Issac J. Bailey | The hardest, highest standard

What would I want to happen to a 14-year-old who tried to rape and murder my wife?

Michael Dukakis was asked a similar question during a 1988 presidential debate against George H.W. Bush and his answer essentially killed his campaign. Dukakis, a staunch opponent of the death penalty, dispassionately said he still wouldn’t be in favor of capital punishment even if that horror was inflicted upon his wife, Kitty.

I’ve been asked that question in a variety of ways since I wrote a column a few weeks ago restating my belief that kids should be treated as what they are – kids – even when they do something awful, especially when they do something awful.

I was writing in reference to the 16-year-sentence Zireek Brooks received for trying to rape and for shooting Danielle D. Switzer, a woman who said she was simply trying to help out a strange young man who had asked for a ride.

I also mentioned the horror visited upon Brenda Williams by a desperate woman, Katherine Johnson, who left Williams paralyzed after dragging her on the pavement of the Kmart parking lot under the car as Johnson fled the scene.

Brooks was 14-years-old when he nearly killed Switzer.

I said I believe his age does matter, as does the circumstances in which he grew, that they must be considered mitigating factors in his punishment, though he must be punished.

I don’t believe kids should be transferred to adult court.

I’ve been called naïve and foolish for that belief. I’ve heard from those who’ve said that when someone does something so horrific, it can’t legitimately be described as the action of a child, that age at that moment is little more than a number.

They wanted to remind me that victims have to live with what they experienced for the entirety of their lives, that the pain and fear may never leave them, that the victims are never the same.

I believe all of that’s true.

But none of it changes my belief that it does not serve society well to demand that kids be treated as kids in just about every endeavor – no matter how mature or how ready they are to handle grown-up responsibility, even better than many adults – except when they frighten or hurt us.

I believe there should be a bright, red line between childhood and adulthood, with the former being the domain to better prepare them for the latter, no matter the circumstances.

I get that it’s not a popular position in this state, which is why South Carolina has among the highest rates in the nation of kids being transferred into adult court.

And I get that to some ears, it sounds like excuse-making or a minimization of the pain caused.

But neither ocan be further from the truth. Brooks and Johnson and anyone else who commit a heinous crime must be punished; it’s just a matter of how much, in what form and to what end.

Justice means a lot of things – finding a way to reduce the likelihood the ugly will be repeated, taking into account the victim’s anguish, and righting wrongs, among other things.

And when it comes to those underage, it must include a legitimate attempt at rehabilitation, which is supposed to be the top concern of the S.C. Department of Juvenile Justice.

Which brings me back to the question I’ve been asked so many times recently: If something dastardly happened to my wife or someone else I love dearly, what would I want to happen to the person who committed the act?

Let me first put aside the fact that a childhood friend has been blind since high school because of a bullet to his head, and that I feared for my mother’s life because a few young men considered shooting up her home just minutes before changing their minds and shooting up an apartment where their actions left one of my nieces without a mother.

I understand well the pain violent crime can inflict upon a family.

How would I react if it was my wife?

I don’t know, though I imagine a significant part of me would want to rip the arms off the person who harmed her and see him rot in hell.

But what I do know is that forgiveness is hard – really, really hard – and that the command to love your enemy is the most difficult thing any of us will ever be called to do, especially when that enemy forever alters your world through a violent act.

To do so, we have to take into account their entire humanity, not just the part we hate, not just the part we’d feel fine spitting upon.

Frankly, I don’t want to be tested in such a way. I don’t even doubt that I could fail – spectacularly, miserably – to uphold such a high standard.

But when I’m not strong enough to uphold it, I’m hoping there will always be someone else there who will.