by David Garcia

The first time I saw Eugene Jarecki’s documentary, The House I Live In, I was eight or nine years into a fourteen-year prison sentence for drug trafficking. It was my second time in prison. The first time I did eight years—reduced to six on appeal—for bank robbery. To say the documentary blew me away would be an understatement. It was like seeing the Wizard (from Oz) for the first time; the old white man behind the green curtain pushing every button that engineered the world he wanted to see. A world that saw me and others as nothing more than a hindrance—racial, social, political—that needed to be removed.

At that point in my life, I, and many other inmates, had a sense that we were a symptom of a much bigger problem. A problem that seemed less like a problem and more like colonial subjugation through intricate design. A design that The House I Live In not only exposes, but explains with remarkable empathy.

I can honestly say that every crime I ever committed was a direct result of drugs. Either because I was using, or selling them. I make no excuses. But I also know it’s easy for civilians—those who’ve never been to prison—to hear about a crime, see the mugshot of the person who committed it, and be comfortable with the sentence given. As the saying goes, “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.” Unless of course, it’s your loved one committing the crime and going to prison.

Nationally, an estimated 45% of people have an immediate family member who has been incarcerated, and 35% of people have an extended family member with a history of incarceration.

With that said, let’s take a look at who’s committing those crimes.