Opinion | On the death penalty

Here is an honest admission, one I fear that will come back and haunt me — until very recently, I stood in favor of the death penalty.

I can practically see the color rushing out of my mother’s face as I confess this.

My opinion always came with reservations, recognizing fully and completely that the system is riddled with flaws and racism. I knew capital punishment is used disproportionately against Black and Brown men, I knew it is costly, I knew the unconscionable history of its use and its sickening stain on our justice system. And yet, I would always say “if we lived in a perfect world — free from mistakes and prejudice — I am pro-death penalty.”

I do not believe myself to be a violent person — the mere thought of harm unsettles me. I wept when I thought I hit a bird with my car. No matter how hard I try to accept it, I struggle with the fact that my partner is a hunter. Domestic violence and physical abuse revolt me to my very core. In the moments when I want to break mirrors, throw fists into car doors and say cruel, nasty things, I don’t. I never will.

Yet, despite this, I found myself supporting the death penalty.

There is a part of me, unspoken and raw, that longs for the people who hurt me to hurt just the same. I have wished for those who brought others pain to feel it equally — deeply, viscerally. Even now, parts of me still cling to this dark, twisted and perverted form of justice.

I am not jaded. I recognize that my anger and corrosive fantasies are the result of real, palpable fear. My opinion was born out of terror and uncertainty.

I find it disturbing that empathy and compassion for so many seems to arrive only on the heels of tragedy. People who awaken to the need for abortion rights only after suffering a violation, or parents who begin to understand queer issues only after a child takes their life. Empathy shouldn’t require personal connection — no one needs to have a mother, sister or daughter to understand the importance of women’s rights. You just should. And yet, it was the execution of Marcellus Williams that prompted my reckoning.

It became unignorable that my strive for justice had veered dangerously close to evil and twisted vengeance.

I committed myself to reevaluate my stance on capital punishment, determined to approach the issue with a fully informed perspective. I delved into the complex history of the death penalty in America, devoted a term paper to analyzing Supreme Court decisions and picked up a copy of “Just Mercy” — Bryan Stevenson’s memoir and a testament to the fight for justice. Gradually, it dawned on me that any system genuinely striving for rehabilitation, equality and reduced recidivism cannot rely on capital punishment as a viable recourse for crime. How had I — someone deeply opposed to violence and committed to justice and equity — been so blind to this truth?

I am struck by how profoundly fear, anger and hatred distorted my beliefs. That despite everything I valued most, I clung to views rooted in violence and oppression, values I thought I could never hold.

Fear does more than cloud judgment — it reshapes our principles and leads us to justify ideas we would otherwise condemn. We come to accept policies and rhetoric that contradict our professed values and distort our interpretations of justice, compassion and responsibility.

This is the danger of fear. It seeps in quietly. I won’t pretend like I know exactly what has happened with the modern American Republican Party, but I am confident that fear is taking the lead. Hatred has set roots, and anger has permeated the soil. Perhaps it’s real fear — the wealth gap is growing, and more people live paycheck to paycheck. Or perhaps it’s antiquated — fear that traditional structures of privilege are slipping away. The party’s core has been consumed, its values warped and vision reshaped. What began as a movement for conservatism has turned into something darker — a relentless force that feeds on anger and division.

The GOP is no longer just a party. It is a machine running on the anxieties of a changing world and the darkest parts of the American psyche. 

Despite all my own soul searching and self-improvement in regard to my opinion on the death penalty, it was that fearful, violent version of myself that took hold, saw red and empathized with violence when Donald Trump became president elect last week. While I took the time to self reflect, turning inward to address my darkened and depraved desires, over half the electorate chose anger and grievance over healing. They chose to embrace fractures instead of confrontation. They chose to let their own brokenness guide them.

How could I not feel betrayed and angered? I care too deeply in a country that offers nothing in return.

Donald Trump and current Republican figureheads prey upon people’s fears, tapping into deep-seated anxieties about a changing society, economic instability and alleged shifts in power structures. By stoking anger and positioning themselves as defenders against these perceived threats via lies and deceit, they have turned fear into a powerful weapon to maintain control. This manipulation has not only gotten deeper as the years progress but has led over 71 million Americans to support policies that ultimately undermine their own security and well-being.

I cannot believe we are approaching another Trump presidency. I cannot believe that this many Americans let themselves be guided by fear, allowing hatred to replace reason and anger to erode mercifulness. 

A society ruled by fear can never build a future of compassion. It can only spiral further into anger, until even righteousness is poisoned by vengeance.

Livia LaMarca is the assistant editor of the opinions desk who misses using the Oxford comma. She mostly writes about American political discourse, US pop culture and social movements. Write to her at lll60@pitt.edu to share your own opinions!