Angela Duckworth, Professor of Psychology at the University of Pennsylvania, has played a leading role introducing a new generation of Americans to the concept of grit.

As in “True Grit.”

You are likely familiar with the movies by that title, the older one starring John Wayne and the more recent remake — a memorable effort with predictable weirdness by the Coen Brothers — starring Jeff Bridges. The novel on which both were based was written by Charles Portis in 1968.

The story is ostensibly about the dogged determination of Reuben J. “Rooster” Cogburn, a US marshal hired by 14-year old Mattie Ross to find Tom Chaney, the man who murdered her father. She learned of Cogburn’s reputation from the local sheriff as the “meanest” of the marshals, “a pitiless man, double-tough, and fear don’t enter into his thinking.” Later, young Mattie approaches Cogburn saying, “They tell me you are a man with true grit.”

Before the story ends we discover that Cogburn has less grit than his young employer, who shows twice the determination and perseverance in ultimately seeing that her father is avenged and justice is served.

I use this story in the lesson, “Hope and Perseverance,” which is part of the integrity material I use with inmates. I also use Angela Duckworth’s “Grit Scale,” an assessment tool she developed to help people quantify their “grittiness.”

Duckworth defines grit as “perseverance and passion for long-term goals.” She considers it the single most important trait, (perhaps it is more accurate to say it’s first among equals), in the ability to succeed in life. She rates it as more important than intellect, physical strength or innate talent.

After taking my students through Duckworth’s “Grit Scale” and asking them if they are surprised at their score, I move on to a specific question: “When were you at your grittiest?” In other words, can you remember a time when you saw a task through to completion, overcoming whatever serious obstacles stood in the way?

In a recent class, we started around the table with each participant having a chance to offer his answer. When we came to an inmate I’ll call Mickey, without a moment’s hesitation he said, “I was at my grittiest when I was dope sick and needed to find my next bag of heroin.”

I looked at him without speaking, but signaling with my facial expression that he was welcome to add any clarifying explanation he wished to. He said very simply that when a man needs his next fix he’ll do just about anything to get it.

Such is the power of an addiction.

I nodded and moved on to the next participant. He looked at Mickey and said, “He spoke for me too.” I asked if he really meant it and he said yes. Before I could ask the next man about his grittiest time, he offered that he, too, had to agree with Mickey’s answer.

Though I would have loved to hear a more noble tribute to the virtue of perseverance, I knew this was reality for someone with a long history of opioid addiction. Addictions of any kind, substance or behavioral, can be all consuming at least some of the time. And indeed, grit is probably not the wrong word to describe the effort and determination one will employ to satisfy the craving, even if it falls short of being “dope sick.”

Other participants, to be sure, did offer examples of grittiness that enabled a more positive outcome and resulted in what any of us would celebrate as success. Mickey later noted that he had experienced positive results from gritty determination, but not after the age of 16 when his substance abuse first started.

Before the session ended I specifically addressed Mickey, who was trying to arrange for in-patient treatment for his addiction and was ultimately successful in having the court factor that into his sentence. I said something like this: If it took grit to find your next bag when you were dope sick, remember that it will take grit to make the most of your time in treatment and living in recovery. Down the road, when you have gained strength and learned better how to stay clean, and you begin to set better goals for your life, remember how important grit is in doing what you have to do to get where you want to go.

He said he would call me at his first opportunity after getting out. I have heard that before and no phone call ever came. I hope, of course, this one is different and that I can report good news in a future post.

How gritty are you? If you’d like to try out Angela Duckworth’s “Grit Scale,” you can find it here:


Red-headed stepchild

The question went something like this: So what is your opinion of your relationship to your own body?

Fourteen county jail residents and I were considering how our bodies figure in to the question of integrity. It’s an important question since the body is the vehicle though which our integrity, or lack thereof, is expressed.

As we went around the table, each participant offered a comment on the question. The first three or four answers were not memorable. The fourth, offered by a man I’ll call “Sam,” caught me off guard:

“I’ve treated my body like a red-headed stepchild.”

Anyone who by that point had tuned out fairly quickly tuned back in. Another participant, who had red hair, leaned forward to state unequivocally — to the laughter of all — that he was no one’s step-child.

Having never heard the expression before, I asked the respondent what he meant by it. He said that in just about every way he could think of he had mistreated and abused his body — alcohol, drugs, poor diet, lack of exercise, lack of sleep, and so on. He even opened his mouth to show missing teeth (possibly the result of using crystal meth).

Later, I consulted the Urban Dictionary and found this definition of red-headed stepchild: “A child who is obviously not your own, a child who is treated worse than other children in the family.”

Several other participants, using less colorful metaphors, also indicated their bodies had not fared well under the strain of bad habits, most especially drug and alcohol abuse. One man who has told the group that he’s been incarcerated ten times at this jail, several of those times for a DUI, proudly noted that his liver is still in good shape despite all the drinking. He looked at me as if to say, “No harm, no foul, right?”

This prompted me to refer everyone to something I’d included in the lesson material, a reference to Paul’s argument in Ephesians: “Husbands should love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. For no one ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it….”

I asked, “Do you agree with Paul that ‘no one ever hated his own flesh?'” The room was silent. I broke the silence by asking the question another way: Do you think that you love your own body, as Paul suggests? Several participants nodded, a few others said yes. I waited and looked around the room. More silence.

Finally, one of the oldest participants, a man approaching 60, said, “I don’t think I do. The way I have treated my own body over many years makes me now think that I probably must hate my body.” He looked at me for a few pregnant seconds and I just nodded.

Another participant, also older than most and one who often is the stand-up comedian of the group, agreed. “When I look at the way I have abused my body over the years, it’s hard for me to argue that there’s any love for myself in that kind of behavior.”

I am always happy when these classes include older men who are willing to be honest in the presence of much younger men about where their choices have gotten them. It’s one thing for me to draw the line between bad choices and bad outcomes. I’m expected to do that. But it is probably more persuasive when someone old enough to be their father stands before them in prison fatigues and offers himself as the object lesson of poor choices.

Paul’s statement is surely worth pondering. If “no one ever hated his own flesh,” what does that say about the way I’ve been treating my body all these years?

I’m long overdue to revise some of the material in this book on integrity. Driving away from the jail that night I had a thought. When I revise this particular lesson I must include this statement: “Your body is not a red-headed stepchild. When are you going to stop treating it like one?”


Crisis or epidemic?

Before writing this post (sometime last year), I did a Google search on “opioid crisis.” In .41 seconds the search turned up over 20 million hits. I followed with a search on “opioid epidemic” and got over 17 million results in about twice the time.

I suppose a greater number of sources, academics and advertisers think we have more of a crisis than an epidemic. In other words, it’s bad.

Nicholas Kristof, an op-ed columnist for the New York Times, published a breathless piece last October titled, “Drug Dealers in Lab Coats.” Teeing off from the previous Sunday’s “60 Minutes” and Washington Post joint investigation, Kristof wrote, “The opioid crisis unfolded because greedy people—Latin drug lords and American pharma executives alike—lost their humanity when they saw the astounding profits that could be made”

While I appreciate the effort to call American pharmaceutical companies to account for their part in shipping various and sundry opioid pills by the tractor-trailer load to vulnerable populations here and there across America, Kristof, in his perhaps justifiable outrage, oversimplifies and misses the big story.

Canadian physician, Gabor Maté, offered a far more timely assessment in his riveting book, In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction: “The question is never ‘Why the addiction?’ but ‘Why the pain?’”

I had watched the “60 Minutes” piece and was attempting to summarize it for the dozen or so men sitting around tables at the county jail shortly after it was aired. Some seemed disinterested but most listened intently. When I finished presenting the indictment of Big Pharma the two media companies had handed down, one of the participants offered a contrary opinion.

“If anyone thinks that disrupting the supply of opioid pills will end the opioid crisis, they obviously don’t know how far an addict will go to find something else to relieve his pain.” Another inmate quickly agreed. The first speaker continued, “I can tell you from experience, you will do anything and everything you have to in order to just get through the day.”

Recalling Dr. Maté, I nodded.


If you have read my blog posts or followed my thinking over the past couple of years, I wouldn’t be surprised if you believe you are hearing the unmistakable sound of a broken record. Fair enough; you could be right.

But I do try to keep balance and perspective in how I analyze what I see and hear when among those I meet in the county jail or the federal prison whose sentence has something to do with drugs. For example, I know that these men and women had a choice in whether to break the law or violate their parole. I know that some of them have a brother or sister who grew up in the same home and who did not abuse drugs or alcohol or steal to support a habit or break laws on drug possession or dealing.

This is a strong argument, one used by Stanton Samenow in his well-regarded work, “Inside the Criminal Mind.” Simplified, his thesis is that people don’t become criminals because of childhood experiences, poverty or any other environmental cause. No, they become criminals because they think differently from the rest of us. They buy into a host of “criminal thinking errors” and make most of their choices and decisions based on them, leading them to actions that victimize innocent people and break laws established for the good order of the community. In other words, it is not outside forces that turn people into criminals. They become criminals by pushing rational thoughts aside and believing irrational thinking errors.

Samenow notes how frequently he hears criminals cite alcohol or drugs as the source of their criminal behavior. Since upwards of 80 percent of those incarcerated abuse drugs or alcohol, Samenow acknowledges the temptation to connect addiction and criminality. But he offers this dispute:

Criminality…does not reside in the bottle, the pill, the powder, or in any other substance. Drugs bring out and intensify only what already exists within a person; they do not transform a responsible person into a criminal. If ten men get drunk, all ten will not rape, rob, or kill. They may fall asleep, become boisterous, or grow argumentative. Their behavior depends on their personality before they took the first sip.

William Raspberry, an African-American former columnist for The Washington Post, apparently had an ongoing feud with Samenow. Raspberry could not abide Samenow’s stubborn resistance to the role poverty has in incubating future criminals. Samenow acknowledged the disagreement in the last chapter of his book:

When this book was first published in 1984, syndicated columnist Williams Raspberry stated; ‘I’m prepared to offer Samenow a deal: I’ll give up the myth that criminals are caused by their environment if he’ll give up the myth that they are cured by psychiatry.’ Raspberry got the right idea about the ‘myth’ of the environment as creating criminals. However, he got the wrong idea about the rest of it.


Since 2009, when I first walked the long corridor of the federal prison in Waymart, I have seen enough to make me largely sympathetic to the thesis put forward by Stanton Samenow. But “largely” is not the same as exclusively. And in the midst of the opioid crisis that by all accounts is sweeping the nation and destroying tens of thousands of lives each year, I insist that the Gabor Maté question will not go away and demands as much attention as Samenow’s thinking errors:“Why the pain?”

I ask this question—or some form of it—with regularity nowadays. A few weeks ago I was talking with a new addition to my classes at the local jail. I recognized his last name and asked if he was related to a young man who’d been in my class a year or so earlier. Indeed, they were brothers. (His was the third situation I’ve encountered in the local jail where two brothers raised by the same parents have both been incarcerated, in two cases incarcerated at precisely the same time.)

As we talked, we closed in on the reason for his present incarceration—a parole violation. I asked if it was drug-related and he answered that it was. I asked about his history of drug use. It reached back to his teenage years and, as if to anticipate my next question, he noted how many times he’d been in rehab and then relapsed and how many times he’d been incarcerated. Both numbers staggered me.

I then asked Dr. Maté’s question: “Why the pain?” He clearly was not anticipating it. I said, “With the history you just provided, you must also have a history of pain and I’m guessing it didn’t start with a back injury.”

Looking down, he said, “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

A couple of weeks later, I’d just arrived and taken my seat at the table. The men were already there. As I was getting my papers out and starting the signup sheet around the table, the same inmate began to tell me that all this “cognitive stuff” (part of the Smart Recovery® class I’d come to lead that day) wasn’t going to help him.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “this CBT [Cognitive Behavioral Therapy] approach is good for some things. But it doesn’t even begin to get to the level I’m at.”

“I know,” I replied. I told him that from the moment we met and he told me that his drug addiction began in adolescence, and he didn’t want to talk about the pain, that I suspected that he likely had adverse and/or traumatic childhood experiences that still to this day are just too painful to talk about. I asked him if that was so.

He nodded, and I lamented aloud that the program we were both participating in (the prison’s recidivism-reduction program) was not really set up to do much more than allow him to acknowledge the pain. In other words, this wasn’t a group therapy session. He laughed and I asked him why he’d laughed. He then told this story:

“When I was going through intake here, they were asking me a bunch of questions. So I decided to tell them about some of my experiences. No sooner did I get into the gory details than the officer stopped the interview, called another CO who came into the room and put me in shackles and the two of them took me down the hall to a room and put me on suicide watch.” He paused and added, “That’s how much they want to hear about your pain around here.”

Once again I lamented the limitations of a place where confinement, rules, order and the needs of the prison itself overshadow any effort toward healing of deeply wounded souls. All I could say at that point was, “My colleagues and I want to do our best for you while here and be there for you when you get out.”


I felt uneasy having to reply in such a bland, even if sincere, manner. Isn’t this the place where the Christian teacher assures the pained inmate that God can make everything okay? Isn’t it here where we talk about the problem of sin and the solution in the death of Christ?

When I got involved at the county jail and expanded my involvement at the federal prison, I made a bargain with my overseers that my program would not be overtly faith-based and that I would not seek to evangelize those who participated in the class. It would be okay if I cited scriptural agreement with what I said about forgiveness or integrity, but my major point of reference would not be the Bible.

It was a bargain I accepted for the privilege of having access to men who either would not show up for a distinctly Christian program or who had been mandated by the courts to participate in the program in which I agreed to teach. While recognizing the limits of the bargain, I have not regretted the opportunity to be the believer I am and to hope that Christ is seen in me even when I am not naming the Name or reciting scripture.


I recently completed the class on integrity at the federal penitentiary. Two of the 12 chapters are on “woundedness and healing.” In the original edition I placed them in the middle of the book. When the revisions are finished, I’ll move them up toward the front of the book, for I am aware of nothing more likely to tear at integrity than unresolved pain, trauma and shame.

One of the participants in the course is an inmate I’ve known for at least three years. He had previously participated in the studies I’ve offered there and even comes on most occasions when I preach at the Christian services, even though he is the leader of another faith group at the prison. I consider him, in the words of Jesus, as being “not far from the kingdom of God.”

Due to repeated lockdowns and a couple of federal holidays, I ran into difficulty finding available time to finish the 12 weeks. So I made a deal with the class members that we’d get as far as we could and they could then take the remaining chapters with them and work on them until I could return, review them and award completion certificates to those who’d done the work.

The two chapters on woundedness provided the inmate I mentioned above an opportunity to let me in on more of his story. I knew he was serving a life without parole sentence for two murders, since that was public information. I also knew he had been a gang member before coming to prison. But that was the extent of my knowledge. When he turned the course work in, I learned a bit more, admittedly from his perspective.

He wrote about being forced into street life at the age of 14 where he “had to live by all means necessary.” He lost his childhood and his innocence as well. He wrote that when the gang took him in he had to do what everyone else did—sell drugs, murder, steal, rape and rob—or else be killed in retribution. All the while, he wrote, “I was a child!”

One of the chapters in the book has a section on trauma that includes questions about small traumas and large traumas the participant might have experienced. On the question about the small traumas, he wrote, “I don’t believe I suffered any small traumas. Everything in my life was get it done or DIE.” I was “in jail with a life sentence before I finished adolescence.”

He wrote in detail of the guilt and shame he experienced “What I lived is beyond shame!” He added, “But the guilt caused me to learn what a Man, Father, Friend, Adult is and to never [again] be who I was.”

Finally, he wrote, “I started the journey around 16 years ago and everyday I am trying to heal and understand.”


Anyone whose knowledge of this man is limited to the crimes for which he was prosecuted and received a life without parole sentence would be grateful that such a criminal will spend his life behind bars. Justice was served and there’s nothing more to discuss.

I would have had the luxury of such a thought had he never engaged with me on the importance of forgiveness and the challenge of rebuilding integrity in a life that had been disintegrated, and had he not listened intently to my preaching and thanked me afterwards for it. Could he just be blowing sunshine my way? Of course, and he wouldn’t be the first inmate to do so.

I know he has an active appeal in the courts and I have been told there’s a good chance his life sentence will be overturned. I wouldn’t mind that outcome for he certainly could be one of those prisoners who, if released, turns his life to the good and makes the world a better place.

He is one of a lengthening parade of men who have confided in me, sharing their stories of pain, dysfunction, addiction, criminal thinking and criminal activity. Some were nowhere near ready to repent and seek genuine healing and redemption. Some were. It is those prodigal sons who need—and deserve—more help than they are receiving from a nation that has grown weary of drugs and crime and seems to know but one response: incarceration.

If the statistics are right about this full-blown opioid crisis, our work has just begun and we all need to learn to ask the Gabor Maté question, “Why the pain?” and help the wounded find healing.


The structure of character

The 11 men seated in the circle I entered last Wednesday at Pike County Correctional Facility were not smiling. It was my first day back at the jail after a five-week hiatus, time I had spent revising the material they now held in their hands. The 12-week course, Choosing integrity: The Structure of Character, arose months earlier in that same room after a previous group of inmates convinced me that nothing-but-forgiveness-all-the-time had worn out its welcome.

They were ready for a change and so was I. So I began to write a new lesson for them each week. Their positive response, evidenced through their eagerness to take a hard look at their lives, surprised me. Repeatedly, someone would say, “This is so helpful; I wish somebody had taken the time to teach me this before.” When I finished the 12th chapter and bid them farewell, everyone was smiling.

Among this new group of inmates, no one was smiling. They started in the kitchen at five in the morning, working until 1:00 P.M. preparing meals for other inmates as well as food for the county’s Meals on Wheels program. It was now 4:30 P.M. and they were tired of work and of other reentry program materials they had to complete before I arrived.

I introduced myself and stumbled through a short history of how the program materials they were holding came to be. One man was gazing up at the ceiling seemingly lost to the present moment. Others were looking down, blankly it seemed, at the papers they held. Some watched me, emotionless and unsmiling.

I knew they wanted to be anywhere but in that room. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there either after a long day of bookkeeping at the convenience store where I work part-time.

But we began with me reading the introductory paragraphs of the lesson as they, or at least some of them, followed along. The ceiling-gazer never once looked at the material. After the introduction I turned the reading over to several others. Eventually we arrived at the section, “Taking Stock.”

It includes 15 statements, each followed by these word choices: Strongly Agree, Agree, Not Sure, Disagree and Strongly Disagree. Here are the 15 statements:

  1. I have made more than my share of impulsive decisions that I later regretted making.
  2. I have usually had the self-control I needed to keep me from doing things I later regret.
  3. I stay angry longer than I think is healthy for me.
  4. I have forgiven the people who have done the most harm to me.
  5. I struggle with addictive substances.
  6. I struggle with addictive behaviors.
  7. I have achieved the goals I expected to reach by this point in my life.
  8. I feel hopeful about the future.
  9. I have at least one trusted and reliable friend I can turn to in time of need.
  10. I take responsibility for being where I am today, and I do not blame anyone else.
  11. I have suffered serious trauma in my life and feel I have not really gotten over it.
  12. I wish I had a deeper spiritual life or connection with God.
  13. I feel like I keep making the same mistakes and bad decisions again and again.
  14. I have a strong sense of right and wrong that I think most people would agree with.
  15. I have had an experience in my life that still causes me to feel shame when I think about it.

I gave brief instructions on how to complete this section and then watched as the participants worked their way through the statements. I watched men pause and ponder over a few of the statements, but also quickly circle other responses they did not have to think about. No one was gazing at the ceiling now. Everyone was dedicated to the task at hand.

I knew from the first time I had offered this chapter 17 weeks earlier that this would be the turning point in the lesson. The reason is at once simple and discouraging. It is simple because inmates are rarely offered a formal opportunity to express their feelings and opinions, and they really cherish a chance to do so. It is discouraging for the same reason. Prison staff members do not seem to care what prisoners think and feel. Their jobs involve enforcing rules and maintaining security.

After they finished I invited the participants to each share his response to one of the statements and why he had selected that particular response. Time slowed down as each man opened his life to the group and to me. The frankness of their sharing was disarming. As I had expected, each man’s brief story was one of failure, or of disappointment, or of pain and loss, or of shame.

Occasionally I asked a clarifying question. But mostly I just listened, signaling with my eyes and body language that I was really hearing them. It took 15 minutes for all of them to speak. The time of confession seemed therapeutic, as if—at last—there was a person who was not frowning or barking orders but was willing to listen. And show compassion.

I told the group that many of the things they had just shared would be part of an upcoming lesson—that we would dig down into what had caused failure and, in some cases landed them in jail.

The next part of the lesson offered the participants the opportunity to identify up to three of the statements for which they wished they could have circled a different response and to state the reason why. In other words, what was the outcome or consequence they wish could have been different.

Some identified only one thing; others wrote about three. Again, the sharing was personal and sincere. At the end of the class I asked for their papers, saying that I wanted to read them and get to know each of them better.

Not surprisingly, struggles with addiction and cycles of bad choices and unforgiveness and trauma and shame were everywhere. We have a lot of digging down to do in the coming 11 weeks.

Incidental note: New York Times columnist, David Brooks, who is a frequent guest on NPR’s “All Things Considered” and the PBS Newshour, has recently published The Road to Character. He and I wrote, I suspect, to different audiences. I’ll be interested to see how much of the same thoughts we each include in our books.