The examples of gross delays of justice aren’t limited to those with variations on the name Anthony Michael. Two of the stories on the July 24 front page of the Houston Chronicle addressed men wrongly convicted of heinous crimes. One man, Allen Wayne Porter, spent 19 years in prison for a rape he didn’t commit. The other man, Cameron Todd Willingham, was executed in 2004 for the deaths of his own children based on evidence that is now being called “flawed science” by the state commission investigating the contentious conviction.

It’s about time.

Willingham’s case first caught my eye with this excellent article in The New Yorker from September 2009. It then enraptured me with this heart-wrenching article in Texas Monthly, which is well-worth the free account you have to make to read it.

Willingham was executed in 2004 for allegedly setting fire to his home, killing his three young children two days before Christmas in 1991. He maintained his innocence throughout his incarceration and refused to enter in a plea bargain to reduce his punishment to life in prison.

A year after Willingham’s execution, the Forensic Science Commission was created by the Texas Legislature to investigate “scientific negligence and misconduct.” When the commission investigated Willingham’s case, and that of another Texas death row inmate exonerated for arson, Ernest Willis, renowned arson expert Craig Beyler found that neither fire had been set intentionally. Willis and Willingham were both innocent of the crimes they were accused of committing. But Willis walked out and Willingham never will.

If you haven’t heard about this case before, there’s a good reason. Governor Rick Perry doesn’t want you to. On Sept 30, Perry effectively halted the official release of the commission’s findings. He replaced the chairman of the commission with Williamson County district attorney John Bradley, a Perry appointee in 2001. Among Bradley’s first tasks as chairman? Canceling the scheduled meeting between Beyler and the commission. Finally, on Friday, July 23, the commission was allowed to rule on the issue. While they didn’t find Deputy Fire Marshal Manuel Vasquez and Corsicana Assistant Fire Chief Douglas Fogg negligent or guilty of misconduct, they did agree that state and local arson investigators (ie Vasquez, Fogg) used flawed science to determine the blaze was the result of arson.

How ironic that Vasquez and Fogg are spared the guilty verdict that Willingham was not. Official rulings aside, their findings still led to what is all but certainly the death of an innocent man.

I know the old saying that prison is full of “innocent” people. Of course nearly all inmates claim innocence. But what about the ones that really are? I’m not talking about crazy, hair-brained conspiracies on Prison Break. I’m talking about plain-and-simple, wrong place at the wrong time. Mistaken identity. False evidence. Just bad luck. One-hundred and thirty-eight times on death row they got the wrong man. And those are just the exonerations that have been proven so far. Rarely is there a 100 percent success rate in anything, so it is not a stretch to say that innocent people have been executed. It’s the most logical conclusion, actually, given the circumstances of 138 proven cases. The numbers spike even further for wrongful convictions not resulting in death row, 255 for post-conviction DNA exonerations.

Given the fact that the US has 2.3 million people behind bars, less than 500 wrongful convictions seems like almost nothing. Except when you remember these are people. American citizens who have spent decades locked up for crimes they didn’t commit. And those are the lucky ones. Some, like Willingham, were executed. When you can’t trust the evidence, a conviction beyond a shadow of a doubt is impossible. The death penalty as carried out in our fair land is anything but just. In light of these exonerations, and the most recent ruling in the Willingham investigation, the use of the death penalty should be suspended in the U.S. Once a better method of collecting and interpreting evidence is developed, the court can reevaluate the use of capital punishment. It won’t be an easy, cheap or fast process. Many may lose their jobs or election seats, but at least none of the casualties of the legal process will be an innocent life.

The board members voted to, among other things, downplay the civil rights movement, question the validity of the separation of church and state, and describe the U.S. Government, as a “constitutional republic,” not “democratic.”

I really like that last one. I say we take it a step further. Those mind-controlling media and academic elites have been brainwashing the public for too long with suggestive words like “democracy.” Pshh. While we’re at it, we should take a hard look at “demographic,” “demonstration”, and “demolition.” Let’s put ‘em all on the chopping block, and replace them with more Republican friendly alternatives. Instead of a demographic, it’s a “republigraphic.” A demonstration becomes a “republistration.” And demolition…wait…they can keep that one.

I almost forgot to mention the amendment that tried to give Thomas Jefferson the ax. Apparently being one of our founding fathers, overseeing the Louisiana Purchase, and starting the University of Virginia doesn’t make you a shoe-in for the history books these days. One of my favorite (read: sarcasm) amendments includes undercutting the beneficial role of the United Nations on the world. Rumor has it that we should in fact be “very, very afraid” of the UN.

To be fair, there are quite a few amendments that are perfectly benign. But that in no way makes this act defensible. The best description of what happened with the board in Texas goes to Rep. Mike Villereal, who voted against the amendments and said this:

“They have ignored historians and teachers, allowing ideological activists to push the culture war further into our classrooms. They fail to understand that we don’t want liberal textbooks or conservative textbooks. We want excellent textbooks, written by historians instead of activists.”

To me, that’s the crux of the matter. I realize everything is political these days, but this seems over the top.

Educational experts, (teachers, professors and the like,) who are qualified to develop school curriculum, spent a year and a half writing the textbook material. While I don’t expect the board to blindly approve whatever copy the experts provide, any alterations need to come with serious, academic backing, not merely political buzzwords.  The board attempted more than 200 amendments in the past week, some being presented on the final day, just minutes before the vote. As if it weren’t already painfully clear that this was a dig at Democratic politics, and not about providing the best education for students, Board Member David Bradley spelled it out for everyone.

“We took our licks, we got outvoted,” he said in reference to the debate 10 years earlier. “Now it’s 10-5 in the other direction … we’re an elected body, this is a political process. Outside that, go find yourself a benevolent dictator.”

Why do I feel like it’s entirely plausible that Bradley did a “nanny nanny boo boo” dance after that statement? Bradley also introduced an amendment that President Barack Obama be listed by his full name, Barack Hussein Obama, in history books. Never mind that very few presidents are ever called with three names, or that the reason for using two or three names is left to the preference of each president. Let’s just make our own rules on this.

Truthfully, I’ve avoided writing a political post for a long time. And not for lack of material. I generally refrain from talking in absolutes, but it seems literally everything is polarized these days.  You can’t buy an organic apple without being a hippie. Anyone who wants cheaper healthcare is a socialist. If you’ve made money during the recession, you’re a greedy schemer. I’ve tried to watch the political arena from afar because I found it entirely too frustrating to explain that yes, I support Obama. But no, I don’t agree with the bailouts.  And yes, I’m pro-life, and that means I’m anti-death penalty. My political leanings don’t fit in the angry box that cable news networks have painted so neatly for both sides. I refuse to believe that I am the exception, but there’s this narrative out there that keeps trying to beat me down. It tells me there are only two sides, two colors, and it’s a cage match.

Despite my ribbing of this vote, I really don’t want to mock right now. I’m trying my hardest to view the extremists for what they are and look to the core of both parties for the good that they represent. But it feels like a losing battle. It doesn’t help that the nature of news is to bring to light the most interesting, unique, and by default, extreme position on matters. People like Bradley make headlines. To be frank, he sounds like one hell of a fun interview. But at the end of the day, he is further dividing our country.

These amendments embarrass me as a Texan, and are yet another sad sign that our country’s politicians are vehemently and fundamentally divided. Whether our citizens truly are, remains to be seen. It’s a challenge not to mimic the arguments we see congress and educational boards engaging in, but I hope we can rise above their poor example. Standing up for students’ rights to an unpoliticized education would be a good start.

In stream-of-consciouness-order, the Top 10 Things I didn’t know about the world until I moved halfway across it : 

10. Grapes have seeds. And they’re not the only ones. Those tiny oranges, aka tangerines have ‘em too. Throw in cherries, blueberries, and just about every fruit save the banana and you’ll get the picture. Granted I probably knew this at one point in my life, like before we started genetically modifying our fruits and veggies. But it’s hard to remember what things were like back in the day, which brings me to my next point…

9. You can adjust to almost anything. I went from living in Texas, a hotbed of conservatism, evangelism, Spanglish, country music, and well, heat and humidity, to living in the frozen tundra of Greek Orthodox Ukraine. Pumping water from a well, using an outhouse, hiking 20 minutes in the snow to work, and frequently working without heat and electricity became my norm in just a matter of months. I actually think I prefer a turkish toilet now. Weird. 

8. English is really hard to learn. We have like a million words that mean all basically mean “good.” As a native speaker and lover of language, this is grand–a virtual playground of prose. But for the aspiring English student, it can be quite frustrating. I once tried to comfort a colleague by saying that I keep a dictionary at the ready to look up words while reading. She was not encouraged. Besides sheer volume, there are all the irregular conjugations and a whopping 18 tenses. Plus, we have a bunch of silent letters, foreign words that we steal, and the ever-confusing use of prepositions. Oh yeah, and we employ more figures of speech in colloquial language than you can shake a stick at. So thank your lucky stars you were born with an English spoon in your mouth. 

7. There are four distinct seasons. In Texas, we have two: Summer and Christmas. Summers in the lone star state are greedy, enviously eying the months from September onward. Rarely, a day or two will escape the sweaty clutches of August and her smoldering sisters to bring forth a cool breeze and perhaps even warrant a hot chocolate or two in December. Rarely. But in Ukraine, I arrived in October to hues of red, orange and yellow. Then, I watched with bated breath as the first snow drifted out and changed the landscape until, well, this week. Spring is here, and I couldn’t be more energized. Every room in my apartment has a window propped open right now, the sunlight beaming in as the birds chirp from still barren, but hopeful, tree branches. The flowers on my window sill are a touch ahead of the game, and are blooming with abandon. Neighbors are out tilling the soil in their kitchen gardens, and the sun doesn’t set until 8 p.m. A full four hours later than in Winter. If the degree of change from Winter to Summer is any indication, I think I’ll be able to wear shorts one day. Sweet. 

6. Change, like nickels and dimes, is a luxury. It’s a common occurrence at the store here to be met with a blank stare when you don’t have exact change. And the amount of change on your bill makes no difference. “You don’t have 87 cents?” They ask incredulously. Because they don’t have the 13 either. So, in lieu of the money properly owed to you, a small handful of candy is given in its place. Sometimes just a piece, if  the amount is 10 cents or below. Today I was given the equivalence of 65 cents (6 pieces of candy). But it was ice-cream flavored and quite delightful so I didn’t really mind. 

5. Hot, running water is the greatest thing in the world. Say what you will about the cotton gin, the printing press, or even the internet. But I’m siding with steaming showers and the round-the-clock capability to wash your hands without wincing in pain. I didn’t know cold could hurt until I turned on the tap in January in Ukraine. I feel so confident in my opinion not only because I live at a high latitude, but because my friend and fellow PCV in Nicaragua recently said  the same thing. She lives basically on the equator and her biggest complaint was a lack of hot water. And back sweat. But still. 

4. American culture is the most pervasive thing on the planet. Sadly, this doesn’t mean democracy, free enterprise, and individualism reign globally. It just means I hear Britney Spears on the radio, see Nike and Adidas logos everywhere, eat Nestle Chocolate, and hear people use words like “Super” and “OK” even though they don’t speak English. Inexplicably, I also witness at least one person wearing something that says  “Miami Dolphins,” “Arizona State University,” or something else as seemingly random daily. I’ve even seen a “Golden State Warriors” starter jacket. There are really no words. 

3. Simplicity goes a long way. Most people have heard the joke about how NASA spent millions of dollars formulating a pen that could write in space without the aid of gravity to allow the ink to flow. And the Russians? They used a pencil. I’ve been using a lot of pencils lately. Like instead of making powerpoint slides or showing video-clips in classes that are less than friendly toward technology, we play charades, hangman, and vocabulary tic-tac-toe. As opposed to dryers or dishwashers, I hang my clothes in the bathroom or on my balcony and I rinse plates and use a drying rack. “Why would you pay for air?” I’ve often heard when I explain that we have machines that blow hot air on our shirts and cups, thus rendering clothes lines and dish racks virtually obsolete. 

2. People are people. I gotta give a shout-out to PCV Kristi Goldade on this one, for she was the one who coined this phrase, in my lexicon at least. As “other” as everyone seems at first glance in Ukraine, and many times, on the second and fifty-second glance, there are good and bad people everywhere you go. So maybe the old women here wear bonnets and fur boots, rising temperatures be dammed, and they don’t smile at strangers but feel free to stare. When you sit down with them, have a cup of tea, and talk about life, there are too many intrinsic commonalities to get caught up in the differences of language, dress, culture, and social mores. As Obama is fond of saying about people, “The burdens of global citizenship continue to bind is together…those aspirations are bigger than anything that drives us apart.” That’s applicable to people from California to Louisiana to Maine and for humanity as a whole. Decent people in America can get along with decent people in Ukraine, Iraq, Afghanistan, North Korea or anywhere else. There are angry, rude, evil people in every country in the world, but the trick is not to characterize a nation by their worst representatives, even when they are sometimes the loudest, or the most accessible examples. 

1. Flexibility. I feel like this list has plateaued. And while a “Top 9 List” isn’t exactly conventional, I think I’m going to go with. Sometimes, I walk into class and expect to teach 10th grade and end up with 6th. Sometimes, I end up with no class at all. But, I find a way to make it work, and I’m learning not to let it ruffle my feathers too much. Maybe I’ll go to the gym or the playground and strike up conversations, or plan lessons for tomorrow that are adaptable to a variety of ages and skill levels. Or I’ll just have an early lunch. It always works out, as cliche as it sounds, and the world doesn’t come to an end just because my schedule isn’t set in stone. I’m on a cliche roll. I better stop while I’m ahead. Looks like I’ve got a Top 10 list after all.

While in any given classroom I’m still the expert on the British-born babble, I can’t help but notice how my own English skills have regressed. (10 point word).  When I started teaching in October, I received feedback like, “Use smaller words and simpler sentence structures.” As a recent Baylor grad, my vocabulary was slightly beyond the grasp of a 10-year-old Ukrainian. Although this particular problem no longer plagues me, I’m more concerned by the fact that I spent a good ten minutes the other day trying to remember the name for thin, green onions (scallions). As a writer, the idea of my vocabulary decreasing is a potentially life-threatening one.

Despite my shrinking lexicon, (maybe I still have it after all), my lack of posts have not been for a lack of words. It is a simple lack of technology. My MacBook Air, which worked perfectly inside the confines of the motherland for a solid six months, decided to reveal a hardware defect once I changed hemispheres–safely outside the reach of any Apple Store.  iTunes, Microsoft Office, and Quicktime programs all mysteriously crashed, something that is apparently related to faulty memory. Oh brother.

This crushing blow coincided with the single-greatest event of my life to-date: Riley proposed! He flew halfway around the world with a ring in his pocket and popped the question. It was pretty much amazing. I couldn’t ask for a more thoughtful, supportive, hilarious, and all-together wonderful fiancé. I’m sure he’ll be embarrassed by my public praise of him, but his modesty is equally as endearing.

In addition to diagnosing my computer troubles, he fixed my sink, and helped me pick out a couch for the living room. I seriously underestimated how sad it would be to watch his plane disappear over the horizon at the end of the week. Not only did I say goodbye to my fiancé, I said goodbye to my fiancé and my computer in one swift motion of isolation.

However, there is quite the silver lining on both accounts. Most importantly, saying goodbye to your fiancé is a lot more reassuring than chunking the deuce to your mere boyfriend. Knowing I have the rest of my life with Riley takes the sting out of his absence—a little bit anyway.  Secondly, in a terrific turn of events, my college roommate, Mary, is traveling through Europe in celebration of her master’s degree (way to go, champ!) and had already planned to make a weekend stop in Tysmenystya, Ukraine. Through the magic of Apple, Fed-Ex, and Riley’s lightening-fast Mustang, my MacBook was repaired just in time to make it on the plane with Mary and thus on its way to me. By the time it is in my hands, it will have logged more than 10,000 miles and a handful of countries, states, and time zones. Oh the wonders of the modern world.

So now you know just how much effort has been expended to ensure that this and future posts will be at your fingertips on a somewhat regular basis. My sincere appreciation to all involved!

**A personal note on the title, I quote the King James Version of the Bible out of context whenever possible. I mean no disrespect for thee or He.

Riley had heard Chandler speak for during the summer when he worked at Glorietta in New Mexico, and, being the tech-savvy guy that he is, he subscribed to his podcast. When Riley set up my ipod, he moved his entire music library to my computer (my apologies to Apple and the music industry as a whole). In addition to Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Weezer and other man-centric audio files, were nearly 200 podcasts from The Village.

They pretty much lay dormant on my computer for a good year. I wasn’t exactly sure what a podcast was, embarrasingly enough for anyone under the age of 30. And I went to school at Jerusalem on the Brazos. My Christian cup overflowedth with Wednesday night Bible Studies, Sunday School Classes, Youth Lock-Ins, Women’s Retreats, and the like.

When I joined the Peace Corps, however, and moved to Ukraine in October, I was suddenly cut off from Christendom as I knew it. While Ukraine is highly-religious, it’s of the Greek Orthodox variety and quite naturally the services are conducted in Ukrainian. Even though I do appreciate the beauty and reverence, my religious fulfillment from church in this country is nil. In the absence of church as I know it, I’ve been doing my best to create spiritual space in my week. I crank up the Christian tunes, read my Bible, and, amazingly enough, listen to a sermon in English from the great state of Texas no less.

It’s always funny to me how sitting in my Soviet Bloc apartment, curled up in a blanket sipping hot tea while snow falls outside my window, I can find relevance in a sermon to 5,000 Southern Suburbanites. But it just works out that way. The podcasts are catalogued by date and title so I’m able to peruse for seasonal sermons (Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter), as well as topical ones. It’s kind of like Church on TiVo, which isn’t necessary by any means but is fun nonetheless.

On a Friday when I was having one of those aimless afternoons where I wonder what have I done, where in the world am I, and would chips and salsa from Food For Thought in Waco be able to make it through customs in a package to me, I decided to order up a little church. I scrolled through the list and selected a cool combo: a sermon titled “Perplexed” that was also given on August 3, the birthday of yours truly. As I fire it up, my battery bar turns red—ipod users you know what that means—and I say some unholy words under my breath. Since my computer was touring Europe without me, I had little choice but to hope for the best. “Well,” I thought aloud, “I’ll just see how long it lasts.”

Now the sermon is my favorite part of church, but even in America when I’m sitting in the pew with the minister in the pulpit right in front of me, my thoughts have a tendency to wander. I know it’s not unique but I thought I’d throw it out there. When I only have the audio, it’s even more difficult for me to stay on task, but I’ve found that if I have something to do with my hands it helps me focus. So I was washing some clothes in my bathtub and contemplating the ninth chapter of Luke, where—to paraphrase Chandler—Jesus basically confuses the heck out of everyone.

He sends out the 12 disciples, assures them they will be mistreated occasionally and instructs them to take no provisions for the journey. When they get back, he feeds 5,000 people with a little kid’s lunch, tells Peter to keep his Lordship a secret, and repeatedly predicts his own death. Basically, for 63 verses the disciples are constantly alternating between epiphanies and total confusion. As Chandler points out, these are the guys who spend the most time with Jesus out of anybody, and they are still lost.

What this says to me is that the big picture of Christianity isn’t this crystal-clear, lighted-path to righteousness and revelation. It’s as perplexing as it is enlightening and sometimes it’s both at once. Christianity hasn’t given me all the answers to life, but it’s helped me get to some pretty cool questions. And along the way it’s fostered a healthy respect for the complexity and wisdom of God. If the 12 disciples didn’t even understand their purpose in life sometimes, then I think it’s more than okay for me to question mine, too.

That was just the point Chandler was harping on when my battery gave out. I chuckled out loud at the perfect timing. I can’t understand why my ipod was able to play 52 minutes of audio with no battery power left and then cut out exactly at the “ah-ha” moment, but I’m really glad it did. It was the perfect combination of the absurd, the mundane, and the divine to make this a sermon I won’t soon forget.

My First Ukrainian Snow

On a chilly Wednesday evening, I witnessed my first Ukrainian snowfall. It was silent and beautiful. We had just left the house to run out for some snacks to nibble on while we watched a movie. As I turned on my flashlight, I noticed little white flakes fluttering to the ground. My fellow PCTs, who are both from Minnesota, did not return my enthusiasm. I skipped down the street, and they tried not to be too embarrassed.

The first flakes were short-lived, and by the time we finished the movie, they had disappeared. It was only November 21, and I reasoned, from my knowledge of holiday movies and television specials, that real snow wouldn’t stick until December. How wrong I was.

I awoke on Sunday morning to a blinding white landscape. I stepped outside to christen my winter boots and was smacked in the face by the coldest wind I have ever felt. The shock of its force actually amused me. It looked so peaceful and calm, but it packed a punch. I crunched my way to the bathroom, and was pleasantly surprised how much warmer it was out of the wind’s reach.

When I came back inside, I proudly proclaimed to my host family, “Cnih! (snow)!” They were even less enthused than the Minnesotans. I decided to go to the school gym, because it is theoretically open on Sunday mornings. I say theoretically because I have tried to go practically every Sunday for the past two months and have only found it open once.

I was far from shocked that it was closed, especially considering the weather. I really just wanted an excuse to stomp around in my boots and parka. As I trudged through the snow, I noticed I was not the only one who wanted to play in the powder. I was however, the only one above the age of 10. This fact has never prevented me from enjoying myself in America, so I decided it shouldn’t stop me in Ukraine.

I threw snowballs, built a snowman, and pushed a cute little girl around on a sled. Unfortunately, the coming of winter also means the days are markedly shorter. It was only 4 p.m. and the sun was already on its way down. Not wanting to walk home in a dark snowstorm, I had to bid the children adieu and start my hike back. 

Growing up in Texas in the 21st century, I never thought I’d be able to say, “When I was your age, I had to walk two miles in the snow to get home.” But that’s just one of the ways my world is expanding these days.

The home front, quiet save for a preponderance of leaves.

Frightening radar images projected Hurricane Ike would decimate not only Galveston and Houston, but the surrounding areas as well. While certain parts of South Texas are devastated, Katy is not one of them. Although trees are down and sections of the city are without power and possibly water, the damage pales in comparison to other communities. Check out this interactive map on Chron.com for more info.

Parts of my neighborhood have power, and others do not. Clearly, I am in the former category. CenterPoint Energy, the largest power company in the greater Houston area, reports that out of their 2.2 million customers, 2.1 million are out of electricity.  I snapped a few photos of the occasion for your viewing pleasure.

The neighbor’s yard saw a little more action.

A view down the street as seen through my foggy lens.

An industrious neighbor’s yard.

After nearly two years of weekly mentoring an at-risk teen, I had hoped for a more climactic closure. We’d been to the museum, the bookstore, the campus recreation center, the mall, the zoo, the park, and the bowling alley. We’d worked on homework, read books, painted, watched American Idol, and cooked dinner. And in between it all, we’d really gotten to know each other.

I watched her deal with things way beyond her maturity level, like her dad going to prison and the death of a classmate. In turn, I, a 22-year-old college student and far from a trained social worker, dealt with issues far beyond my own maturity level. I counseled her when she got caught with drugs and convinced her to tell the truth. I listened as she told me that her mom was going to jail. I empathized with the injustice of her poor school system and lack of good options. I threw her a birthday party in a local park. I bought her shoes for a cousin’s wedding. I taught her how to play racquetball. I told her she could be anything she wanted to be. I was fiercely dedicated to her.

And so, for our last Tuesday night together, I had asked her what she wanted to do. I told her it could be anything within reason. She chose a manicure. I was thrilled. Sure, it was bit pricey, but the memory of us sitting side-by-side at a nail salon, getting pampered like a couple of yuppies would be worth it. It also showed maturity, I thought. It wasn’t a trip to an amusement park or to a movie. It was an activity for adults.

I pulled up to her house about 6 o’clock. I knew right away she wasn’t there. Her grandma’s truck was gone. The gate was padlocked. She had forgotten. I let out an ironic chuckle.

This type of behavior had been common in the beginning. I actually think it was a test of hers. She wouldn’t return my calls or show up for our meetings for weeks. I kept calling. I kept showing up. Finally, she warmed up to me and revealed that her last handful of mentors hadn’t lasted a month. She wanted to make sure I was in it for the long haul. She didn’t say that exactly, but I could tell what she meant. But not this time. The test was over. She simply forgot. I was hurt. Really hurt.

I had been looking forward to our last outing together. I felt proud that we had stuck together for so long, despite our vast differences. She liked rap music and spoke an English I needed an urban dictionary to understand. I liked acoustical ballads and was an English major. She liked to sing. I played sports. She wore professional wrestling t-shirts. I shopped at the Gap. But we had become friends, and I genuinely enjoyed hanging out with her each week. She had carved a sizable part of my life out, and I liked it.

Sitting outside her house, with the credit card bill from her birthday party expenses in my wallet, and the radio tuned to her favorite station, I felt totally dissed. Then, remembering her grandma had recently given her a cell phone, I felt a glimmer of hope. She picked up—a good sign. She had forgotten, but was audibly shaken-up about it. Somehow that made me feel better. She had just picked up a friend, and they were coming over here to hang out. She wanted to know if she could come, too.

Taking my mentee and her friends out to dinner and the mall had become fairly common over the years. I was always happy to include them. It was fun to see their interactions and their faces when I asked questions like, “What do want to be when you grow up?” and “What’s your favorite subject in school?” But this time was supposed to be just us. We had planned it for weeks. Plus, manicures were expensive. I’d only just graduated from college and was making minimum wage at a part-time job before the Peace Corps. My exclusion of others was well-intentioned on a number of levels. “Sure, I said. Of course your friend can come.”

Meanwhile, my head was a blur with mental math computations. Considering my current financial situation, I really couldn’t spring for three manicures. I felt like dropping her friend off at the corner, but the semi-adult in me knew what I had to do. I was honest with them. Well, not about wanting to ditch her friend, but about the money situation. “I don’t have enough money for all us to get manicures, but I’d really like you two to get one. What do you say?” They both smiled huge smiles, the ones where all the teeth show and you get those little crinkles around your eyes. Her friend ran her fingers through her hair. “We are gonna be throwed at school tomorrow!” she exclaimed.

As I entered the nail salon with my youthful friends, the stares started. Ordinarily we attract a glance or two, but our triad trumped them all. The girls went to an alternative middle school for kids who’ve been kicked out of public schools. They were in their uniforms, which consisted of khaki pants, blue t-shirts, and white shoes. Honestly, it kind of had a prison feel to it. And there I was, Bermuda shorts and a crew-neck shirt from Banana Republic. I sighed. Time to put some shine on these trouble-making fingers. I helped the girls pick out colors, and, having brought my camera, documented the whole experience. They giggled and batted their eyelashes, as proud as peacocks. Walking out of the nail salon, I decided that was the best way I could spend my money, handsdown. 

After dropping off the girls at her house, hugging my mentee, and instructing her to be good and call often, I got into my car and burst into tears. Sure, I was going to miss her, but what I was really crying about was the injustice of it all. My mentee and I live in two different Americas. I live in the one where my parents raised me lovingly, and I got to go on summer vacation at the beach. I went to a good school and had teachers who cared about me. I played on sports teams and had slumber parties with my friends. I got accepted to college and graduated with honors. I had a bright future.

She lives in the America where her parents gave her a name, and then walked away. She lives on food stamps and Medicaid. Her school barely passes state assessments. She’s never been to the beach, or seen snow, or even spent a Christmas with her parents. Go to college? She’s in the 7th grade for the third year in a row.  I cried because I wanted to do more than slap a nice, shiny coat of polish over her life, but couldn’t. Our last meeting didn’t go as planned.

They all systematically kill citizens who break the law.

Of course they aren’t alone. Sudan, Uganda, Pakistan and Swaziland are our fellow compatriots in this ghastly fraternity of 70 countries.

The goal of institutional punishment is part correction, part restitution, and part community protection. Violators of the law are subject to sanctions in an attempt to dispense justice, that is to correct the wrong committed in a meaningful way, prevent it from happening again, and in the process remove harmful individuals from society.

The Supreme Court ruled Wednesday that the death penalty is not an appropriate punishment for the rape of a child. This ruling reflects largely what the judicial process of our nation has already decided. As the article in the Times states,  “Not since 1964 has anyone been executed in the United States for a crime other than murder.”

While I happen to oppose the death penalty unilaterally, the idea of killing child rapists sounds appealing at first glimpse. The despicable nature of the crime and the irreparable harm done to children causes something in my normally peace-loving nature to cry out with vengeance with the mob.  But this knee-jerk reaction is short-sided. What I really want is assurance that this won’t happen ever again, or, at the very least, it will occur with far less frequency.

Systematically killing the perpetrators one by one sounds like the literal way to eliminate the problem and “protect” our children. But if preventing child rape is really what this debate is about, then the death penalty shouldn’t even be a consideration. New Orleans and Houston rank as the second and fifteenth leading cities for murder. Louisiana and Texas also rank among the highest in number of executions per state.

Since 1976, Texas has executed four times more inmates than the next leading state, Virginia, and four hundred times that of Wyoming. It’s painfully clear that the death penalty fails to deter crime. While several cities in Texas have less crime (Austin, Plano), that likely has more to do with the socioeconomic status of residents than the deterring factor of the death penalty. As the Death Penalty Information Center reports, “The murder rate in non-death penalty states has remained consistently lower than the rate in states with the death penalty, and the gap has grown since 1990.”

I oppose the death penalty not only on moral grounds, but because it fails to prevent crime. Instead of thinking of harsher punishments, we need to ask ourselves is why are grown men raping children? Where has our society failed? How can we address the root of this problem instead of reacting to the end result? These questions may be harder to answer, but they are the ones that will actually save lives.

I believe the true impetus behind capital punishment is far less noble than the call of justice or the desire to protect children. We want revenge. We want to inflict pain on others to make them feel as badly as their victims did. This isn’t exactly a foreign concept. It’s human nature at its worst, and, if left unchecked, it will result in breeding hatred and, ironically, crime. We already lock up more than 2 million of our own citizens—the most in the world. Our great love affair with punishment may look prettier than the public hangings of our forefathers, but it’s no less uncivilized.

Amnesty International reports that 135 countries have abolished the death penalty—countries like Norway, Sweden, Italy, France, and Australia. If you ask me, they make far better bedfellows than our current company.

Bush’s proposal is like putting band-aide on a broken leg. Our time and money should go toward researching ways to produce clean energy–cars that run on hydrogen or are electric, or perhaps function on something else entirely. I have complete confidence in our research capabilities to find a more efficient way to fuel our country. I wouldn’t be opposed to expanding domestic oil exploration if it were packaged with an agreement to increase funding for alternative fuels and came with regulations that would protect certain areas such as wildlife preserves. Even as Bush and others call out for more oil exploration, I doubt they would like an oil refinery in their town. If I were in congress, I’d call for the next refinery to be in Crawford. It’s one thing to say we need more exploration to bring the cost down, and quite another to take care of all the fine print that such a decision entails.