Hound pound narrative : sexual offender habilitation and the anthropology of therapeutic intervention PDF
Preview Hound pound narrative : sexual offender habilitation and the anthropology of therapeutic intervention
Hound Pound Narrative Sexual Offender Habilitation and the Anthropology of Therapeutic Intervention James B. Waldram university of california press Berkeley • Los Angeles • London Hound Pound Narrative This page intentionally left blank Hound Pound Narrative Sexual Offender Habilitation and the Anthropology of Therapeutic Intervention James B. Waldram university of california press Berkeley • Los Angeles • London University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu. University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. London, England © 2012 by The Regents of the University of California Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Waldram, James B. (James Burgess). Hound pound narrative : sexual offender habilitation and the anthropology of therapeutic intervention / James B. Waldram. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-520-27255-2 (cloth : alk. paper) isbn 978-0-520-27256-9 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Sex offenders—Canada—Rehabilitation. 2. Cognitive therapy—Canada. I. Title. HQ72.C3W35 2012 365′.661—dc23 2011047717 Manufactured in the United States of America 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Rolland Enviro100, a 100% postconsumer fi ber paper that is FSC certifi ed, deinked, processed chlorine-free, and manufactured with renewable biogas energy. It is acid-free and EcoLogo certifi ed. Contents Preface vii Acknowledgments xvii 1. A Man Who Needs No Introduction 1 2. Goin’ Down with the “Hounds” 23 3. Disordered Sex 47 4. Moral Citizenship 76 Moral Habilitation 1: “Stinkin’ Thinkin’ ” 101 5. “It’s Your Life Story” 106 Moral Habilitation 2: “How To Say ‘Fuck Off’ Politely” 135 6. “Feeding Frenzy” 140 Moral Habilitation 3: “Peter Meter” 163 7. “My Rules for Staying Out of Jail” 166 Moral Habilitation 4: “The Most Emotionally Draining Thing I Have Ever Done in My Life” 184 8. “A Pretty Shitty Place Out There” 197 9. “It’s All in the Head” 220 Epilogue: Where Are They Now? 239 Notes 241 Works Cited 245 Index 257 This page intentionally left blank Preface Despite appearances, prisons are not totally impervious institutions. Each day people can be seen going in and out: guards, treatment and offi ce staff, chaplains, police, delivery personnel, new inmate arrivals, and even inmates discharged from the institution. Nevertheless, what goes on behind those walls is largely unknown, and of little interest, to the public. Prisons are rather unique institutions in that control of both information and people is tightly restricted. Access to the resi- dents of prisons, the inmates, or “offenders” in much contemporary discourse, is legally restricted, of course, but also controlled by fears, often unfounded, that only danger lurks there. The idea that prisons contain complex and fully functioning social worlds eludes many. Chaos and evil reign supreme, it is assumed; this is a Hobbesian realm of nasty and brutish men barely under control, ready to kill or riot at a moment’s notice, always trying to escape and wreak havoc on the public. Those convicted of sexual crimes occupy a special category of evilness as well: they are morally bankrupt monsters that lurk in the shadows waiting to spring on an unsuspecting (typically) female “victim” or— even worse—a child.1 The orderly, even banal, quotidian passage of tasks and time familiar to those on the outside is not assumed to be characteristic of our prisons. I fi rst encountered sexual offenders during some research in the early 1990s on the involvement of Aboriginal inmates in Aboriginal tradi- tional treatment or “healing” programs (Waldram 1993, 1994, 1997, vii viii | Preface 1998).2 At the time I too harbored some of these disparaging views. I thoughtlessly accepted the interpretation of the anthropologist Elliott Leyton (2001: 3), who in a study of multiple murderers argues that “the eradication of a disease requires the intensive study of all the pus and blood and deformed tissue.” Leyton’s metaphor is striking, and one that resonates with many: sexual offenders as “deformed tissue.” The problem for me was that at this stage in my work I knew sexual offenders only peripherally, as a by-product of my research on Aborigi- nal healing. Were they indeed the monsters of public discourse, one- dimensional subhumans for whom incarceration was perhaps not adequate enough punishment for their crimes? Were they the decrepit, drooling predators hiding in bushes and lurking about elementary schools? Were they sex-crazed, violent stalkers hunting suburban neighborhoods for victims? Were they social misfi ts, lacking the nec- essary skills and personalities to form normal, healthy relationships with adults? I did not readily see the “everyman” described by forensic psychologist William Marshall (1996) as the typical sex offender: the friend, the spouse, the family member, the neighbor, the co-worker. And my fi rst encounter with a sexual offender did little to dissuade me from Leyton’s view. This inmate delighted in volunteering the minute details of his sexual assault and attempted murder of a two-year-old girl. He tried to rattle me, and he was successful. I felt a rage within me, and I wanted to reach across the interview table and throttle him. After our interview, I immediately went home to my own daughters, still shocked at what I perceived then to be a complete and utter lack of humanity, a true evil. My impulse was to look the other way, to keep my girls in the safety of our home, and to expunge such images from my world. But the disturbing images that the inmate described remained in very unsettling ways. I could not fathom how anyone could imagine, let alone commit, such heinous crimes. I was reminded of Akira Kurosawa’s 1950 Japanese crime mystery fi lm Rashômon, in which the murder of a samurai and the brutal sexual assault of his wife are recounted by four different characters: the murdered man (through a medium), the wife who survived the attack, the witness who found the body, and the perpetrator. The stories of all the characters prove to contradict each other; that of Tajômaru, the “bandit” accused of the crimes, is rife with internal contradiction and confusion, but it provides detail that none of the other characters can offer. Tajômaru offers a perspec- tive that, although understandably diffi cult and repugnant to viewers, helps to complete this ugly picture. And this is a perspective that allows
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