Guest Blog by Rev. Bobby Griffith, Jr., Pastor, City Presbyterian Church, Oklahoma City, OK Two weeks ago, my home state, Oklahoma, passed State Question 788, which legalizes marijuana for medicinal purposes. As a minister, I was overjoyed at the prospect of beginning to push back against the harm caused by the long War on Drugs and to see kindness unleashed toward the suffering. I did my part by helping with the petition drive, talking to the undecided, giving media interviews and writing in support of this statute. I did not always hold this view. What pushed me over the edge was sermon prep, of all things. In 2010, I gave a sermon with heavy application that centered on the fact Oklahoma seemed “okay” on the surface, but it was not that way for everyone. My illustration was twofold. First, Oklahoma has the highest female incarceration rate in the world. Yes, world! Second, Patricia Spottedcrow. Ms. Spottedcrow was a single mom, who sold $31 of marijuana to an undercover informant. She did this to feed her family. In turn, she received a 12-year prison sentence and her family was broken up, despite the fact this was her first offense. A grassroots effort ensued, and she served two years, instead of 12. Still, she spent that time without her four kids and had to rebuild her life. I mentioned these two things in a sermon. The church where I was on staff at the time was mostly made up of Red State Oklahomans. Mentioning something about marijuana, sentencing and, dare I say, social justice, was unheard of for this congregation. I received a few “I never thought about that” comments, but nothing out of the ordinary. Two years later, I met a man in his early 20s who made most of his money growing and selling marijuana. He lived a few blocks from one of the hip spots in Oklahoma City and lots of folks knew what he did for income. In the course of our short conversation (how many ministers get to hang out with a drug dealer!), I asked him if he was worried about getting caught. He said, “Dude. I’m white.” That interaction drove me to gain a better understanding of Oklahoma’s sentencing disparity. African Americans are almost four times as likely to be in jail for marijuana than Caucasians. Arrest rates for whites are lower. Sentencing occurs along racial lines. My state now has the highest incarceration rate in the nation. The system is broken. I look at the enforcement of drug laws, marijuana specifically, and I feel the angst of the Old Testament prophets. There is real oppression. Prohibition creates black markets and opens the door to gangs, prostitution, and human degradation. Law enforcement has the ability to apply civil asset forfeiture and take from those who barely have anything, especially immigrants and migrants. Mandatory minimum sentences do little by way of treating humans as bearers of God’s image. It is within this space, I believe, clergy need to lead. Houses of worship need to empower congregations with the realities that are often ignored. No one at that little church where I preached in 2010 knew about incarceration rates or Patricia Spottedcrow. Some may have thought she “got what she deserved,” but I’m sure many felt it was wrong. We need to learn how to tap into that sense of injustice to do our part to bring about restorative justice. The issue of drug laws is not as simple as “just say no” or “go to jail”. There are hosts of socio-economic and political factors. There is space to apply Christ’s love for others in the Gospels. There is room to point out oppression. There is an opportunity for religious communities to be compassionate, speak for the voiceless, and open the eyes of the powerful to a better way.
Guest Blog by Kim Brown, President, QC Harm Reduction On May 25th, 2011 my world came to a crashing halt. My thirty-three-year-old son Andy died from an accidental heroin overdose. We knew he was in trouble, we knew he injected drugs, and most of all, we knew we were at risk of losing him…and then we did. I was a single mom working as a nurse, and I adored my kids. Now one was gone. The damage done to a family when a child and sibling dies is staggering, especially when the death is caused by a drug overdose. The shame and stigma directed your way after losing a child to an overdose is quite debilitating. In any event, there were no neighbors with casseroles or offers to help and very few condolences. I was introduced to harm reduction when I sought support for my grief online. I discovered GRASP, Grief Recovery After A Substance Passing, and found other mothers to whom I could talk. GRASP literally saved my life. While pouring out my heart to these mothers I’d met, I was struck by their absolute certainty that our children’s deaths could have been prevented. Had we been able to access harm reduction tools, including naloxone, clean needles, and safe spaces for them, maybe our kids would still be here. With this knowledge, I began to turn my grief into advocacy. We founded QC Harm Reduction, our 501(c)3, non-profit organization in 2015, but had been seeking allies to support naloxone training and distribution since 2012. Iowa did not have a naloxone access bill, so we began to advocate for one at our state capitol. Finally, in 2016, after four grueling years, our law was passed. As we attempted to build support for training and distribution in our community, we continued to get pushback from many stakeholders. Stigma, shame, and a focus on abstinence were sadly still the rule of the day. My dear friend, a former Catholic Worker, Michael Gayman, introduced me to some folks in the faith community who operate The Center, Love in Action (LINK). They listened as I explained how a simple harm reduction tool, such as naloxone, could save the lives of people who use drugs. Our mission was well received, and they invited QC Harm Reduction to be a partner organization. As a result, we have been able to reach those directly impacted by drug use at The Center, in Davenport, Iowa, and through our street outreach. We have partnered with the homeless shelters in our community and have expanded our street outreach and services. QC Harm Reduction, in addition to distributing naloxone, now provides HIV and Hepatitis C testing, all free of charge. Unfortunately, Iowa has yet approved needle exchanges. We are working to change this. We also distribute food, clothing, backpacks, and other items necessary for survival, including, importantly, love and acceptance to those who are often discarded and forgotten. I am deeply grateful to The Center and their faith community for the love and support they’ve shown me, QCHR, and those individuals we are helping to serve. We are trying to get people to connect the dots. People on the streets are put in jail for low-level drug offenses, and they are often parents. This is disrupting the lives of children and families, and the human costs are too great. The Center and QCHR believe strongly that harm reduction is a human right and that everyone is entitled to safety and compassion. Love is love. Every life is worth saving.
A Review By Dr. Mary Nelson We are in the midst of an opioid crisis. In 2016 there were an estimated 64,000 fatal drug overdoses across the US. Our response has been inadequate and unsuccessful, but the work of activists in Vancouver provides paths for action. Travis Lupick tells the stories of those who paved that path, interspersed with insights into the effort to replicate that model in the US, in his book Fighting for Space. In 2016, I was able to visit the pioneering Vancouver treatment program, Insite, and to meet the people involved. I can attest to the power of a more humane and life-giving approach. Lupick offers a moving introduction to harm reduction and describes how it can be a model for the US. “Our government and police have waged war on people that use drugs,” says Lupick, resulting in bloated prisons and rising death rates. He depicts the effort to find a better way in Vancouver over the period 1990-2014 through the eyes of service providers who came to understand that criminalization and abstinence don’t work for many struggling with addiction, and that new approaches need to be tried. One of these health workers was a nurse, Liz Evans, who left a hospital job focused on the immediate medical needs of addicts to manage a last-resort housing complex, the Portland Hotel. Under Evans’ leadership, the Portland accepted drug addicts and mentally ill people as they were, asking, “How can we help?” The result was a hectic but caring “community” of residents. Other staff brought their own strengths and perspectives to this work. Mark Townsend identified creative ways to convince politicians to increase funding for alternative approaches to drug treatment. Organizer Ann Livingston, committed to engaging addicts themselves in shaping and advocating for their own solutions, facilitated their involvement in designing a more effective and humane response to addiction. Frustrated by the indifference of politicians, and society more broadly, to the HIV/AIDS crisis and escalating deaths in Vancouver’s downtown, an organization of drug users took shape, the Vancouver Area Network of Drug Users, or VANDU. They began with a demonstration in a major downtown park, where activists and addicts bore 1,000 crosses inscribed with the names of victims of drug overdose, and a large sign reading, “KILLING FIELDS.” A year later the network organized an international conference in the same park, with speakers from Europe who ran safe drug injection sites and other humane efforts sharing their experience, expertise, and validation. Their testimony opened the eyes of some government and medical officials and created the opportunity to push for harm reduction approaches in Vancouver. Lupick describes harm reduction as “strategies all about keeping people alive and as healthy as possible until they can arrive at a place in life where treatment or abstinence works for them.” Drug users who lived in the Portland Hotel could shoot up in their rooms, and staff became equipped to deal with overdoses. But many users were still on the streets and in dark alleys, and too many were dying. Several times temporary injection sites popped up only to be kicked out by landlords. Slowly, HIV/AIDS activists, enlightened health care practitioners, police, and politicians frustrated by the failing status quo came together around a four-pronged approach to addiction: prevention, treatment, enforcement, and harm reduction. Finally in 2003 a single drug injection site was approved as a 3-year pilot to test the harm-reduction approach. It provided a safe space where people who bought their drugs outside were welcomed, provided with water and sterile equipment, and supervised by a medical professional in case of overdose. A second room provided post-injection “cooling spaces,” and a friendly community coffee pot humanized the place. Statistics showed a significant reduction in deaths from overdose and HIV/AIDS. This safe haven also opened the door for connections to other forms of health assistance and care. Research on Insite validated anecdotal findings of significantly reduced deaths from overdose, people moving into more stable living situations, and healthier action. These findings have been documented and published in countless journals. Insite and its housing components (Portland Hotel, etc) are still operating today, but expansion has been glacial. Lupick recounts how opposition from downtown business associations and, city officials have threatened the pilot model. VANDU and its allies continued to organize for decriminalization of drug possession, harm reduction efforts, and legal drug injection sites. Aided by lawyers, a court case went to the Supreme Court, which rendered a narrow decision that applied only to the existing drug injection site. The struggle continues, but there is hope, and lives are being saved in the process. What can we learn from the Vancouver experience? It takes the selfless commitment and compassion of pioneers like Liz Evans. It takes creative efforts to raise awareness and destigmatize drug use in the minds of politicians and voters. It takes outreach to allies, including HIV/AIDS advocates, public health advocates, communities of faith, families of drug users, and politicians. It takes involving drug users in organizing and action, both for better results and to empower them to take charge of their lives. It takes persistence and resilience for the long journey with small successes along the way. As people of faith, we know all are created in the image of God, including drug users. God calls us to work for justice for all God’s people. God gives us infinite hope that sustains us in the struggle for a more humane and life-giving approach to drug addiction. Mary Nelson was the founding President and CEO of Bethel New Life, a faith-based development corporation on Chicago’s West Side. Over 45 years in that community and 27 years in that role, she brought a perspective of faith and hope to a community many considered beyond redemption. Nelson holds a doctorate from Union Graduate School and has taught asset-based community development to pastors and community leaders. In April 2016, she visited Insite as part of a pastoral delegation organized by Clergy for a New Drug Policy.
Within the discourse and research surrounding the War on Drugs, the experiences of women and gender non-conforming individuals have tended to be left out. This omission creates space for a tacit assumption that these individuals do not suffer from discriminatory policing. In her new book Invisible No More: Police Violence Against Black Women and Women of Color, Andrea Ritchie dispels this assumption. She shows that the War on Drugs actually increased rates of arrest among women of color more than it did among men. She offers the following statistics: “Between 1986 and 1991, the number of Black women in state prison for drug offenses nationwide increased by more than 800 percent. This was nearly double the increase for Black men and more than triple that of white women, making Black women the fastest-growing population of prisoners during this period.” “From 2010 to 2014, women’s drug arrests increased by 9 percent, while men’s decreased by 7.5 percent. These disparities were even starker at the height of the drug war. Between 1986 and 1995, arrests of adult women for drug abuse violations increased by 91.1 percent compared to 53.8 percent for men.” Not only has the War on Drugs disproportionately increased the arrest rates for women of color, but it has also tapped into broader, destructive cultural narratives that shape the manner in which police engage these women Fantastical Imaginings The Rev. Dr. Emilie Townes, a womanist thinker and one of the greatest ethicists of our times, coined the term “fantastic hegemonic imagination” to describe ideas fashioned by dominant groups that reshape the world according to their own understanding in a way that both mangles and subordinates the identities and experiences of non-dominant groups. According to Townes, “ the fantastic hegemonic imagination traffics in peoples’ lives that are caricatured and pillaged so that the imagination that creates the fantastic can control the world in its own image.” This hegemonic imagination gives rise to evil and maintains it in the structures of everyday living. While the images are fantastical, their malicious effects upon those whose lives are “caricatured and pillaged” are real and concrete. Townes offers multiple examples of caricatures of African American women dreamed up by the hegemonic imagination: the Sapphire, the bossy Black woman who usurps a dominant, male role; the Mammy, the desexualized maternal figure perfectly content to raise the children of her enslaver; and the lascivious Jezebel, the Mammy’s “evil twin,” who seeks always to seduce in predatory fashion. These stereotypes, have justified evils visited upon African American women during the era of slavery and in the decades that followed. The Mammy stereotype occluded the trauma of slavery with the illusion of women content with their enslavement, while the Jezebel stereotype justified the widespread rape of enslaved women. The Sapphire, who threatened the white patriarchal hierarchy and could not be subdued, justified the use of severe abuse to subordinate Black women. Policing Realities Through meticulous research, statistics, and case examples, Andrea Ritchie demonstrates the evil that these stereotypes- what she refers to as “controlling narratives”– continue to perpetuate through their insidious influence upon the policing and incarceration of women and gender nonconforming people. She writes that Under both Jezebel and Sapphire stereotypes, Black women are perceived as subhuman, animalistic to be violated, feared, and punished. Any departure from the mammy role in a police interaction, therefore, becomes dangerous for a Black woman, her stance presumed to be unacceptably aggressive…her sexuality automatically deviant…her personhood undeserving of protection. Ritchie argues that these stereotypes legitimize aggression- including sexual violence- against women of color in encounters with police. She documents patterns of sexual abuse within police departments, in which officers would coerce women into sexual acts by threatening them with arrest. In the case of a police officer in Eugene, Oregon, who was convicted of serially sexually assaulting women, she reports that his supervisors had dismissed complaints because they came from ‘junkies and prostitutes.’” Within the War on Drugs, cavity searches also constitute a form of state-sponsored sexual assault. Ritchie shares multiple stories of women subjected to invasive searches of their vaginas. In one instance, police conducted such a search “under threat of having her teeth removed with needle-nose pliers.” In others, individuals were subjected to cavity searches alongside the road, in full public view.” These stories of threat, assault, and humiliation are the everyday realities of what Townes calls the “cultural production of evil.” Ritchie shares many stories of the abuse, trauma, and even death of women of color and non-gender-conforming people at the hands of law enforcement. Yet, as she notes, these stories have rarely garnered popular attention. They are eclipsed not only by dominating stereotypes that suggest the treatment was deserved, but also by a movement against mass incarceration and the War on Drugs that has largely focused on the experiences of men. Opposing Evil, Telling a New Story To oppose the fantastic hegemonic imagination and the realities of oppression it creates, Townes offers the response of countermemory. We must remember that the stories can always be told a different way, and look for those stories hidden underneath the dominant narratives. This is precisely what Ritchie offers in Invisible No More, as its very title suggests. The stories that she tells of the experiences of women and gender non-conforming individuals are brutal and difficult to read. Yet they are the testimony against the Mammy, Jezebel, and Sapphire narratives that would claim that coercing sex is not rape and that lethal force is a legitimate police response to unarmed women who do not pose a physical threat. It is through the telling of these stories that we can begin to break up the controlling narratives that perpetuate unjust systems.
Rabbi Jacob Schram (Ben Stiller in Keeping the Faith) called Yom Kippur the Super Bowl of the Jewish calendar. It’s probably the most coveted ticket of the year for temple-goers, so it makes sense to say that. To me, Yom Kippur is more like a combination of Lent and New Year’s. If you don’t know, Yom Kippur, which occurred just over a week agond, is the Jewish Day of Atonement, the last chance to make yourself right with God before the books are closed for the year. Yom Kippur also falls eight days after Rosh Hashanah, New Year’s Day on the Hebrew calendar. In addition to repenting for what we’ve done wrong in the past year, Jewish people use Yom Kippur as a time to recommit ourselves to do good deeds in the coming year. Essentially, we’re atoning and making resolutions all at the same time. In thinking about this High Holiday, I realized some of the ways that it’s linked to my thoughts on drugs and drug policy.