When the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was writing his poignant Letter from Birmingham Jail in April 1963, he probably never imagined the U.S. prison population would mushroom to well over 2 million Americans. Or that another 6 million could be on probation or parole.

As I visualize King behind those bars, with the realization that he might be penning his last words on Earth, I hope you consider using the holiday named for him to serve others, to step into their shoes. To better understand that not everyone in prison belongs there.

In this May 8, 1963 file photo, the Revs. Ralph Abernathy (left) and Martin Luther King Jr. walk through a corridor of the city jail in Birmingham, Ala., where they were held for several hours following conviction on charges of parading without a permit. They posted bond of $2,500. (The Associated Press)

Mass incarceration's wide reach has had a devastating domino effect on communities chock-full of assembly-line inmates: juveniles, poor, mentally challenged, black and brown people. Some of these people belong in prison, but some, given a chance, could become contributing members of society.

Now, nonviolent first offenders may finally catch a break.

First Step legislation, recently signed by the president, brings some much-needed hope to families, activists and lawmakers working together to dismantle the current system and slowly restructure it with humane criminal justice reform. The law offers federal offenders greater educational and vocational opportunities and paths to early release, and it bans the shackling of pregnant inmates while they are giving birth.

King would have plenty to say about the prison industry that profits off the backs of incarcerated people by charging for everything from toothpicks to toothpaste. Sadly, MLK would easily believe the cruelty of housing nonviolent offenders with career criminals who extract favors without mercy, flesh without conscience.

In his jailhouse letter, King chastises himself for being naïve about America. Perhaps I am, too. Because if ours is truly a nation of second chances, then the men and women being released under this new law ought to have the opportunity to rebuild interrupted lives by becoming contributing participants who work hard, pay taxes, go to school, cast ballots and dream. Throwing men and women in lockup with serious, violent offenders is not rehabilitation. It is a recipe for recidivism.

Last November, Floridians approved an amendment that would give more than 1 million ex-felons the right to register to vote. Texas should follow suit and make it easier for newly released people to get acclimated back into society. Consider Crystal Mason, who voted in Texas while on parole. A Tarrant County judge sentenced her to five years.

Before making such condemnations, folks should visit prison units. In fact, all of us — jurists, legislators, prosecutors, investigators, along with law-and-order enthusiasts — should tour prisons and look out, as King did, from the other side of the bars. The more we identify with our fellow Americans, the fewer mistakes we will tolerate from the system.

In my years of research for columns and books, nothing compared to visiting units in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. I will never forget the warden who ordered a young black offender out of his cell for a full body search, so I could trade places with him, and, as the warden put it, "really get the feel of prison."

An iron cage slammed shut, the echo of a click, and I felt my freedom surrendered in an instant. You get the feel of prison pretty quickly. I was trapped in a 6-by-8-foot cell with a mirror, a sink and a toilet. A few seconds later, my exterior toughness had vanished and all I could contemplate was the fastest way out.

You never forget the sights and sounds of prison. The constant murmur of 3,000 voices merged to create one anonymous man. You never forget the buzzing, gates opening and closing, the daily challenges of surviving one destination to the next. Or the desperate eyes owned by the gray shirts and the white shirts. In nearly every Texas unit, I gauged the temperature somewhere between warm and hell.

We must begin to imagine a different American criminal justice system, one that has mercy, compassion and absolute punishment that fits the crime — not the color of a man's skin or his ZIP code, but the content of what his character has the potential to be.

King probably never dreamed that the land of the free, which represents only 5 percent of the world's population, would someday account for 25 percent of the world's inmates. America has no rival for the top position. Our closest competition is a distant second place: China.

I have finished reading Locking Up Our Own by Pulitzer Prize-winning author James Forman Jr., and I will spend part of the holiday listening to him talk about where a tough-on-crime mentality has deposited America. I hope Forman, the son of a civil rights icon, shares some reflections on his father's days of working with the great humanitarian who used a letter to call out those more devoted to order than to justice.

King ended his letter by assuring clergy it would have been much shorter had he been more comfortable. Too many Americans have been forced into harsh acquaintance with King's Birmingham reality: "What else can one do when he is alone in a narrow jail cell, other than write long letters, think long thoughts, and pray long prayers?"

Joyce King is a writer in North Texas and the author of several books. Twitter: @1miljfkreaders

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