In Defense of Public Defense

For justice to be fair and equitable, communities require qualified and unbiased members of the judiciary, prosecutors, and public defenders. Three years ago, I was selected to serve on a three-person panel overseeing the public defense program in LaPorte County. Just last week, the board began interviewing potential candidates to replace the current Chief Public Defender, Craig Braje, a significant matter within our local legal community. As the general public may not always recognize the importance of public defense and its impact on both the country and the local community, it is important to explain why this aspect of our civic structure deserves attention.

The United States Constitution, namely the Sixth Amendment, guarantees certain rights to those facing criminal charges. However, it was only in the groundbreaking ruling in Gideon v. Wainwright by the Supreme Court in 1963 that these rights were extended to apply at the state level as well. In this case, Clarence Gideon was charged with felony breaking and entering in a Florida state court. He was denied a court-appointed lawyer because state statutes only provided free legal representation in capital offense cases.

As a result of Gideon v. Wainwright, there was a significant shift towards fairness and balance in the criminal justice system. It provided a tool for judges to assist those unable to afford legal counsel in a community, placed a greater responsibility on lawyers to provide legal services, and created a need for local and state funds to support public defense. As is often the case with government initiatives, public defense was an unfunded mandate. The repercussions of this clarified Amendment demanded action.

The administration of public defense systems varies by state. In Missouri, a centralized state public defender's office with regional branches assigns attorneys to cases and receives funding from state allocations. On the other hand, in Indiana, the responsibility for public defense falls on county-level entities overseen in collaboration by the state. This includes a local board known as the Public Defender Board, which consists of three appointees - one chosen by the county commission, one by the county judiciary, and one by the state Public Defender Commission. "The duties of the board include holding at least four annual meetings, creating a strategic plan, and selecting a Chief Public Defender. If a county chooses to participate in Indiana's funding and oversight system, the cost will be split between the county and the state. LaPorte County has chosen to participate, but Porter County has yet to.

The importance of these arrangements cannot be overstated. LaPorte County allocates approximately $1.4 million annually to public defense. This investment may be concerning when considering the cost of defending those accused of criminal acts. Providing adequate legal defense is not just about seeking justice for the defendant; it is also crucial for the victims and the community as a whole. Regardless of financial status or social standing, everyone has the inherent right to a fair and just trial and competent legal representation. Insufficient support for the public defender system can compromise the integrity of the judicial system and violate fundamental human rights. It can also lead to significant costs in cases of wrongful conviction and settlements. It is the responsibility of our society and community to protect these fundamental principles and ensure that every individual receives a fair trial.

Because he had to defend himself, the poorly educated Clarence Gideon lacked the experience and knowledge to navigate the American legal system. He was sentenced to five years in prison for breaking and entering based on false testimony from a supposed eyewitness. However, after appealing to the Supreme Court and receiving a public defender, Gideon's conviction was overturned when his lawyer proved that the testimony was erroneous and did not occur as claimed. Clarence Gideon deserved justice, and I am grateful to live in a place that strives to ensure that even individuals convicted of crimes can receive it.

Learn from my (parenting) mistakes

When my wife first told me we were going to parents back in 2008, there were equal parts excitement and anxiety. My parents had each divorced a few times, and though I dearly loved them both, there were some things I wanted to make sure I did differently as a parent. Fortunately, my dad (the only parent I have left living) encouraged me to parent differently, as we should all learn from the mistakes of previous generations. 

My kids are creative, funny, kind, and unique. It is such an honor to be their dad. But, there are already tangible mistakes I can pinpoint that I hope others can learn to correct. We will all make mistakes as parents. There are no perfect parents. But, perhaps these three lessons will be three fewer that you will need to battle in your parenting journey. 

Expect your children to be different from each other. 

While my kids all share some similarities, they all three are unique individuals. For example, Nora loves books, Finley loves engineering, and Harrison loves people. But, it's easy to see how their interests part. What can be more difficult is understanding how their emotional, mental, and spiritual makeup deviates from one another. 

Every child likes different things, but every child also responds differently to various stimuli and challenges. While "fairness" is often called upon by children in dealing with each other, there's nothing unfair in understanding that each child may have different expectations depending on the season. One of our children is much harder on themselves than the two others. They can go very dark and low if the pressure is put too much on their success. One of our other children needs and expects regular prodding and challenging to motivate them in their next battle. Never expect your children to be the same. Their uniqueness is a gift to themselves and you. 

Praise them for their hard work, not outcomes. 

My kids hear a consistent message from me that I'm sure they're tired of hearing. In short, it's that we may not be the most beautiful, powerful, or affluent people in a room, but we can be the hardest working. 

Some kids are natural athletes. Some are gifted students. For an academically astute child to receive exemplary grades is nice but expected. However, working hard and receiving a B is a true feat for a child with learning disabilities or no interest in schooling. What's most important is not the outcome (whether it was an easy A or a hard-earned B-), but that they put in the work and tried their best to achieve it. 

If your child isn't talented at sports like mine aren't, there's something to be said for going out there every day, practicing, and trying hard to succeed. Honor their hard work. As adults, there are times that the outcomes we desire don't happen, but when we've tried our best to achieve them, there is still satisfaction in that journey. If the only measure of success is the ideally desired winning outcome, life will be a disappointment. We won't always succeed. Other people might get the job. Sometimes colleges accept other people. But, we can all work hard to do our best and rest well knowing that we tried. 

Don't be afraid of questions. 

One of our kids is on their way to becoming a world-class philosopher, I'm sure of it. But, even at a young age, they asked deep questions about epistemology, divinity, and ethics. I remember being somewhat panicked when I wasn't confident in the answer I was giving them to a question with many nuances. But, my wife and I decided early on that we wouldn't lie to our children about God, faith, or the nature of the world. 

Sometimes our kids ask a question, and we answer it thoughtfully and satisfactorily. Other times, we don't. There are times when I tell my kids that I don't know the answer or haven't decided what I think about a particular topic yet. But, I've learned that it's a great gift to a child to ask them, "What do YOU think?" Listen, learn, and take it in. Perhaps you're not that interested in whether the Marvel villain Thanos was misunderstood (as one of my children will argue). Still, by embracing the conversation, you're sending a message to your children that their parents are a safe place to deal with life. 

My wife was a pastor's kid who is now raising pastor's kids. She was wisely determined early on that our family would not be afraid of tough questions and be humble in embracing nuanced answers. 

I could write a dozen other mistakes and lessons I've learned in my time as a dad. And, there are dozens of more lessons I still need to learn. But I love being a dad. Your children are a gift from God. You've been given an incredible gift to help form them into good humans. So, be patient with yourself and your children, and enjoy the journey. 

It goes quick!

Indiana, what do we value?

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LaPorte, Indiana is not as rural as the towns featured in this VICE News segment, but we share some similarities with these communities. Recently, I heard a story about the differences that have happened in the last 10-15 years in the number of applicants for a gym teacher position. In the past, there might be 15-20 applicants. Now, they are lucky to get 4-6 candidates.

Last year, research published by Indiana State University suggested that of the 220 districts that responded to the survey, 91 percent reported experiencing a teacher shortage. What is causing the shortage? According to their data, a combination of factors including lack of pay and high turnover. To illustrate this sobering reality, the U.S. Department of Education said that in Indiana, inflation-adjusted teacher pay has fallen since the 1999-2000 school year to the point where teachers now earn almost 16 percent less than they did two decades ago.

All my life, my father has repeated this axiom, "If you want to know what someone values, take a look at their pocketbook." While that's not true in every circumstance, there is some truth to it. If we value the development of children and education in Indiana, we should be willing to compete with the states that are compensating their educators far more than the Hoosier state.

Over the last year, in helping a small team of teachers and staff at our local elementary school achieve certification and develop curriculum, I witnessed the incredible lengths that educators, staff, counselors, and administrators go to provide every student with a thorough and efficient education while also working to bolster a child's social-emotional well-being.

It's late nights and early mornings. It's pressure from administrators and parents to meet standards that are not always well-defined. It's processing stories of trauma and chaos with a child while trying to create environments of inclusion and embrace (but, don't forget about those education standards!) It's being scapegoated when something in a school doesn't work, but also being asked to do more with less each year. It's being told that "we need to stop teaching to the test!" while being handed new requirements for the next test. It's recognizing that they can make more money in another vocation, but holding strong to the unrequited joy and satisfaction when a child gets "it" for the first time.

We need more public school teachers. We need better-paid public school teachers. And, not for the sake of the educators; for the hope of a healthy and adjusted society. If you want to know what someone values, take a look at their pocketbook.

On the 18th Anniversary of My Mother's Death

My mother with my sister, Heather. 

On January 15th everything was seemingly normal. By evening on January 16th, everything changed. It’s been 18 years since the tragic evening when my mother died. She was 36 years old. It’s been so long since I have shed a tear about my mother passing. The shock of the situation is over. After all, I have lived more of my life without her than I did with her. Yet, there’s still a profound heaviness each year on this day. It’s a day when I’m willing to let my memories collide with the potential of a life with her in it. I don’t often entertain the question of “what if…” as I find little value in looking at the world in impossible outcomes. She’s dead and she’s gone, of that there’s no doubt. For years I thought it was a bad dream of grief and anger and guilt. I prayed for resurrection. I prayed for another conversation. I prayed for relief and release.

The finality of her death set in a number of years ago and I opened my eyes to reality. It’s been my experience that tragedy has a way of leaving an indelible mark on those who suffer with the tragedy. Not all deaths are tragic, but my mother’s was. The worst part is that when death happens, the impact of the relationship doesn’t die with it. That’s the most difficult aspect of death. You just find a way to be comfortable living with suspension of the relationship in light of the brutal finality that is separation in death. Christ has brought me rest from the burden. 

But, today I allow myself the freedom to wonder, “what if…” 

What if my mother didn’t know how much I loved her because of my frustrations with her addiction? 
What if my mother would have been successful in getting treatment for her depression and addictions? 
What if my uncle Danny wouldn’t have died months earlier and her sadness wouldn’t have accelerated her addiction? 
What if my mother could see my siblings and me now? 
What if my mother was around and she could help my aunt and my cousins take care of my grandfather? 
What if my mother could see my children? Would she see herself in my daughter as much as I do?

Some questions lead me to laughter thinking about what life would be like. Other questions lead to a bit of sadness. But, I wonder. 

What I don’t wonder anymore is whether or not my mother loved me. Though I can’t speak for all people who love those facing addictions, my temptation was to believe that my mother loved her addiction to alcohol more than she loved me. My rather elementary [and ignorant] understanding of addiction was that if I would simply explain to my mother that I didn’t want her to drink anymore, she would abstain out of her love for me. Since she didn’t do it, she didn’t love me, or my rather distorted thinking told me. But addiction doesn’t operate in the expanse of logic and rationality and deductive reasoning. This is why addiction can be so troubling: it leads you to do things that you don’t want to do, but have little control over. It’s compulsive and abrasive. It’s not rational. It’s love misplaced. 

My mother loved me, in spite of her hurts and hangups. She loved me. She didn’t always know how to deal with everything raging within her. She was pregnant at 15 years old. She was divorced and had four children. She didn’t marry men who valued her uniqueness or her partnership. She wasn’t unlike many people I know who are a bit lost in the high tide of the seas of life, but unlike many I know: she had four children. My mourning for my mother always accompanies compassion. Her life wasn’t easy. I don’t know what I would have done if I was her. But, I know my mother loved me. And, as I reflect on her death, I tried to remember what she gave me in life. 

I miss you, mom. You are loved more passionately than you ever knew or understood. 

Day 3: The Unabomber, Crabs, and the Best Kind of Letter

Words are a passion of mine. Some people love to build great temples and buildings with their bare hands and mighty tools. My grandfather used to tell me that the most satisfying part of being a concrete man was that he could see what he built at the end of the day. His labor was rewarded with something tangible. Something real. Words are the same for me. When I write or read a perfectly organized and poignant sentence, there are few things I enjoy more. A perfect sentence shouldn't just say the premise, but saying it in a way that also scratches at that creative element of the self that rarely gets moved throughout the day. Sure, the most important part of a word is the essence of what it communicates; the actual thing of it all. But, what fun is it just living within the singular purpose of something? It's maddening and constricting.

There are days that I dream of moving to Montana and purchasing a cabin with countless acres and spotty electrical service just to write words and sentences that matter to me. It is a dream that those words may matter to others as well. But then I think, "I bet that's exactly how the Unabomber's dream started as well. You're playing fast and loose with your already frail sanity, Loucks." It always starts off innocently enough, I'm sure. But then when you realize that your dreams are far too closely paralleled to serial murderers, it's time to enter back into the real world. And quick. The world of mortgages and people and problems and kids is where I belong. 

We are now finished with the third day of my wife and son's trip to Romania. I'm happy to report that my two oldest children who stayed behind with me are both alive and well. Some would even argue that they're happy, though that argument would likely have some objectionable holes in it. Without my wife, happiness is a virtue that we have all sought to attain only in small blessed increments, not in sustained moments. She is the glue, we are her popsicle sticks. 

Yesterday was grocery shopping day. I picked Dino-boy up from the babysitter's house and Nora up from her after-school program. Immediately the complaints started pouring in: 

"Dad, I'm hungry." 
[we'll go to a restaurant and eat...]

"Dad, my legs are hurting. I think I'm growing too much. Can you do something about that?"
[yes, I can fix anything, I'm your dad. We fix this specific problem by not complaining about it anymore. It's holistic therapy. I read it on the internet...]

"Dad, Dino-boy won't sing the right words to the songs. Make him stop."
[I like it when Dino-boy sings. Let him sing the words he feels are the right ones. Stop stifling his fun, Captain Misery McComplain Pants...]

"Dad, my stomach hurts because I haven't eaten in a long time."
[she had, in fact, eaten that day... I think...]

We made a quick stop at a restaurant and headed to the grocery store. Dino-boy has been infected by a love for Taylor Swift songs as of late. He can't get enough of them. Because I'm dedicated and working extra hours for my "Father of the Year" coffee mug, our car rides have been filled with frivolity and T-Swift listening parties. After we parked and the radio was shut off, apparently the song "22" was still playing in Dino-boy's heart because he kept going with it. Loudly. We walked into the store and he's still singing, wearing his Dino-cap, because he's now the Singing Dino-boy. Then an older lady with bangs from the 80's looks down on me in pity. I smile politely back at her and she says, "Do we have an upset one here?" She mistakenly thought that the Singing Dino-boy was actually the upset and crying Dino-boy. Perhaps because his singing sounds remarkably similar to an out-of-tune and out-of-work lark with a slight lisp. No, ma'am, he's not crying or whining. That's just how he sings! Unfortunately for Dino-boy, he's inherited an awful curse. He is a part of a long line of music lovers who can't carry a tune in a bucket. But, darn it if it stops us from trying. 

A little later we were doing the ceremonial "walk-down-each-aisle-in-the-grocery-store-even-when-you-only-need-a-few-things-because-there-MIGHT-be-something-you-forget-because-you-didn't-make-a-list," and we were getting close to the live [and tremendous sad looking] lobsters. My kids love those lobsters and have yet to figure out that they are (1) sad and (2) someone else's food. For Nora and Dino-boy, it's like a small trip to a zoo. A few aisles away from the lobsters and Dino-boy proclaims loudly, "Daddy, something really smells like crabs!" I knew what he meant. You now know what he meant [for those not following, he meant 'lobsters' but said crabs, stay with us.] But, apparently, the three guilty-looking college coeds near us did not know what he meant. They heard 'crabs' and started laughing and looking around. I looked at them and shook my head. I played it off with a, "Haha, kids say the darndest things," and mumbled under my breath, "stay in school and make good and healthy sexual decisions." For a brief moment, I thought about singing for them a song from "True Love Waits: the Musical" that my youth group put on in the late-90's. There's hand motions, box steps, and the whole shebang. But, I didn't feel like the Dino-boy was an adequate backup singer [and we only had one shot and doing it right] nor did I really have time for such life lessons. I can't be sure because I haven't checked the security camera footage, but I'm guessing when I walked away, it looked something like this:

I am finding that the secret to getting things done at night is to forego sitting down. It's not rocket science. If you just keep moving and doing, it'll be far easier than giving yourself a few minutes of rest and then starting to do something again. For me, it never turns into just a few minutes of relaxation. If I sit down, I turn the motor off. I tap out of productive living and work into more of an amoeba-state that doesn't communicate much and eats whatever it can find nearby. Before I sat down to relax for the night, I put the groceries away, swept and mopped the kitchen floor, did two loads of laundry, cleaned the bathroom, and vacuumed the carpet. The kids even helped... by going to bed. But, before Nora went to bed, she begged me to write a note. She told me that she had something she needed to write down and keep with her. After she was asleep and I was able to relax, I read her note. Here it is:

For those that can't read the handwriting of a kindergartener, let me translate for you [I asked for her help]:

Things you are good at:
Dad you are good at taking care of children.
Finn you are good at cheering.
Mom you are good at love.
I am good at writing.

I miss my wife so much. She's my best friend and my partner in life. She has learned to manage all the ugly parts of me and I have learned to be less ugly because of her. Yesterday, however, without the safety net of my wife and familial glue, my daughter told me that I'm good at taking care of her and her brother. All my insecurities were met with a crushing blow of defeat by the misspellings and grammatical errors of a wonderful 5-year old. Honestly, I work hard at being a good dad. Good parents don't happen accidentally. Like any other life discipline, it takes time and energy that you don't always want to exhibit and give. There are days when I'm not a terrific example of love and grace and mercy but, above being a great writer or effective pastor, being a caring and engaged dad is something I really want to be. I went to bed with a smile on my face and thanking Christ for such a crazy, beautiful, and lovely life.