Q&A with Joseph Olejak, Author of 26 Weekends in County Jail: A Quaker Journal of Resistance

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Quaker pacifist Joseph Olejak decided to protest the military-industrial complex in 1996 by withholding federal income taxes. That decision caught up with him nearly twenty years later when he was sentenced to 26 weekends in county jail. Every Sunday night, upon returning home, he wrote about his experiences, saying the memories of each weekend were burned into him and poured onto the page. Those writings eventually became his memoir, 26 Weekends in County Jail: A Quaker Journal of Resistance. The book explores not only his personal experience behind bars, but also the observations he made, the surprising connections he formed with fellow inmates, and the larger picture of what our justice system is made of and how it impacts individuals. In our interview, Joseph reflects on the role of conscience in shaping his actions, the humanity he discovered within the jail system, and why he believes empathy, critical thinking, and a commitment to justice are essential to building a more compassionate and equitable society. Buy the book here.

Book Description: In 1995, after hearing Madeleine Albright say on national television that she felt sacrificing 500,000 children to punish Saddam Hussein was “worth it,” Quaker pacifist Joseph Olejak became a political activist. As a form of civil disobedience, he refused to pay income tax, since his tax dollars would go to fund a war he opposed. This was the beginning of a twenty-year journey towards peace–initially by non-compliance with the military industrial complex. Sentenced to 26 weekends in the county jail for failure to pay income taxes, Olejak kept a journal and wrote about his experiences, as well as his growing awareness of peace, justice, and the U.S. prison system.  Author Bio: Joseph Olejak is a convinced Quaker who chose not to participate in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan by willfully refusing to pay income tax. Having come to the understanding that there is that of God in all people, it became impossible to lend support for the Middle East wars by paying income tax. After serving time for his peace witness, Joseph Olejak now works on peace and justice issues within the Old Chatham Quaker Meeting.

1. A quote from the beginning of the memoir states, “I’ve been tagged like a cow and processed, but not rendered.” To me, this line reads on a bigger scale than the prison system alone. It reflects the herd mentality in our culture, the pressure to line up and follow the leader into the metaphorical slaughterhouse. Could you speak a bit about this line and how your memoir compares the prison system with the shackles of the broader American system?
   

From early life, kindergarten, we are inserted into a system, a kind of pipeline, that teaches us how to be "good citizens."  Go to work, pay your taxes, and obey the law.  The system doesn't teach the Socratic method, where we question the questions we are being asked.  To be critical thinkers.  To question underlying assumptions.  To not be rendered is to be free of mind and have the psychological sovereignty to look at society and ask, "Is this really what it means to be a good citizen?" "How does what I am being asked to do square with what God asks of us?"

2. It’s interesting to me that you were sentenced to serve only weekends rather than consecutive jail time. Do you think that this structure diluted the punishment, or did it create a different kind of psychological toll?
   

There is no question that the sentence reflected the leniency of the court. Judge McAvoy said that he respected my deeply held beliefs, and I think he meant it.  His sentence allowed me to keep my practice open and keep earning money to support my life and my children, even though some speaking engagements had to be cancelled, which did impact the career I was building as an educator.  That is not to say 26 weekends was a walk in the park, but it was far less of a psychological burden than facing 5 years in federal prison, which would have utterly destroyed the ties to my children and my community.

3. You acknowledge that the system is designed to oppress people of color. Can you reflect on how your own whiteness affected your sentence and jail experience, and how the outcome might have differed if a person of color had committed the same act?
   

The judge was white.  The prosecutors were white.  My lawyer was white. The probation officers were white, and the IRS agents who did the criminal investigation into my refusal to pay taxes were all white.  As a white male with a professional degree, I had certain privileges built into my life.  I was given a great deal of leeway when it came to challenging the system.  Compare that to the guy in my story who was black and a hitchhiker in a car that stopped in a routine traffic stop, and drugs were found in the car.  Guilty by association. He took the plea deal for 3 years in jail because if he challenged the system, he'd have gotten 10 years. 

4. In the memoir, you refer to yourself as a scribe, suggesting that writing comes naturally to you. How did the idea to document your experiences first come about?

In truth, it was not my idea. I think it was divinely inspired.  Yes, I do have some facility with words, but the text poured out of me each Sunday evening when I was released from jail. It was almost as if I was compelled to write it. Historically, a scribe is a keeper of records.  My peace witness literally turned me into a witness of what was happening around me. 

5. Your memoir is structured as diary-like entries following each weekend in jail. I’m curious, did you write each entry in real time, or did you compile them after your release?
   

I was not allowed to have a pen and paper in jail.  A pen can be used as a shiv.  I was forced to remember everything, but the odd part about it was that each entry was burned into my memory very clearly.  On Sunday at 7 pm, I'd sit down and just let the story pour out of me. I took no effort to edit it or censor myself. 

6. Did you run into any unexpected challenges or surprises while writing?

One challenge I faced was an ethical one.  What right did I have to share the stories the men told me? Hence, in consultation with my editor, we decided to change the names and anonymize the identities of the people.

7. You provided your fellow inmates with chiropractic care and also a safe space to open up about their feelings. Did you expect to have that kind of impact when you first went into jail?

When I first entered the jail, I was scared and closed off.  I had no idea what to expect.  It was the men inside who opened me up.  They showed the first glimmer of compassion, and that allowed me to share my gifts with them.  I think my Quaker practice of listening and discernment also played a big role. "Seek first to understand" was what I understood to be the Quaker way.

8. In what ways did your connections with other inmates influence your experience in jail?

It softened me.  It made me realize that anyone can make a mistake or be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  That empathy and compassion are not just reserved for people you like or who seem like you. It is a gift that can be offered at any time to anyone. The other influence is that I felt an obligation to share what I witnessed. To tell the world about how people can change even when they are subjected to the architecture of violence that is the criminal ‘justice’ system.

9. How did your weekends in jail change your perspective on the justice system or on life more broadly?

My perspective on the justice system is very jaded. I see it as a system of punishment, oppression, and control. It offers very little in the way of rehabilitation and does not embody the principle of restorative justice. Nobody is healed or made whole in that system. In my opinion, we have the knowledge and the capacity to do better, but there are deep financial incentives for warehousing human beings. The first step to change that is to become aware of the 2.2 million people we hide behind bars, which is known as the carceral society.

10. Were there moments in jail that surprised you about yourself?
    

I was shocked when faced with my own prejudice.  There is this story I recount of meeting the boxer in Cell Block E and how I thought this guy was a real bruiser.  I make all these ungrounded assumptions about him, and then on the last day, he offers me his commissary. A huge gift. And then goes on to tell me how he wants to help children learn discipline in the gym. He wants to pay his experience forward. I am ashamed of myself. It was a real wake-up call.

9. What advice would you give to someone who might face the justice system for the first time, based on your experience?
   

I would strongly suggest having the benefit of a clearness committee of Quakers. A group of spiritual companions who can ask the questions that help discern a path forward.  Whether facing the justice system is for a crime against another human being or just merely offending the state (the victimless crime), discernment is so important.  And it is not a pros and cons calculus but a real centering down to understand what your own path forward is.  Sometimes that means going through the system and telling the story. Stories are powerful. They can change society. Just look at how George Floyd's story changed the policing narrative in Minnesota and how police have been interacting with ICE agents.

12. What do you hope is the main takeaway for readers of 26 Weekends in County Jail?

Follow your leadings. There is a small voice in each of us that we too often ignore or just block out with entertainment, social media, or drugs. Listen to it. It is the north star of your life. It might not always make sense at first, but given time and inquiry, it brings beauty and meaning into your life and the lives of others.  Our society has important work to do to make a world that works for everyone. That work is long overdue, and each of us are called to participate in it.