My work supervisor is no bleeding heart liberal. That is a bit unusual considering her profession. She is not only a principal but an educator as well. In her own words she is a “socially moderate and fiscally conservative Conservative.” For me, she has destroyed many of my long held stereotypes about folk of her political ilk. One of them is their often reported affinity for corporate tycoons and purported disdain for the little guy. That’s not her, but what is her, is that passion of the educator so often associated with liberal and progressive instructors. I have witnessed those emotions bubble to the surface when a struggling student makes a statistically significant skill gain. I have also been present when those same emotions erupt uncontrollably when the same category of students earn their high school equivalency diplomas. But on the day about which I am writing, those tears visited as a result of something that I had done.

My group of students were nearing readiness to take their final exam. Sometimes I am a tutor, on other occasions I have been a TA, and there has also been occasion where I was the teacher,. On this day I was the latter. The day’s lesson was a continuation of the two previous days, and the topic was factoring. I was being assured that they would ‘never use this shit’ and that as a general rule ‘math is stupid.’ Yet, as we proceeded further into the lesson and I wove in the previous sessions on combining numbers and on the multiples of numbers the tone and tenor changed. By the time we dismissed the class my title as “math whisperer” was still intact, and I was being told how tremendously easy factoring was. However, even though they knew nothing of calculus, they still thought that I was a weirdo for calling it elegant, because only women and cars were elegant.

The students left, and I began to gather up my materials so that I could return to the other part of my job, office clerk. I was feeling good, I was feeling that joy that only teachers can relate to, but then I noticed my supervisor. She had been sitting in the opposite corner of the room, and it was clear that she had been crying. I asked her what was up, and in the most serious of tones she said, “you have to do this, you have to teach.” She, of course, had witnessed my teaching exploits on paper from student skill gains and tests scores, but she had never witnessed me at work, prior to this day. I assured her that I very much intended to teach, but that it would be on the collegiate level as the gangster inclinations and fast money proclivities of my youth would preclude me from teaching in public high school–which seems a bit nearsighted as there are schools in Chicago where one would think that my story would be just what the doctor ordered. She was not concerned with which level I would teach at, only with the certainty that I shared my “gift.” It was a gift because I had never received instrucTION on how to instruct, yet my instrucTING and how I instrucTED was as effective as any she had ever seen. Another of her colleagues told me that he too had watched me from a distance on more than one occasion. He said that it was hard to tell by the lecture if it was a math, ethics, or sociology course, but that everyone was fully engaged and seemed to be learning so much more than math.

That newfound “gift” is the return on the investment that the people of Illinois and Iowa have made. To date, meaning for the previous 26 1/2 years, taxpayers have doled out one million dollars to segregate me from society,* and they potentially get in return a professor replacing the drug dealing gang member who was convicted of the unintentional homicide of his former friend. It too appears that the taxpaying public is content with that exchange since nary a soul nor lone entity has contested my petition for clemency to Governor Pritzker.

A wonderful opportunity to study for my PhD at the University of Iowa, so that I might teach, has come and gone as I have waited, hoped, and prayed for the past year and a half for mercy. Be assured, this is a governor who tends towards mercy when a viable case is made. I have witnessed it, Pritzker is no Rauner nor even Quinn. He has shown that he is serious about criminal justice reform and equity. Yet, I lack the wherewithal and bandwidth to make the case for myself, a case that many agree is beyond compelling. My hope is that you, dear reader, will ask the governor to extend the needed mercy, and to halt the diminishing returns on your money. And further, to assure that the new PhD opportunity that has availed itself is not needlessly lost.

*That one million dollars does not include the cost of my bachelor’s and master’s degrees, those bills were footed by my dear wife and deceased mother.

I will be brief, more brief than I have ever been in this forum. And I will not draw a conclusion, the facts infer more than enough for the reader to do so on their own.

On October 28, 2022 Nancy Pelosi was still speaker of the house, and but two heartbeats away in the succession to the Presidency. Yet, when the police showed up to her home that early morning and spotted an able-bodied person wielding a dangerous weapon, they neither used, nor even brandished their firearms. Rather, they tackled the suspect while he still was flaunting the hammer.

On January 26, 2023 a double amputee allegedly stabbed a person, and attempted to escape capture on what was left of his legs. Needless to say his attempt to allude was unsuccessful. And since I am telling you that he was Black, it too is needless to say that he was shot about a dozen times and killed.

Period. Full stop. End of post.

ReeRee is a slightly built, superbly athletic, and smart kid with the most infectious smile. He is nineteen years old, and does not look a day older than a 7th grader. He is from the Quad-Cities, a metropolitan area that includes towns in both Iowa and Illinois; I know the area well, I lived there, and it is where I committed crimes that have cost me the majority of my life.

ReeRee is in prison for selling drugs. After his mother died of an overdose in Milwaukee, he and his younger sister were being raised by their loving, working class, maternal grandparents. However, when his grandparents died, less than a month apart, he landed in the home of his aunt, an addict. He was fourteen and his sister was eleven months younger. They were left to fend for themselves; beyond a roof over their heads the aunt provided little else. Clothing, food, feminine hygiene products for his sister, even the utilities were left to ReeRee. He told me, “I did what I had to do for me and my sister.”

One evening last fall after ReeRee had returned to the Quad-Cities from proudly driving his sister to the east coast, and dropping her off at the Ivy League university to which she had earned a full ride, he made a costly mistake. He sold a total of $30 worth of heroin and crack to an addict who was working as an informant. He has been here ever since, but is eligible for parole next year.

Last evening as I sat trying to lose myself in a history book written by Richard Haass, ReeRee’s smiling face appeared at my door. “Hey Student,” he said–yes, I once told him that William Gossett‘s nickname was Student. “School is closed tomorrow, you gonna help me with some math?” He was referring to the school staff, where I work, being gone to a conference and leaving me with a 5-day weekend.

“Sure,” I said, “we will kick it for a couple of hours.” Then it donned on me, “ReeRee, you graduated two months ago, why do you need math help?”

He looked away, but then responded, “I am just trying to keep it in my head for the ACTs.” His voice trailed off, and he did not immediately look back towards me. I closed ‘The World: A Brief Introduction,’ placing it on my table and turning my full attention to him. Something was wrong. There has been so much gang drama and recruiting of late, I was hoping that he hadn’t fallen into that trap–one that I had worked hard to keep him away from.

“Yaa bunayya,” I said to him, what is going on, what’s wrong?” I asked.

“That’s it right there,” he said in almost a whisper. “That’s what’s wrong, you don’t tutor me anymore, so I don’t ever hear that anymore.” ReeRee is a rough and tumble little guy, but he never seems to be possessed of the need to prove his masculinity in this den of hubris–he does not hide his feelings. Yaa bunayya is the transliteration of an Arabic term which translates as “O’ my little son,” or “O’ my dear son.” ReeRee continued, “When you called me that, and told me what it meant, I loved them words. I never had a daddy. The only time I felt like I had one is sitting in that office with you learning about math, God, gangs, and girls.”

The guard came just in time to tell him to lockdown. It saved us both from the bursting dam of tears that were about to flow. I know what he is feeling, as I never had a dad either. In the morning I am going to talk God, gangs, girls, and a little math with my little son.

I believe that “Bigs” (Notorious B.I.G.) had it correct when he said “You’re Nobody Til Somebody Kills You”. He just should have added a few a few more words, “if you vote Democrat”. It seems hard to find someone politically well positioned who cares to help you be somebody while you live, especially among the purported Liberals and Progressives. Political cowards, with a lack of courage that the Wizard of Oz couldn’t help. With a certainty they come running, outraged, when somebody is killed. But where are they when the people embodied by the metaphorical archetype of Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, Laquan McDonald, Breonna Taylor, and Eric Garner are trying to live?

When I say “killed” I am not only, and in this instance not at all, talking about deaths that result in the literal loss of life, but instead the loss of hopes and futures.

For my entire life I have been told that Black people who are cut of the same cloth, and of the same ilk as JC Watts, Mia Love, and someone who has become dear to me, Glenn Loury, have it all wrong. Our only way forward, I’ve been told, is to wade in the waters trodden by the likes of Jesse Jackson, C. Dolores Tucker, and Barak Obama. I accepted this as fact without any refutation because it was coming from people whom I love and respect. I also never challenged this notion because of some of the personalities of the party with which Watts, Love, and Loury are associated with are toxic.

A bit selfishly, and only as this issue became personal, have I begun to revisit it; I am trying to live, trying to have a future after 26 years—deservedly—in a tomb. I asked the well placed political liberals, who I had been raised to support and believe in, to help me live. I told them that I have done quite well, and I won’t embarrass you, just help me get a letter to the Democratic Governor of Illinois. Van Jones, Bobby Rush, Ako Samad, and countless others; mums the word. I mean not even a ‘no, sorry, I can’t help you.’ Ironically enough, Dr. Glenn Loury wrote a letter of support on my behalf and many of the conservative readers of his blog signed it. These are the people who I just said had some toxic personalities in their crowd.

I asked the liberals one simple thing, shine a light on my case to the governor. I did not ask for money, or for them to donate a kidney to me, just email this letter to the governor, to an inbox he will see. I am a prisoner, I cannot penetrate the barrier that surrounds the governor of one of the most populous states in the union. All of you talked about criminal justice reform on the campaign trail, and here is an example of a case that will not give your opponents any political fodder to use against you. In the words of the old adage, the silence was deafening.

I am left to assume that they are waiting for me to be killed, for this opportunity I have been presented with to pass me by, so they can show up with their ostensible indignation—in a non-election year—vowing that this will never happen again (at least not for the next four years).

I am begging, let me be somebody now, while I am living, not after someone kills me. I believed what you said and all of your promises, and intend to hold you to them. Thus, I will heed the words of Dylan Thomas, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.

I am a person who possesses a bevy of guilty pleasures, if they can be considered as such; they are more like nerd pleasures. Chief among these pastimes are news, information, and election analytics. The latter, election analytics, is part of my rationale for becoming a statistician. Regarding information, I have actually missed showers and meals from having been so absorbed in a sociology journal or the latest edition of The American Statistician that I did not realize that the evening had come, gone, and declined into night. However, the first among the listed interests, news, is what led me to the present discourse. 

There have been innumerable occasions where I have found myself watching the world or local news and have heard the following words spoken regarding someone, “…further incarceration serves no rehabilitative purpose, nor does it advance the interest of justice.” These words always preceded someone returning to society and their pursuit of the American Dream. Then I happened upon some of these same words in writing, “…the State’s Attorney of a county in which a defendant was sentenced to petition for resentencing of the offender if the original sentence no longer advances the interests of justice.” This proclamation was in a Bill that was signed into law by Governor Pritzker of Illinois in July of 2021. I was rather excited about these printed words, but I will return to that in a moment. First I would like to talk some more about “…further incarceration serves no rehabilitative purpose, nor does it advance the interest of justice.”

My thought after some reflection was: how could I get some advocate, who was not my attorney, to make this declaration on my behalf, “…further incarceration serves no rehabilitative purpose, nor does it advance the interest of justice.” Well it seemed to me that the first and most obvious step was to make sure that the testimonial could be stated truthfully. 

Any advice that I have ever heard about the American Dream involved the Protestant Work Ethic: work hard. I never encountered any asterisk, fine print, or qualification stating that the hard work had to be performed in any particular geographical location. Thus, I got after it, even though I was in prison. I began by rectifying my spiritual affairs, becoming an exemplary prisoner, as well as volunteering in the prison school teaching math to students that other teachers had given up on. This resulted in a multitude of “thank yous” and certificates, however I did not think that this would be enough for someone of power and authority to declare “…further incarceration serves no rehabilitative purpose, nor does it advance the interest of justice.” I had to do more.

The means for the ‘more’ that I needed to do arose out of a personal tragedy in 2010 when my mother lost her 20-year battle with the auto-immune disease Lupus at age 59.

The inheritance that she left me served two means, the financial means for the ‘more’ and as a means to pay tribute to her life. I earned a BA in Sociology from Adams State University graduating Cum Laude. The discipline of Sociology changed me irrevocably. I was always different from my peers, even as a child when my prized possession was my library card, most of the kids in my neighborhood couldn’t care less about a library card. I did not cry a tear about being on punishment, nor having my sports equipment taken, but if my mother took that library card, it was almost insufferable. Books could take my mind everywhere. For me, Sociology took me everywhere within the plight of humanity, it was yet another library card.

My final undergraduate course was on the same topic as my first, Statistics, and I had two separate aha moments in these courses. The first was the answer to something that I had seen in my social studies book as a child. It was a picture of someone holding up a newspaper that read, “Dewy Beats Truman.” I knew that Dewy had never been president, so how had the newspaper messed that up so badly? The discipline of statistics and its concept of randomness taught me how that had happened. The second aha moment, and the one most important to me personally, was learning that every medical research team—including those studying Lupus—had a statistician on the team. My felony convictions precluded me from ever becoming a rheumatologist, or any other kind of medical doctor, but I could become a statistician.

After some years of battle—hard work—with both prison and school officials, I was accepted into a distance studies master’s program in Statistics. I had to find a way to do a distance  internship though, because distance students in the University of Idaho’s Statistics program do not write theses. This arduous task, finding an internship that I could do while in prison, resulted in one of the most important data points on my resume: I interned for the Baker Center for Bioinformatics and Biological Statistics. It is not only the prestige that is attached to the center that makes it important. Nor is it solely because I was under the direct tutelage of one of the country’s best contemporary biological statisticians in Dr. Dan Nettleton. Rather, it is because it was my first full-on exposure to studying Lupus, the disease that had killed my mother.

I finished my internship on RNA-sequencing, and my certification with the National Institute of Health to do research on human subjects. Then after recovering from a horrid case of COVID-19, I graduated with a master’s of science degree in Statistical Science. I am in fact a statistician, yet I did not want to totally leave behind my new library card, Sociology.

A PhD in Sociology would allow me to become an expert in Medical Sociology and Computational Sociology. I applied to several programs, and not only was I accepted to my number one choice but I was accepted with full funding and a stipend. The program gave me a one-year deferral last year, but they fully expect me to be in Iowa City with my butt in a seat August 15^th 2022.

This opportunity has arrived as the result of years of ‘hard work.’ I am certain that any objective finder of fact can say with confidence that “…further incarceration serves no rehabilitative purpose, nor does it advance the interest of justice.” The facts that I have rehearsed to you are not facts that I believe that the Governor is aware of, as piloting the state through a pandemic and economic downturn during an election year have taken precedence over him reading my clemency application. However, my hope is that someone reading this has the wherewithal, individually or collectively, to tell him that in my case “…further incarceration serves no rehabilitative purpose, nor does it advance the interest of justice.” Perhaps he will be inclined to take the short time necessary to peruse my petition and pardon my remaining 3 years and 9 months concluding that the 26 years served suffices. This would allow me to get to work on my PhD, a key component to my American Dream.

Earlier I mentioned a bill that was signed into law in 2021. This law allows the State’s Attorney from the county of conviction (in my case Rock Island County, Illinois) to ask the court to resentence an individual if “the original sentence no longer advances the interest of justice.” Just as the case is with the governor, I am in no position to reach out to the State’s Attorney, but I make my plea to anyone who can do so, to do so, and please go read the case of the man who was given a 28 year blessing using this law. I also encourage you to bear in mind not only my academic resume, but also how differently I was treated as opposed to my codefendants. The other four persons charged with this crime—the attempted robbery of a drug dealer which resulted in his accidental shooting death—have all been out of prison for between 18 to 20 years. In addition, they were all released after only having served between 5 to 7.5 years. I am in my 26^th year of consecutive incarceration with 3.75 years remaining because, unlike my codefendants, my sentences for our crime spree of robbing drug dealers were run consecutive rather than concurrently. I would not be asking the State’s Attorney to request a reduction of my sentence, but rather a restructure of my sentence.

Is there fine print that goes along with the mantra that we are a country of second chances? Is the American Dream open to all? Is the Protestant Work Ethic actually the key? If the answer to the latter two of these three queries is yes, then I sincerely and humbly ask for your help as my August 10, 2022 deadline rapidly approaches. I implore you to convey to all of those concerned that “…further incarceration serves no rehabilitative purpose, nor does it advance the interest of justice.” I thank you with every fiber of my being, and most of all, God bless you.

Dear Congressional Black Caucus,

Please do not interpret my succinctness as a lack of compassion for, or command of, the issue– as a statistician and sociologist incarcerated for 24 years I have a plethora of both. The brevity of this message is but consideration given to your time. 

Respectfully, I remind you that this moment and movement is about more than police brutality, that heavy handedness is but one symptom of the god-awful disease. What we are calling out for is CRIMINAL JUSTICE REFORM. This  demands that incarceration be part of any proposal. Surely we do not believe that an entity that is ho-hum concerning the lives of Black men has been even handed in its administration of all of its other policies and practices. Many Black men find themselves incarcerated as a result of racist policing, illegal policing, and over-policing.  Mandatory minimums should be abolished and each individual convicted of a crime should be considered for release, by the board of parole, annually based on her or his merit and adjustment, and not solely their number of years served.

Too, both in and out of prison, those convicted of crimes [yes, even the dreaded drug offender] should be allowed to receive Pell Grants. The only scientifically proven cure for recidivism is post secondary education; a cure that even broadens the tax base and oxygenates Social secuity 

Thank you for your time and consideration.

**This was written last August after a 51 day lockup which ended up derailing two of Johnny’s courses and cost us thousands of dollars in tuition money. We held off on publishing this article for obvious reasons, but now wish to share it.  The 51 day lockup and investigation yielded no evidence of any wrongdoing by Johnny, but he suffered the scattershot of what others had done.  There was no apology, there was no recouping the lost tuition dollars.  It was just “gee, that’s too bad.” –Tracy

I appreciate all of the prayers, thoughts and well wishes.  I too can appreciate the inquiries and curiosity.  Even after my attorney received assurances from the state’s Attorney General’s office that my blog was fine, I’ve still remained reluctant to write.

In my 48 years on planet Earth I’ve learned one absolute truth concerning human beings: if you want an enemy, simply challenge authority, or tell the truth.  Vital to my future, my family’s future, and to the citizen that I want to be when I return to my community, is finishing my Master’s degree, and being prepared for a PhD program. I’ve been shown by a group of individuals that no matter how conservative their politics, that the education fetus is one that they are not only willing to, but want to abort.

It is fascinating to me that any correctional official in Iowa or Illinois would take personal exception to my blog.  To the chagrin of my academic adviser, who is also one of my mentors, I try to avoid personal anecdote in my writing for several reasons.  The first reason is that I am a scientist who is bound by the facts.  Secondly, I want to be taken as a serious writer, not as some disgruntled convict with an axe to grind.  And finally, precarious is my situation, and it would do no good to ruffle feathers.  Thus my writing fails to meet the mark of my adviser (who is an English professor) because I stand outside of it rather than submerging myself in it.  Then too, she’d rather that I pursue an advanced degree in Fine Arts instead of STEM.  I guess I am just a little more Cornell Belcher-ish than Richard Wright-ish.  But perhaps this present discourse grants her wish.

Some time ago I met a new employee of this prison and the person said to me smiling, “Well if it isn’t the enigma, it’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Back-and-White.”  The statement sounded so rehearsed that it caught my attention.  It was a perplexing statement of greeting, so after some small talk about math and stats, if there is any, I asked about it.  Did the person think that I viewed everything in terms of race?  Or that my sociology was void of nuance?  Ultimately the answer was one that a former employee had once advised me of, but it had faded into the recesses of my aging memory.  The “Black-and-White” statement wasn’t about me per se, but rather the person’s fellow employees, at least those who had voiced an opinion about me.  I was told that I have either advocates or detractors; no one with an opinion seemed to be indifferent.  There were no shades of grey, it was absolutely black and white, i.e., “That guy is unbelievably bright, we’ll never see him here again.”  Or, “I can’t stand that arrogant sonuvabitch, can you believe the administration is allowing him to do that?”

I know of this dichotomy, and thought that I knew the persons belonging to either group.  The reality of the existence of the latter group recently reared its ugly head, and did so in such a manner that I am left to wonder who is fish and who is fowl (or maybe foul is the word).

Again, pardon me for going light on details because I am attempting to avoid retaliation and further hardship on my family (my blog has a troll–I believe that phrase is a double entendre, making my English professor proud).  The situation took me back to a quote that I often share from Frederick Douglas’ writings:

“…To use his own words further, he said, ‘If you give a n—er an inch he will take an ell.  A n—er should know nothing but to obey his master–do as he’s told to do.  Learning would spoil the best n—er in the world.  Now if you teach that n—er how to read, there would be no keeping him, it would forever unfit him to be a slave.  He would at once become unmanageable, and of no value to his master.  As to himself, it could do him no good, but a great deal of harm.  It would make him discontented and unhappy. (emphasis added)

I will also remind you of something else I often share.  According to the Constitution of the United States I am, in fact, a slave:

Amendment XIII, section 1.  Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for a crime whereas the party should have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States….

When I returned to college, albeit as a distance student, it returned the vision I possessed as a boy (I should say “little boy” , because I am still a “boy” now, remember).  As a little boy I read rapaciously and unrepentantly.  My mom once happened upon me dumbfoundedly reading the instructions from a Summer’s Eve box.  She made me put it back under the bathroom sink and gave me something more age appropriate to read, The Prince, by Machiavelli.  My insatiable reading habits (which one of my nieces shares) resulted in me having an extremely wide scope and view of the world.  But by the time I had reached my 20’s and was in trouble with the law, my views had narrowed to tunnel vision-like proportions.  Yet, the journey that was the road to my Bachelor’s degree, was but a stroll down memory lane–quite literally.  I could quote portions of Homer’s Iliad by the time I was eight years old, or my dad would beat the fuck out of me.  What this post secondary excursion reminded me of is the fact that life is great, life is possible.  I have become “forever unfit” to be a slave, so I act and speak in that manner, often to my own peril.

What I sometimes fail to remember is, according to the aforementioned document that we hold so dear, I am a slave. The place where I presently reside is then, a plantation. From the 400 years of recorded American history we know that it takes a special kind of mentality to run the plantation.  It takes a personality that recognizes when a slave is becoming “unmanageable”, even if that unmanageability is but of the intellectual sort.  He must be willing to take action.

No matter how amiable the person at the top is, there are but so many times that he will step in to save the hide of even his most prized slave.  For the sake of clearly defined lines he must sometimes let the overseer have a pound of flesh, even when the slave has committed only a small, or even no infraction at all. This serves several ends, one of them is that it keeps the morale–not to be mistaken for morality– of his plantation managers high.  Too, it covers and hides the ineptitude of the incompetent and over-zealous overseers by placing the onus on the slave.  Finally, it keeps the slave’s spirit low and assures him of his diminished capacity, even when weighed against the lowbred and low browed.  The lashes I recently received were not of the absolutely debilitating sort, but they were brutal and scar leaving just the same.

I often mention the likes of Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglas, and even Cornell Belcher and Richard Wright. I realize I cannot hold a candle to these people, but I’d like to think I share their desire for justice and passion for egalitarianism. These are the folk upon whose shoulders I stand as I race toward my Master’s degree and eventual PhD. Nevertheless I am acutely aware of the fact that I will never be able to stand next to them.  They are incomparable in stature, they cast enormous shadows, and they were/are people of integrity.  My own stature is unremarkable, a gnat easily escapes the shadow I cast, and in order to lighten the heaviness of the lash–and continue my journey–I compromised my integrity.

I would probably do well if now and again I reminded myself of some numbers I’ve learned and shared.  The criminal justice system employs more than the three largest employers in America.  Further, each of the slaves confined to the plantations that litter the American criminal justice landscape is responsible for creating 1.1 criminal justice jobs each (this does not even take into account the latent jobs created, which brings it up to 1.9). Accordingly it does not behoove the country’s economy to lose too many slaves, as the livelihoods of 2.53 million families , many of one demographic, are dependent upon status quo regarding the number of slaves.  Even the rhetorically inept Donald Trump said as much, so we are keeping private prisons. With that said, if I indeed desire to leave the plantation, I should do so quietly.  That is not to say that “Massa” would not be the wiser, but perhaps he would turn a blind eye to my departure if I do not get the other slaves riled up through readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmatic.

My promise is, and God is my surety, if I am ever excreted form the bowels of this oppression, I will not go quietly into the night.  I will rabble-rouse, scream, shout and muckrake until my voice is quelled, my vitality is deplete, and I am no more…so help me God.

Johnny Pippins