The first lesson every young man learns upon entering the prison system is that aggression is king and violence is law. The traits that are valued in the real world—honesty, generosity, friendliness—are viewed as weaknesses in prison. Weaknesses that are pounced upon and exploited. Survival in this world depends on at least the perception of brutality and if you’re not particularly brutal, you had better be a damn good actor.
So that’s what I’ve been doing for the last 22 years. Acting. Acting tough, acting hard, acting cold. Acting as if I don’t see the loneliness and sadness and brokenness that surrounds me. Why? Simple: Fear.
In 1992, a scrawny teenage version of myself looked around at the savage world of prison and said to my mind, “Help! I don’t wanna be jumped or stabbed or raped or beaten to death by abusive guards. I wanna make it back home in one piece!” And my mind, amazing babbling problem-solver that it is, said, “I got this,” and went to work on building a wall and posting the ultra-sensitive ego as a sentry to ward off any potential threats. My job was to act. And act I did. I spent so much time acting that I almost lost myself inside the façade that was supposed to be protecting me. Almost.
But looking at prison through the eyes of a 40-year-old man is a much different experience than seeing it through the eyes of a scared little 18-year-old kid. And recently, after decades of fortifying this hardened exterior and living with a conditioned mindset that places toughness over all other attributes, a series of books, films, and extraordinary people have wandered into my life with an unmistakable message: there is nothing more honorable, more radical, more standup than the path of kindness. Especially in such a hopeless world.
Suddenly—no, not suddenly—gradually, I wanted this more than anything else. Militant kindness. Love without fear. A wide open heart. For someone who has spent years coveting the appearance of fearlessness and physical strength, the concept of kindness, regardless of consequence, was a revelation. A last shot at a life of meaning and authenticity. I wanted to get back to the me I was before all of this acting BS began, back to the kid I built these walls to protect.
Kindness. It seems like such an easy choice. But a crazy thing happens when you drop your guard and step from behind that icy standoffish barrier: people become comfortable around you. Comfortable enough to open up, to confide in you, and occasionally, comfortable enough to hurt you. Or at least say things that are damaging to your ego. But that is what we want, isn’t it? It’s what I want. This lonely half-life of keeping the world at arm’s length for a false sense of safety and to defend the ego is a fool’s game and the exhaustive struggle to continue propping up an illusion is not only cowardice, it’s treasonous.
Only kindness matters.
[This post first appeared on malcolmivey.com 10/30/14 and was featured on Huffington Post on 11/29/14.]
4 thoughts on “The radical choice of militant kindness”
It’s a beautiful thing that you’ve found presence and were able to discard the ego and pain body you devloped all those years. I don’t want to sound like a caricature of a spiritual person, but the horrible experience of spending all that time in prison has had its blessing as well. You might not have awakened on the outside. Know I mean, brother? Stay strong. Stay kind.
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Thanks, man. Appreciate your insight, as always.
Trust me, it doesn’t require a physical prison to lead us to act a part, even if it is for a different type of survival. I almost traded on my best friend, one I had had since I was a sophomore in college. We had a great friendship, going on some 20+ years. And then I began to become quite good in a brand new career (as a financial advisor practitioner—the problem was not the career; it was my attitude re: my personal priorities). I was scared to death to fall off the sudden success I began to experience, and so I doubled down on my efforts.
It took your 2nd cousin Jude and the amazing faith of your cousin and his mommy Hannah, to shake me loose from the crazy path I had been following. And to get me back on rebuilding that friendship which had been slipping through my fingers.
That friend was and is Jesus. Believe me, the instinct to survive can play tricks in all kinds of places and settings, only to betray you from those things or people of greatest importance to you and me.
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Thanks, Marcus. I’m glad your acquaintance with Jude provided a path to get back to what’s important to you. Appreciate your thoughts.