Have you named your home or apartment? You know, something like "Wayfarer's End," "Wandering Brook," or "The Falcon's Nest"? What about a name for an apartment floor in a high rise, such as "Golden Hall," "The Corridor," or "The Cavern"? No? You haven't named it yet? Get busy. So much lies in a name. Call that studio apartment "Nature's Expanse." Call that row house "The Brickyard."
"Where do you live?"
"I live at 'Nature's Expanse.' Come visit, and bring friends."
Chief among the places with which most people—I’m making this up because I don’t have any survey to support it—would not want to be associated is prison (jail). But maybe not anymore, especially with the new definition of prison (jail) as a “residence” in Dane County, Wisconsin.
First, a digression. A number of years ago, I received a letter from the IRS. In it, the bureaucrat writing the letter said that the IRS was having trouble contacting me because it didn’t have my address. I’m pretty sure the letter telling me that the IRS didn’t have my address had reached me at my address. And, of course, the obvious questions are: “If you didn’t think you had the right address, why would you send a letter to the wrong address? Who did you think was going to respond?” What was the logic behind sending a letter to tell someone that his address was unknown. But, I digress from my digression; I easily resolved the minor issue without difficulty, by the way (Whew!). However, in the process, I called the IRS to ask a question. As you might guess, I got to listen to music until an agent could speak. Now, here’s the point of this digressive story: Both the letter and the wait message referred to “customers.” You can imagine my elation to know that the IRS considered me a “customer.”
Right. Perplexity, not elation. An agency with the sole purpose of extracting money from me thought that I would be happy if it referred to me as a “customer.” Can anyone say ‘doublespeak,” “obfuscation,” and “1984”?
So, now back to Dane County, Wisconsin, where county officials decided to call prisoners “residents.” According to a report in the Wisconsin State Journal, the reasoning lies in a decision to “humanize” inmates. “‘I view this change in name as a way to humanize those who are within our care,’ [Kalvin] Barrett said at a press conference outside of the Public Safety Building in Madison.” * So, when a “resident” leaves the “county residence” and applies for a job, a former “resident” can say in a job interview that his last place of employment was a government facility.
If the HR interviewer then asks at what facility the person worked, the “former resident” can say, “county residence.” But when the reality of a place with bars and guards becomes clear to the HR interviewer, will there be empathy for or doubt about the former “resident”? Will the HR interviewer think “this ‘resident’ is hiding something”?
I’m for humanizing inmates; I’m for helping them to change their lives. But making a name change doesn’t alter the realities of the past. Just about everyone is capable of change, and many former “residents” have become productive members of society, overcoming their self-imposed incarceration in a “county residence” state “correction institute,” or federal prison. But we live in a society obsessed with euphemisms that make many—I don’t have a survey to support this—just shake their heads in disbelief. Remember Homeland Secretary Janet Napolitano’s referring to terrorism as “man-caused disasters” because she didn’t want to say “Islamic terrorism”? If you do, you’re re-shaking your head.
Those who change the name of an unpleasant reality believe they are somehow changing the reality itself. I guess such word coining assuages fear, concern, and anxiety. But reality always catches up to those who try to run away from it.
Hamer. Emily. 17 Aug, 2021. ‘Inmates’ no longer: Those in Dane County Jail to be called ‘residents,’ ‘those in our care.’ Wisconsin State Journal. Accessed August 19, 2021.
"Where do you live?"
"I live at 'Nature's Expanse.' Come visit, and bring friends."
Chief among the places with which most people—I’m making this up because I don’t have any survey to support it—would not want to be associated is prison (jail). But maybe not anymore, especially with the new definition of prison (jail) as a “residence” in Dane County, Wisconsin.
First, a digression. A number of years ago, I received a letter from the IRS. In it, the bureaucrat writing the letter said that the IRS was having trouble contacting me because it didn’t have my address. I’m pretty sure the letter telling me that the IRS didn’t have my address had reached me at my address. And, of course, the obvious questions are: “If you didn’t think you had the right address, why would you send a letter to the wrong address? Who did you think was going to respond?” What was the logic behind sending a letter to tell someone that his address was unknown. But, I digress from my digression; I easily resolved the minor issue without difficulty, by the way (Whew!). However, in the process, I called the IRS to ask a question. As you might guess, I got to listen to music until an agent could speak. Now, here’s the point of this digressive story: Both the letter and the wait message referred to “customers.” You can imagine my elation to know that the IRS considered me a “customer.”
Right. Perplexity, not elation. An agency with the sole purpose of extracting money from me thought that I would be happy if it referred to me as a “customer.” Can anyone say ‘doublespeak,” “obfuscation,” and “1984”?
So, now back to Dane County, Wisconsin, where county officials decided to call prisoners “residents.” According to a report in the Wisconsin State Journal, the reasoning lies in a decision to “humanize” inmates. “‘I view this change in name as a way to humanize those who are within our care,’ [Kalvin] Barrett said at a press conference outside of the Public Safety Building in Madison.” * So, when a “resident” leaves the “county residence” and applies for a job, a former “resident” can say in a job interview that his last place of employment was a government facility.
If the HR interviewer then asks at what facility the person worked, the “former resident” can say, “county residence.” But when the reality of a place with bars and guards becomes clear to the HR interviewer, will there be empathy for or doubt about the former “resident”? Will the HR interviewer think “this ‘resident’ is hiding something”?
I’m for humanizing inmates; I’m for helping them to change their lives. But making a name change doesn’t alter the realities of the past. Just about everyone is capable of change, and many former “residents” have become productive members of society, overcoming their self-imposed incarceration in a “county residence” state “correction institute,” or federal prison. But we live in a society obsessed with euphemisms that make many—I don’t have a survey to support this—just shake their heads in disbelief. Remember Homeland Secretary Janet Napolitano’s referring to terrorism as “man-caused disasters” because she didn’t want to say “Islamic terrorism”? If you do, you’re re-shaking your head.
Those who change the name of an unpleasant reality believe they are somehow changing the reality itself. I guess such word coining assuages fear, concern, and anxiety. But reality always catches up to those who try to run away from it.
Hamer. Emily. 17 Aug, 2021. ‘Inmates’ no longer: Those in Dane County Jail to be called ‘residents,’ ‘those in our care.’ Wisconsin State Journal. Accessed August 19, 2021.
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