“I was in jail for about 20 years and served on death row for three.”
Attending non-violence training at the Institute for Nonviolence Chicago–– where I would be volunteering for the remainder of the summer–– I met Bennie Lee. With dark brown eyes and worn-out leather sandals on his feet, Bennie greeted me with nothing but compassion and warmth. I realized that he was the man that would be leading the nonviolence training.

Throughout the training, he spoke about nonviolence not as a decision but a way of life and a resolve. Beyond preaching these words, whether it was the delicate way he spoke or the manner he presented himself, Bennie embodies the nonviolent lifestyle. I was gaining deep respect for this man and found myself chatting with him whenever time allowed. I learned lessons from Bennie on the intricacies of the crime epidemic in Chicago, how to practice inner-peace, and how to resolve tense situations. However, none of these lessons were what resonated with me most about the training. 

On the final day of the training, Bennie began to talk about his past. Shortly into his account, he mentioned that he had been imprisoned for about twenty years and had served on death row for three. He became the leader of one of Chicago’s biggest street gangs at the age of 13. I was confused and taken aback upon hearing this. I had developed great admiration for this man, which I immediately questioned now that I was informed on the earlier years of his life.

I struggled to accept that what he said was true because of the perception I had of those who were involved with the criminal justice system. I also struggled to accept his past because of the valuable lessons he had been teaching me. Although this may be manifest, society has ingrained in me that those who committed crimes were society’s worst people and should be avoided at all costs. Not only did I find myself in a room with a man whom I would learn had been charged with 15 counts of murder, but I had also been learning some of my greatest lessons of nonviolence from him. Society had taught me that ex-convicts were not supposed to act like Bennie and were certainly not supposed to have his temperament or charisma.

Meeting Bennie allowed me to think about the adverse ways in which I and many others so often impetuously judge people. On a broader level, I was able to think about the ways in which society defines and classifies people. If I had heard about Bennie’s turbulent past before getting to know him, I would have defined him by one dimension of his past, ignoring the man that he proved to be now. 

Hearing Bennie’s story made me question the criminal justice system in a new way. I believed I was well aware of the deep-rooted injustices in the system, and although I could still never truly understand the prejudice entrenched in the system, listening to Bennie allowed me to have a more humanistic understanding. To me, he represented serenity and unquestionably exuded inner-peace just as he had preached.

Although he did not use this as an excuse for his actions, the circumstances he experienced growing up put him at unfavorable odds. I felt a sense of guilt knowing that I had questioned the validity of the training after I learned of his time in prison. I learned a valuable lesson on the premature judgments I and others often make, especially about people who have been involved with the criminal justice system. If I had been informed of Bennie’s past before understanding his dedication to the nonviolence field, I am ashamed to say that I may not have received the training the way I did.

Perhaps not everyone’s views will align on the extent to which we must reintegrate the formerly convicted. However, the idea that we should all make conscious efforts to reject judgment and that we should accept positive changes made in the lives of others is something from which we can all benefit.