• Lucinda J. Garthwaite, ILI Director

If you’d suggested four years ago that I’d fly to Texas to attend a three-day gathering about finance, I’d have shaken my head in disbelief.  But that’s what I did in 2019, invited as one of a few non-finance people to a summit in Austin centered on women “making money moves that matter” in the interest of social justice. I’d met one of the organizers at a writing workshop years before; we’d traded business cards and gotten on each other’s mailing lists.  When I saw the Austin gathering announced on hers, I got curious.  That gathering introduced me to the world of financial activism, and to financial activists from all over the country, many educated with MBAs from high-profile business schools, dedicated to upending the financial industry for liberatory social change. *
 
I follow their work, and my eyes widen as I read about their innovative uses of money and financial systems to drive radical social equity, especially for women and nonbinary people, and for BIPOC, immigrant and disability communities. There’s a steady, calm, steely insistence in these activists. They play hard ball very well in a game rigged against them, and every week I read of another win.  I had no idea.   
 
If you’d suggested years ago that I would find myself sitting in California’s San Quentin prison, in a large circle with men incarcerated for murder, I’d have raised my eyebrows and looked at you sideways.  But in 2016 I was in that circle, as part of an Insight Prison Project training led by Karena Montag, now a co-founder of Stronghold training and consulting collective. We were there to experience restorative justice firsthand, to hear stories of accountability and healing told by the men in the circle.  It was chilly in the large room where we sat, and I must have shivered a little, because the man next to me told me he wished he could offer me his jacket, but it was against prison rules for us to exchange even a handshake.
 
I’ve thought about him often since then, as I have the other men in that circle, one of whom was released this spring having led those circles for years, a man I experienced as wise, smart, kind and possessing a depth of redemption I’d never before encountered in person. Despite all that, the minute he was released from prison, he was detained and deported.  
 
I had no idea.
 
I was a couple years out of college when I read the news of a botched robbery in New York; several people had died and the robbers were tried and imprisoned, many for life.  I understood vaguely that the robbery had been associated with a radical activist group.  If you had told me then that I’d meet one of those robbers years later, I’d have looked at you sideways; nothing in my life then would have made that make sense.
 
But twenty-five years later I moved in across the street from remarkable neighbors - lovely, kind, funny, smart, and longtime activists for immigrant and restorative justice, and against racism.  In fact, for years, they’d driven south to New Bedford prison once a month to visit their friend from that work, one of those robbers I’d heard about in 1981.
 
Our beloved neighbors died three years apart from each other, and it was in memory and honor of them and their work that my partner and I joined the training that led to us sitting in circle in San Quentin. In that circle, also, and for the same reason, was the friend they’d visited in prison for all those years, Kathy Boudin.
 
Kathy and we commuted to the training together, shared meals and stories, lit candles for our neighbors. By that time Kathy had been out of prison for thirteen years, and had co-founded the Columbia University Center for Justice. I’d known from our neighbors that she’d been a relentless advocate for women and children, and for people with HIV during her twenty-two years of incarceration.  I knew that she’d dedicated her post-prison life to advocating for decent treatment for incarcerated people, and for criminal justice reform.  I didn’t know about her personal transformations, her commitment to nonviolence. I didn't know I’d be so deeply moved by her presence and kindness, that we’d laugh and grieve together, that I’d like and admire her so, so much.  I had no idea.
 
Kathy Boudin died this week after a 7-year bout with cancer.  I’m grateful for her life’s work and example. I’m sorry I didn’t get to see her again, and I’m very glad I met her.
 
If I hadn’t moved in across the street; if I hadn’t sat in that circle; if I hadn’t traded business cards at a writing workshop, I’d still have no idea. And my life and work would be vastly different than it is today – less rich, less full of possibility.
 
I’m reminded of that again as we welcome new members to the ILI board of stewards, and I learn about them and the circumstances of their lives, their reasons for dedicating time, skill, and resources to the ILI.   I’m reminded as my colleagues Jordan and Ana bring their perspectives – so different than mine in age, culture, and background – to shaping the ILI, as their questions lead to possibilities for our work I never imagined existed.
 
I’m smiling, and grateful. I never know what new person will cross my path, but if I am open to the humbling reality that before I met them, I had no idea, then I’ll keep seeing new ways forward, and I’ll keep being reminded of hope.

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*  You can find resources about all of the organizations and people mentioned here in this week’s issue of Intersections: The ILI Newsletter.