in your day-to-day living?

Donna: I had hair-trigger anger from my father’s abuse that impacted my day-to-day wellness.  For many years I was in dysfunctional intimate partner relationships with boyfriends who were abusive and disrespectful.

I wanted to make my mother proud of me so even though I socialized with the wrong circle of friends, I never fell prey to the evils of drug addiction or alcohol abuse. She encouraged me to pursue my educational goals and that is what I did.

EJUSA: Why did you become a filmmaker? And how did you learn to do it while still being a police officer?

Donna: I have always loved film production especially the memorable classic movies from old Hollywood. I was inspired to produce my own films, especially documentaries about people who have survived against all odds. So, years ago I went to filmmaking school and improved my writing skills. Along the way, I gained experience as a screenwriter, director, and videographer which enhanced my film production skills.

I attended a meeting for new filmmakers where people shared their reasons for being there. My reason for being a filmmaker was to fulfill a promise I made to my mother months before she died. That was to publicly share our story of survivorship to empower other victims to leave their abusers. But when it was my time to share my reason for attending the meeting I did not want to talk about the violence in my home. I ran out of the room crying uncontrollably.

I met a videographer there, though, and she volunteered her expertise to help me tell my story. I asked her who would direct it, and she said, “You will. It’s your story.”

So, I did. It took me a year and a half to make “The Ultimate Betrayal: A Survivor’s Journey.” I was amazed that so many people wanted to watch it. It won several indie film awards. And that is what I have been doing ever since.

My most recent film is called “Ronnie’s Story” (which premiered at the Asbury Park Film Festival this spring). Ronnie is an 84-year-old survivor of domestic violence and she had never told her story publicly before this documentary. She said, “If you had the courage to tell your story, I have the courage to tell mine.”

Donna Rowman speaking
Donna Rowan speaking at Berkeley College

EJUSA: How did you come into the Trauma & Healing Network?

Donna: EJUSA contacted me to ask if I would be part of Trauma to Trust as a facilitator to assist with the training program development and to lend my law enforcement experience and trauma-informed response expertise. This training appealed to me because it brought community residents and police officers together using trauma-informed, restorative facilitation practices grounded in racial equity. As a facilitator I also provided feedback to EJUSA from the sessions to inform ongoing curriculum, program development and evaluation.

EJUSA also invited me to participate in their National Convening on Trust in the Criminal Justice System that brought together people to talk about the trauma they have experienced in the justice system and solutions that can help fuel a national dialogue about new ways to address trauma and our responses to it.

EJUSA: Is there anything you want out of the experience of being in the THN?

Donna: I am excited to be a part of the THN as we envision a transformation of our criminal justice system through trauma informed responses to violence and healing.

I want to help others learn from my experience as a survivor of domestic violence and sexual assault how to heal from long-term trauma.  Also, how a trauma-informed response by law enforcement officers can help diverse communities heal from historical trauma.

As a network we want to help others, but we are there to self-heal too. We share our expertise and experiences with each other and our success stories about how we have helped individuals and communities heal from the trauma they have experienced.

All of us in the THN want everyone to live in communities where we can be free from violence and to elevate healing over retribution.

EJUSA: What do you want people to take from your stories and your work healing trauma?

Donna: What I have learned from my victimization and my work healing trauma is that recovering from trauma is a personal and complex journey. Trauma impacts the brain and body and affects survivors’ lives so strongly that it can change their perception of life.

A survivor’s ability to heal from trauma depends on many factors, and counseling may be a part of that.

There are times though when a single question can cause a positive change to occur in a survivor’s life, by asking a question they may never have been asked before. That is, what can I do to help you?

Throughout the decades of my victimization, no one asked me that important question. If anyone had asked me, most likely I would have received the help I desperately needed.

Instead for many years I felt alone, afraid, trapped, anxious, and unsafe. I thought no one cared about what was happening to me and that my quality of life did not matter.

I protected our family’s secret of abuse and domestic violence. Keeping that secret nearly ended my life.

If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic violence, know that it is not your fault.  The National Domestic Violence Hotline is 800-799-7233.

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The Government Wanted to Kill Me

Clemente Aguirre in court

In his own words, Clemente Aguirre describes how he spent almost 15 years on death row in Florida for a crime he didn’t commit.

I know the torture of fighting against a government that wanted to kill me. The state saw me as just a disposable, undocumented immigrant, and I lost almost 15 years of my life because of it. All for a crime I didn’t commit.

In 2004, I was working in a restaurant, trying to learn to be a cook. On a night off, on my way home after visiting with some friends, I stopped next door to see my neighbors, as I often did. But when I walked inside their trailer, I found a bloody scene: the bodies of my neighbor Cheryl and her mother.

I was terrified. I tried to see if they were still breathing but couldn’t wake them. I feared whoever had hurt them might still be there. And I worried that if I called the police, they would think I did it and might deport me back to Honduras.

After some rest, I decided the right thing to do was go to the police. I had never been arrested or had any interaction with the police in my entire life, but I knew I needed to help.

My worst fears were realized. I became the only target of the police’s investigation. I didn’t understand what was happening; I barely spoke a word of English. The police told me they knew I was undocumented and threated to deport me if I didn’t sign documents that I couldn’t even read.

They made up a story about how I must have killed these women because they disrespected me. They saw me only for my Hispanic background and my undocumented status and decided I was guilty.

Only later did my lawyers discover that police had evidence that would have immediately cleared me, but they never even tested it.

After awaiting trial in jail for almost two years, I was found guilty of first-degree murder. A judge sentenced me to death after a jury couldn’t agree on whether or not I deserved to be executed. (Back then, Florida was one of the only states that allowed someone to get a death sentence even when the jury wasn’t unanimous.)

When the judge gave the ruling, I was in shock. I had been in denial up until that point. I couldn’t believe that the best country in the world would send an innocent man to prison, let alone to death. I was really scared.

In 2011, after seven years behind bars — including five years on death row — my lawyers were finally able to get forensics evidence tested that proved my innocence. I thought that would be it. I thought they’d let me out.

But I remained on death row for another five years. Courts refused to overturn my conviction. Even when they did, prosecutors announced they would retry me and seek the death penalty again.

The whole time, the same forensic evidence that proved my innocence showed that my neighbor Cheryl’s daughter — a white woman — was likely the person who killed them. She had also confessed to the murders on five separate occasions.

In 2018, after almost 15 years, I was finally exonerated. I walked off death row. But that very same day, they slapped handcuffs on me and took me into ICE custody, pending deportation. I never even had the chance to take in the fresh air of freedom before I was placed in a van and transported to another cell. Only because of the generosity of my attorneys, who covered the cost of bail, am I out today.

My struggle is not over.

I’m still fighting to stay in the United States, even though the state of Florida tried to kill me. I’m fighting for compensation for my wrongful imprisonment — something Florida says I don’t deserve because of my undocumented status at the time of my arrest. I’m fighting the Sheriff’s Department that railroaded me just because I was an immigrant. I’m fighting to be able to work, even though I cannot get a license or a state I.D. And I’m fighting to help other people who, like me, are undocumented victims caught in the criminal legal system.

Clemente is one of at least 185 people who have been exonerated from death row in the past 40 years. Other innocent people remain on death row, struggling to prove their case in courts that won’t hear their evidence. The death penalty is broken. It is time to end it once and for all. 

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The Right Path to Justice

White House

A first term president has — officially — 1,460 days to enact an agenda through policy and action for the American people. But the first 100 days have always drawn a huge amount of attention as a traditional measure of what’s to come. They are presented with all the opportunity and hope of a new administration. 

The Biden-Harris administration recently passed that 100-day marker. Now the White House will have to navigate beyond the signposts it has staked in the ground, especially around issues of justice and race equity. 

For much of the first 100 days, it wasn’t clear how the administration would address issues of justice. Our nation is still deeply mired in the Covid-19 pandemic. So far, the White House has devoted enormous attention and resources to overcoming this challenge. And the administration has made race equity a focus, as the crisis continues to have a devastating impact on communities of color. 

The pandemic has proved to be the latest revelation of centuries of racism and white supremacy baked into our everyday systems. Its consequences have rippled outward. Violence has soared, public safety feels elusive, and trauma is everywhere. All of these factors are central to justice — and felt most deeply in Black and brown communities. 

Justice reform featured prominently in the Biden-Harris campaign: promises to end the death penalty, in states and federally; to reduce the harm of the justice system; and to infuse equity across the federal government. How would it show up in the Administration?  A few weeks ago, the Biden-Harris administration placed a neon signpost in the ground. 

In a series of announcements, the White House opened the doors to making billions in federal grant funds available to community-based violence intervention work — effective solutions to violence that exist right now in cities across the nation. It is critical that we make this intent to support community-based work a reality. Truly centering communities will have historic implications for the evolution of public safety. And by investing in communities to do the frontline work on the ground, the White House is taking an important step in its commitment to racial equity. 

One of the most important ways to interrupt violence is to work with communities to heal from trauma. That truth is a cornerstone of our vision. Our partners across the country are doing this — their work is helping to create an ecosystem, in their own community, that identifies what communities need to build the public safety we all deserve.

We’re still waiting for the administration to move on the death penalty. Now is the time to commute the sentences of those on federal death row, to release details of a plan to incentivize states to end the death penalty, and to signal to Congress a readiness to end the federal death penalty once and for all. 

The death penalty is the most egregious response to violence in a justice system that fails because it relies only on punishment. That focus on retribution — and the way it swallows up funding — distracts from evidence-based and community-centered solutions that are taking on violence and winning. 

Signposts are just that: Signs. Signals. Aspirational maps. What’s important is the actions that follow: 

  1. Now is the time for the administration to deliver on its promises to end the death penalty.
  2. The administration must continue to press for the historic potential investments in community-based violence prevention to make sure that money gets to impacted communities. Funding this work in communities is an investment in race equity. 
  3. Transforming our deeply flawed justice system is the natural extension of the Biden-Harris administration’s equity promise. The sooner we embrace healing and abandon punishment the faster we can move toward the fulfillment of that promise.  

Now comes the hard part of ensuring we all stay on the right path. La luta continua.

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