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They say that time behind bars makes criminals better
at what they went in for. A gangbanger makes more gang connections, and a
small-time bank robber learns from the best. The same holds true for
Springfield peace activist Diane Lopez Hughes, who just got home after 45
days in the Muscogee County Jail, in Columbus, Ga. Jail strengthened her
resolve to oppose war and help the poor, while showing her connections
between those causes. It gave her time to think about her life and ways she
might change it. And it gave her a new cause to add to her list: jail
advocacy.
For years Hughes has been the indefatigable local
voice for peace-and-justice causes, one of the organizers of every rally,
protest, and interfaith peace service. She sends out many e-mails a day
urging the faithful to write in support of this position or attend that
event. At the end of every gathering she’s the one who announces
half-a-dozen more events coming up. She has so much energy, and is so
persistent in trying to get people to do right things, that she can wear
people out. Some of her many supporters got a welcome rest after she went
to jail for her act of civil disobedience — “crossing the
line” to go onto military property during last November’s
annual protest at Fort Benning, Ga. But at a March 16 reception, where
dozens of friends came out to welcome her home, there was a sense of relief
that a leader has returned and life can get back to normal. “I think leaders need to go to jail,” she
told me, and she didn’t just mean governors. If more people with some
power and influence spent time in this country’s lockups, they would
change some of the petty abuses visited on the mostly poor who find
themselves there. “Anything beyond depriving people of their freedom
is ‘cruel and unusual’ punishment,” she says. “How
much can coffee cost?” She knows that not all jails are like Muscogee
County’s, and even it wasn’t terrible. The worst parts were bad
food, no caffeine, cold rooms, a TV blaring 15 hours a day, and senseless
rules. What all jails may have in common is their waste of time and lives.
“There is no attempt at rehabilitation and no opportunity for
restitution,” Hughes says. “We need to use community service
more for nonviolent crimes.” She is eager to investigate conditions
at the Sangamon County Jail. “The guards are more in prison than the
inmates,” she said. “For the guards, an act of kindness was
countercultural” — though there were a few. Once, the TV was
left on past the time when it was supposed to be turned off. When a
sleep-deprived Hughes approached the guard, who was not known for
thoughtfulness, to ask that the rules be followed, she was told that some
inmates were being allowed to finish a movie they had been watching.
In contrast to mostly mean guards, the women built a
community of resourcefulness. “There were lots of hugs.” They
made a pencil holder from a toilet-paper tube, only to have it confiscated
as contraband. They made soap dishes from magazine covers, and toothpaste
worked as glue to decorate the walls with greeting-card pictures. Socks
were forbidden, so underpants became socks and headscarves. Adhesive from
an oversupply of sanitary pads was used as tape for any number of purposes.
How did jail change her? “The first thing you
learn is humility,” Hughes says. “You’re one of the
girls, no different and no better than anybody else.” She has always
known that intellectually, but this drove the point home. And humility
leads to patience, both with people and with the work: “You need
patience to do the things we do, like standing on street corners holding
signs. This war may continue for a long time. If you believe in peace and
justice, you have to be patient.”
Hughes regards her 45 days as “a gift of space
and time.” A devout Catholic, she plans to go on retreat soon, to
discern where she’s needed most and how to spend her time. “We
run through life,” she says. “We never get to know who we are
and what we’re meant to do. If I’m going to be a nonviolent
person, then I need to stop rushing from here to there, because rushing is
a form of violence.” She notes that major peace events were planned
and carried out in her absence: “My time away reminds me that I
don’t need control. In jail I had time to write and read. I need
that.”
In her time of discernment, she’ll ask what God
wants her to do next — but it won’t be a one-way conversation.
“Don’t tell me I can’t add one more thing,” she
says, as though rehearsing her argument. “Jail advocacy is important.
Jesus himself tells us to visit people in prison.”
Contact Fletcher Farrar at ffarrar@illinoistimes.com.
This article appears in Mar 13-19, 2008.
