Live to Lead (2022) s01e03 Episode Script

1
Bryan Stevenson is an American lawyer
and social activist
who has dedicated his life
to reforming mass incarceration
and inequities in the justice system.
Bryan believes you've got to be willing
to do things
that are uncomfortable and inconvenient.
Change does not happen,
justice does not happen
if you only do the things
that are comfortable and convenient.
And because we're human and biologically
and psychologically programmed
to do what's comfortable,
that means we actually have to
make a choice to do uncomfortable things.
This was inspired by Nelson Mandela,
who once said, "What counts in life
is not the mere fact that we have lived
it is what difference
we have made to the lives of others
that will determine
the significance of the life we lead."
His life
left a lasting mark on the world.
A legacy that has helped inspire
so many others to stand up
to fight for change
and to become leaders.
So this is in memory of Madiba.
It was made to remind us
of the difference one person can make.
It's about people
who have made brave choices,
leaders who have walked alongside him
and followed in his footsteps.
Caring for others,
working for a better and more equal world.
And giving inspiration
to the rest of us
to live to lead.
You can't take me down ♪
You can't take me down ♪
You can't break me down ♪
You can't take me down ♪
Oh my God! Oh my God!
Thank you, Jesus!
Thank you, Lord!
This is a very, very happy day.
It's a tragic day too,
because Mr. Hinton has spent
30 years locked in a five-by-eight cell,
where the state of Alabama
tried to kill him every day for 30 years.
His case, in my judgment, is a case study
in what's wrong with our system.
He was convicted because he's poor.
We have a system that treats you better
if you're rich and guilty
than if you're poor and innocent,
and his case proves it.
We have a system that is compromised
by racial bias, and his case proved it.
We have a system
that doesn't do the right thing
when the right thing is apparent.
The US
incarcerates more of its citizens
than any other nation in the world.
In 1972, there were 300,000
people in jails and prisons in the US.
And today, there are 2.3 million.
We have eight million people under the
control of the criminal justice system.
For every ten people
we've executed in this country,
we've now identified
one innocent person on death row.
Attorney Bryan Stevenson
has appealed the cases
of more than 100 death row inmates.
The Equal Justice Initiative
in Montgomery, Alabama,
a non-profit founded by lawyer
and civil rights activist Bryan Stevenson.
In recent years, which included
the publication of an acclaimed memoir,
Stevenson has become a leading voice
nationally for criminal justice reform.
Black and brown people
in America are burdened
with a presumption
of dangerousness and guilt.
Doesn't matter how smart you are,
how educated you are,
you'll go places in this country
where you'll be presumed dangerous.
I have been pulled out of my car,
and police officers
have threatened to blow my brains out,
all because of this presumption.
United!
We need to stop killing one another!
Stop it!
Take me to your river ♪
I wanna know ♪
When I first opened
this project in 1989,
there was a man scheduled
to be executed in 30 days.
We didn't have books.
We didn't have staff.
We weren't really
in a place to take cases yet.
He called and said, "Mr. Stevenson,
will you please take my case?"
I said, "I'm sorry, but we don't have
books or staff. I can't do anything yet."
And he was very quiet,
and he hung up the phone,
and I was really unnerved
by the conversation.
Didn't sleep much that night.
Came back the next day,
and the man called me again.
He said, "I know what you told me
about not having your books
and your staff and your lawyers."
He said "But I'm begging you,
will you please take my case?"
"You don't have to tell me you can win."
"Don't have to tell me
you can stop the execution."
"But I don't think
I can make it over the next 29 days
if there's no hope at all."
And so, when he put it like that,
I couldn't say no.
And we tried really hard
to stop the execution,
but it was very late in the process.
Every court said,
"Too late, too late, too late."
And on the day of the execution,
I got the call from the Supreme Court
telling me that
our motion for stay had been denied.
And this man had asked me to be with him.
And so I drove down to Holman prison.
This is when they were executing people
by the electric chair,
a brutal, violent way to kill someone.
And, um, when I got there, uh,
they shaved the hair off his body,
and he was just so humiliated by that.
And we were struggling.
He was emotional. I was emotional.
We were talking and praying and crying.
And then he said to me, he said,
"Bryan, it's been such a strange day."
He said, "All day long,
people have been saying,
'What can I do to help you?'"
"This morning, they said,
'What can we get you for breakfast?'"
"At midday, 'What do you want for lunch?'"
"In the evening,
'What can we get you for dinner?'"
"All day long, people have been saying,
'What can I do to help?'"
And I was standing there,
holding that man's hands,
when he said to me,
"It's been so strange."
He said, "More people have asked me,
'What can I do to help you?'
in the last 14 hours of my life
than they ever did
in the first 19 years of my life."
Holding his hands,
I couldn't help but think,
"Yeah, where were they when
you were three being physically abused?"
"Where were they when you were six
being sexually assaulted?"
"Where were they at nine
when your mom died?"
"Where were they
when you were a teenager, drug-addicted?"
"And where were they
when you came back from Vietnam,
um, traumatized and disoriented?"
"I know where they were
when you were accused of a crime."
"They were lined up to execute you."
And with those kinds of questions
resonating in my mind,
it was really, really difficult
to have this man pulled away,
strapped into an electric chair,
and executed.
And I was haunted by that.
And there was something
about the way he thanked me
for being in that space with him
that made me begin to see this struggle
in a very different way.
I realized, um
that the death penalty isn't about
whether people deserve to die.
I don't think that's
the relevant threshold question.
I think the threshold question is
"Do we deserve to kill?"
When you have a system of justice
that treats people better
if they're rich and guilty
than poor and innocent,
when you have a system
that is shaped by politics,
that's defined by error,
you realize that the problem
isn't entirely what he did.
It's what we are doing.
And even in that moment of crisis,
I felt like what I have to do
is to align myself
with the condemned
and the incarcerated and the excluded,
even though it's a painful place to stand.
It's a difficult place to stand.
But if I believe, as I do, that we are all
more than the worst thing we've ever done,
then I have to stand
with those who have been accused
and suspected
and convicted and condemned
and advocate
for the other things they are.
We watched the day grow old ♪
Well, I'm definitely a product
of the people who've come before me.
The people in my community
were disfavored. They were excluded. Um
We were racially segregated.
We were effectively told
that our lives aren't as valuable
or meaningful as other people's lives.
That we're not as hardworking,
and we're not as smart.
And when you see
how the people really are hardworking,
they really are committed,
they really are smart,
and they're not allowed
to experience and express that,
I think it creates a consciousness
that will push you, that will drive you.
And I think that certainly motivated me,
um, when integration came.
I really wanted to prove to people that
our community represented something
healthy and beautiful and necessary.
I tell stories
about my grandmother all the time
because they were so formative for me.
When integration came to our community,
it created a lot of anxiety.
We weren't sure what was going to happen
when Black kids were finally given
the chance to go to the public schools.
I started my education
in a colored school.
And I think she was worried.
She never grew up
in an integrated environment.
And so, after integration was announced,
my grandmother started doing this thing
where she would come up to me
before we would go to school,
and she'd give me these hugs,
and she'd squeeze me so tightly
I thought she was trying to hurt me.
And, uh, then she'd see me an hour later,
and she'd say,
"Do you still feel me hugging you?"
And if I said "No,"
she would jump on me again.
And after a couple of months,
I had learned that every time I see my
grandmother, the first thing I'd say is,
"Mama, I always feel you hugging me."
And she'd smile this smile.
And I didn't appreciate
what she was doing until much later.
She was a domestic.
She cleaned other people's homes.
She lived into her nineties.
And when you see people
you love and care about
organizing themselves around these ideas,
it has a huge impact.
And I've always
stood on the shoulders of people
who did so much more with so much less.
And that has made it really hard for me
to not contribute, to not do what I can
in the life that I've been given.
And I look back a lot,
I look back and I think about
all of the anguish and suffering
and inequality that people experienced
and yet found a way to keep pushing,
to love, to be hopeful.
And that animates my work and life,
um, and motivates me to kind of
do the same for the generations to come.
I am committed to this idea that
to change the world, to create justice,
we have to be willing to get proximate
to the people we serve,
to the communities that are in need.
- No justice!
- No peace!
I also believe that there are
narratives underneath the policy issues
that tend to rage in countries
and around the world,
and we too often are so focused
on the debates and the issues,
we're not listening for the narratives
underneath the debates and the issues.
So I think
we have to change that narrative.
I'm trying to change the narrative
of racial inequality in this country.
We're not free in America. We're burdened
by a history of racial inequality
that's created a kind of smog in the air.
And we've practiced silence for so long
that we're gonna have to disrupt
that silence by talking about things
that we haven't talked about before.
George Floyd's story
has been the story of Black folks.
Because ever since 401 years ago,
the reason we could never be
who we wanted and dreamed of being,
is you kept your knee on our neck.
So many people have reached out to me
telling me they're sorry
that this happened to my family.
Well, don't be sorry,
because this has been happening
to my family for a long time.
To be Black in America is to know
that a misunderstanding,
that an implicit racial bias,
that an interaction
that should be everyday and routine,
can become a moment
where your life is turned upside down.
We've been hung. We've been shot. And
all you do
is keep hearing about fear.
It's
It's amazing to me
why we keep loving this country,
and this country does not love us back.
I think we're
a post-genocide society in the US.
I think when Europeans
came to this continent,
we slaughtered millions of native people.
It was a genocide, but we created
this narrative of racial difference.
We said that native people are savages
and justified that violence.
And it was that narrative that created,
you know, centuries of enslavement.
And I don't think
the true evil of American slavery
was involuntary servitude
and forced labor.
I think it was
this ideology of white supremacy.
This idea that Black people
aren't the same as white people.
They're not as good as white people.
And so confronting narratives,
changing narratives,
for me is really important.
That's why we've built a museum.
That's why we built a memorial.
There's a presumption
of dangerousness and guilt
that's assigned to Black
and brown people in this country.
Until we confront that and challenge it
and the narratives that have sustained it,
we won't get to where we're gonna go.
I also believe we have to be hopeful.
I don't think you can change the world,
I don't think you can do justice
if you allow yourself to become hopeless.
And so your hope is your superpower.
Your hope is what allows you to stand up
when other people say, "Sit down."
It's what allows you to speak
when other people say, "Be quiet."
It's an orientation of the spirit.
It's not a pie-in-the-sky thing.
It's how you stand
in the face of adversity and difficulty.
And then finally, um,
I believe you gotta be willing
to do things
that are uncomfortable and inconvenient.
I don't like it,
but I accept it as necessary.
Um, the beautiful thing
is that we are surrounded
by so many people
who have been proximate,
who've changed narratives,
who've stayed hopeful,
who have done uncomfortable things.
I live and work in Montgomery, Alabama.
It's a challenging place,
but it's also an inspiring place.
I can sometimes look out of my window
when I'm feeling a little pushed
and think about the people
who were doing this work 60 years ago,
and they frequently had to say,
"My head is bloody but not bowed."
I've never had to say that,
and it just reminds me
that I don't have
a reason sufficient to stop,
given the things
that people have done before me.
I think you have to
put the people you serve first
and always be thinking about
what their needs are,
which are not always aligned
to what your needs are.
Uh, and when you are client-centered,
when you are,
you know, service-centered, um,
you make different choices
than you might otherwise make.
Um and then I think you have to, um
love what you do.
You know, I hate that I'm in a state
that has such
a horrible history of inequality,
that has such a brutal history
of lethal violence and punishment
directed at disfavored communities.
Um, I hate that I'm in a state
where the level of poverty is so great,
where there's so much
inequality and suffering.
But I love that I have just a little bit
that I can give
in response to these problems
and that I'm allowed to do it,
that I've been able to do it.
Uh, for me, that gives me joy.
It makes me feel like my life
has meaning and purpose and value.
And humans that can live lives
that they believe are purposeful,
that are valuable,
that are joyful,
uh, are really
the privileged people among us.
So this is the staff.
Thank you for giving me my life back.
Just being here, as a team,
you can say that you got
an innocent man off death row.
Thank you, Jesus!
Thank you, Lord!
I think, ultimately, I have been taught
that you have to stay on the side of love,
you do, and it's not easy.
But if you allow yourself
to be consumed with hatred and anger,
it will actually disrupt your ability
to love even the people
who are not your enemies,
who are not perpetrating these atrocities.
And then you end up
in this place where love is diminished,
and when that happens
you don't get to be a full human being.
They took my thirties,
my forties, my fifties,
but what they couldn't take was my joy.
I think we need
to all be resolved, uh,
to pushing back
against the politics of fear and anger.
It will lead us into conflict
and controversy and war and crisis.
Um
there are so many things
about which it's easy to be afraid.
There are things that happen
every day that will make you angry.
Uh, we can't eliminate fear and anger
from the human experience
and the human psyche,
but we can commit to govern ourselves
as organized societies,
as communities, as people, as families,
in ways that are not shaped
by fear and anger.
I think we need to be motivated
by hope and by love.
My grandmother, she was absolutely
a force in our family.
She was really strategic and smart.
Um, she was tough. She was strong.
But she was kind, and she was loving.
And when she was in her nineties,
she fell, she broke her hip,
and then she was diagnosed with cancer.
And she was dying when I was in college,
and I went to see her, and
it was really hard
because she meant the world to me.
And I was sitting there
and saying all of these things,
holding her hand, her eyes were closed.
I wasn't even sure
she could hear what I was saying.
But it came time to leave,
and I knew I had to go,
and I got up to leave,
and just before I walked away,
my grandmother opened her eyes,
and then she squeezed my hand,
and she looked at me,
and the last thing she said, she said,
"Do you still feel me hugging you?"
And then she said, "I want you to know,
I'm always going to be hugging you."
And there have been times in my life when
I have felt the embrace of that woman.
And it's this power that comes
from this love
forged by struggle and adversity
but relentlessly committed
to caring and nurturing.
Gotta find a way back home ♪
Um
I think I would tell
my 20-year-old self to dream big.
I didn't really imagine that I'd have
the opportunities that I've had.
It just sort of happened.
But I think it would
have helped me to hear,
uh, that, um, I can achieve
maybe more than I've seen.
It would have been helpful
to have someone say,
"Oh no, you should have big dreams,
and you can accomplish anything you want."
I would tell my 20-year-old self
that, you know,
"Don't be distracted by the things
that are ugly and painful and hateful."
"You have to deal with them.
You can't ignore them."
"But just stay focused
on the things that are beautiful
and inspiring and energizing."
"Because ultimately that is the"
"Those are the elements
that will empower you
to do the things
that you need to do in the world."
Uh but yeah,
I think, "dream big, dream big."
I had the great privilege,
when I was a young lawyer,
of meeting Rosa Parks.
Ms. Parks used to come back
to Montgomery now and then,
and she would get together with two
of her dearest friends, these older women.
One time, I was over there,
listening to these women talk.
After a couple of hours,
Ms. Parks turned to me and said,
"Tell me what the Equal Justice Initiative
is. Tell me what you're trying to do."
I said, "We're trying to do something
about the death penalty."
"About kids being prosecuted as adults."
"Trying to do something
about prison overcrowding."
"We're trying to do something about
the mentally ill. About racial bias."
"Trying to do something about poverty,
about segregation."
"About these conditions of confinement."
Gave her my whole rap. When I finished,
she looked at me and said,
"Mm-mm-mm."
She said, "That's gonna make you
tired, tired, tired."
That's when Ms. Carlene Ford,
she put her finger in my face,
she said, "That's why
you've got to be brave, brave, brave."
Shine your light over me ♪
All of my fears are gone ♪
All of my fears are gone
Baby, gone gone ♪
And it don't bother me ♪
It don't bother me, don't bother me ♪
If it's not meant to be ♪
Too far to run
Fall on your knees ♪
Too far to run ♪