We love to hear stories, and many of
us like to tell stories, as well. Our brains are evolved to look for patterns
and connect the dots of our experience into a coherent narrative. A new book
has just been published that recounts a disturbing story. Distinguished law
professor, MacArthur Foundation grant recipient, and executive director of the
Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama, Dr. Bryan Stevenson has written
Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption. Stevenson tells the story of
his experiences defending the poor and wrongfully convicted in the South. In
particular, he tells the story of Walter McMillan, an African American
convicted of murdering a white woman in Alabama. After a trial of only one and
a half days, in which prosecutors withheld exculpatory evidence, the judge
imposed the death sentence—over
the jury’s
recommendation for life imprisonment. Behind MacMillan’s story
lies another, deeply insidious story. But first, two other stories told, and
redeemed.
I have always found “The Three
Little Pigs” a deeply troubling story—and my
concern has
How a story is
told makes all the difference. The version I read to my children, and the way I
read it to them, emphasized that the porcine siblings were deeply connected and
could relay on one another for food, shelter, and emotional comfort. In the
hands of the person who wrote this version it became a very different story,
one about sibling loyalty and mutual nurturance, not about judgment and
punishment.
The Flood account is an example of
how tone, nuance, and perspective make all the difference in the meaning of a
story. In the ancient Near East, there were other flood stories, including the
Berossos account (dated to ~275 B.C.E. and preserved largely in Greek
histories), the Epic of Atra(m)hasis (which survived in fragmentary form), and
the Epic of Gilgamesh, found in excavations of Nineveh, the capital of the
Assyrian Empire in the 7th century B.C.E.
All of them, along with the story in the Bible, were most likely
preceded by an Ur-text that we do not have, a flood story that inspired many
versions, just as the earliest version of “The Three Little Pigs” has spawned many subsequent versions.
And just as the way I chose a version of “The Three Little Pigs” for my children, and layered it with
my emphasis and interpretation, so too, the way Torah retold the Ur-text flood
account and imposed its concerns and values on it, reveals a great deal. The
Torah’s flood
story seems remarkably similar to the one in the Epic of Gilgamesh, but in
reality it’s a very
different story.
Here is the story of Gilgamesh, the
most complete version of the ancient flood stories, in brief:
Gilgamesh is the
king of Uruk and the most powerful king on earth. He is two-thirds god and
one-third human. His people complain that he is harsh and abusive, so the
creation goddess Aruru creates a wild-man named Enkidu to be Gilgamesh’s friend
and soul mate (and, it appears, distraction). Gilgamesh and Enkidu set out on
an adventure of truly epic proportions—this is, after all, an epic tale—and in the
course of events, Enkidu is killed. Gilgamesh is overcome with grief and slips
into an existential crisis. How can he avoid Enkidu’s
fate? How can he avoid death? Gilgamesh sets out on a new journey: he seeks
immortality. He hears that there is one, and only one, man who has escaped
mortality. His name is Utnapishtim and he lives with his wife far away from any
society on an island hard to reach. Utnapishtim tells Gilgamesh the story of
the great flood, from which he was saved by building a boat to ferry himself
and his wife through the storm. Utnapishtim tells Gilgamesh not to wish for
immortality because it is very lonely. The Epic of Gilgamesh addresses the
existential crisis of mortality: Why can’t we be
immortal? Why do we have to die? Our Torah addressed that question in last week’s parashah, in the story
of the Garden of Eden.
 |
| Gilgamesh |
The Flood story in parshat Noach and
the deluge account in the Epic of Gilgamesh share a host of common features:
Both Utnapishtim and Noah are ordered to build an ark of several stories with
one door and many compartments, seal it with pitch, and fill it with animals to
repopulate the world following the flood. Each releases birds following the
flood. Both arks land on a mountain top. Utnapishtim and Noah both offer
sacrifices after emerging from the ark and are blessed in return.
For all their similarities, however,
the story of Noah is wholly different from the tale of
The seemingly small differences in
the two stories speak volumes, as well. Gilgamesh comes from a polytheistic
society; the gods bring about a flood to destroy humanity because they are
annoyed that people have disturbed their sleep with their noise. There is no
moral order to the universe here; just the caprice of gods with limited power and
patience. The sacrifice Utnapishtim offers after the flood leads to quarreling
and recriminations among the gods. Their blessing is for Utnapishtim and his
wife, alone; then they are removed from society and must live alone. In
contrast, God’s
purpose in flooding the earth is to destroy evil and end corruption among human
beings. The story pre-supposes a moral order that has been violated. God
realizes the plan is a mistake when God comes to understand the nature of human
evil: it is inherent in our free will. Noah’s sacrifice therefore leads to God’s promise
never to flood the earth again, and to God’s blessing and covenant, which are
for all humanity, not just for one man and his wife.
This brings us back to Bryan
Stevenson’s telling
of the story of Walter McMillan. Just as a gloomy view of humanity lies behind
the original version of “The
Three Little Pigs,” an
insidious story lies behind the account of Walter McMillan’s trial.
The Sentencing Project, a group that advocates for prison reform, reported last
year (August 2013) that, “Racial
minorities are more likely than white Americans to be arrested; once arrested,
they are more likely to be convicted; and once convicted, they are more likely
to be incarcerated than white males and 2.5 times more likely than Hispanic
males.”[1]
Shamefully, the United States has the highest incarceration rate in the world.
In 1972, our prisons held 300,000 prisoners; today they hold 2.2 million, an
increase in excess of 700%. The report warned that one in three black males
born today can expect to go to prison during their lifetime. The story behind
the story of mass incarceration in America, and particularly the imprisonment
of African Americans, and the instruments for these dramatic and alarming
statistics include the Three-strikes Law (in 24 states), mandatory sentencing,
and the Anti-Drug Abuse Act of 1986 that increased penalties for crack cocaine
use, despite the fact that it is consider the same as cocaine in Schedule II of
the Controlled Substances Act. The
report tells us that, “The
United States in effect operates two distinct criminal justice systems: one for
wealthy people and another for poor people and minorities.”[2]
The story behind the story Stevenson
tells and the Sentencing Project confirms, goes back to the 1970s “politics
of fear” (pumped up in no small measure by
conservative politicians and media pundits) and the 1990s myth of the “Super
predator” (described by Princeton political
scientist John J. DiIulio, Jr. as “a young juvenile criminal who is so impulsive,
so remorseless, that he can kill, rape, maim, without giving it a second
thought”). Dilulio
studied crime statistics and predicted a tidal wave of death and destruction
committed by violent teenagers, with crime rates doubling or tripling by the
mid-2000s. “We’re talking
about a group of kids who are growing up essentially fatherless, godless, and
jobless.” Northeastern University criminologist
James Fox predicted a “blood
bath of teenage violence” by 2005.
The rhetoric of the “super
predator” ignited extreme fear directed largely
at young black males.
Criminologist Barry Krisberg has
pointed out that race became the central issue when DiIulio predicted that half
the “super
predators” could be young black males. Soon most
every state enacted laws to crackdown on juvenile offenders—just as
juvenile crime rates began plummeting, though not because of the new laws
passed. DiIulio now says his prediction was entirely erroneous, off by a factor
of four: “The super
predator idea was wrong. Once it was out there, though, it was out there. There
was no reeling it in.” As
Krisberg has pointed out, DiIulio, Fox, and all those who jumped onto the “super
predator” scare-wagon, created a myth—a
narrative or story—that
became “truth” to a wide swath of America.
Despite the fact that DiIulio and Fox
disavowed their dire predictions and signed onto an amicus brief for the
Supreme Court in 2000 that would ban mandatory life sentences for juveniles
convicted of murder, and despite the fact that the Supreme Court decided in
favor of the amicus brief, the myth remains potent. We now live in a world in
which DWB (“Driving
While Black”) has
entered our lexicon.
In 1988, Walter MacMillan was
convicted of murder and sentenced by a judge to death—despite
the fact that the prosecution had a witness who saw the victim alive after the
time they claimed she had been murdered (evidence they hid) and despite the
fact that at the time of the murder, MacMillan was at a church fish fry attended by a dozen people prepared to
testify to his alibi. Thanks to Bryan Stevenson, MacMillan was exonerated in
1993—after
spending five years on Alabama’s death row.
Every time we tell a story—from Torah
or from our own lives—we
invest it with meaning, both good and bad. An erroneous and dangerous story
needs to be redeemed. In 1997, Eugene Trivizas published a gem of a children’s book
entitled, “The Three
Little Wolves and the Big Bad Pig” (wonderfully
illustrated by Helen Oxenbury) that brilliantly does to the original “Three
Little Pigs” what Noah does to Gilgamesh: turns
the story inside out and brings to it a new world of meanings. Gone is the
negative assumption about humanity’s nature and potential. Gone is the
selfishness condoned by the original “Three Little Pigs.” Do yourself a favor and get hold of a
copy; I reread it recently and it has stood the test of time. (And it’s funny,
to boot.)
Stories are gifts that keep giving:
both good and bad. They have an enormous effect. I hope that Stevenson’s telling
of Walter MacMillan’s
story, and his tireless efforts to impose genuine justice on our less-than-just
judicial system will help correct the false narrative that prevails in America
and lead to much-needed change. I hope Just Mercy will help redeem the
situation we are in.
© Rabbi
Amy Scheinerman
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