When parole boards are allowed to give the original crime more weight than proof of change, they become an absurdist theater of foregone conclusions

When I entered prison, I followed the rehabilitative trail of breadcrumbs set out for me. I was repeatedly told to maintain a clean disciplinary record, obtain an education, sign up for industry jobs, pet the trauma pony, and train a bomb-sniffing dog. Correctional employees encouraged me to embrace these programs so I could honor my victim and redeem my life. I was told, “New Yorkers believe in second chances.”

At first, it all seemed too daunting. I had taken a life, and now I was being offered a free college education? All I could do was cry. My mental health spiraled. I found myself not in a classroom but rather lying face down in a padded room in a state forensic hospital. For me, the only true redemptive act was to kill myself: a life for a life…