Although corrections is one of my primary scholarly research areas, I’ve never been entirely comfortable with the term. And yet, I still use it.
So, what do most scholars, practitioners, and journalists mean when they use corrections? Broadly speaking, the term refers to the institutions/facilities (i.e., prisons, jails, detention centers), policies, practices, programs, laws, and people (i.e., inmates; correctional officers and administrators; and other correctional workers) related to incarceration.
That said, the shift from terms like penology and punishment to corrections wasn’t neutral. It was a deliberate rhetorical move, designed to humanize the system during a politically sensitive era. The idea was to recast the purpose of incarceration as something rehabilitative rather than purely punitive.
The core problem with the term “corrections” is that very few people sentenced to a correctional facility are actually “corrected.” This raises several questions. Most importantly, what exactly are the goals of corrections? What should people be “corrected” to, and to what end?
Traditionally, corrections are said to have four principal goals: punishment, public safety, deterrence, and rehabilitation. Most criminologists, correctional staff, and incarcerated individuals would agree that the system is very effective at punishing people. But when it comes to the other three objectives, the system largely falls short.
Rehabilitative programs, if they exist at all, are often underfunded, poorly implemented, and overshadowed by institutional priorities that emphasize security and control over transformation.
And when we talk about “correcting” people, what are we imagining them being corrected into? Presumably, into law-abiding citizens. But that’s a harder sell in a society where political and corporate elites regularly break the law and do not face meaningful consequences. When crimes of the powerful go unchecked, the moral authority of the system erodes—and so does the assumption that being “law-abiding” is a universally agreed-upon ideal.
In this situation, the term corrections doesn’t just overpromise. It obscures.
So, where does that leave me and us?
I still use the term corrections, not because I believe in what it implies, but because it provides a shared reference point. I want people to quickly understand what topic I am discussing, and the word corrections allows me to communicate this efficiently and improve the likelihood that I will be understood.
Moreover, I don’t believe that any appropriate alternative terms have the same traction in mainstream discourse.
Thus, I use the term with caution. I stay aware of what it hides and encourage others to do the same.
Photo credit:
Photographer: California Department of Corrections
Title: Overcrowding in California State Prison
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/Prison_crowded.jpg498750Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2025-05-25 12:46:292025-05-25 12:51:43Why I Use the Word “Corrections” (Even Though It Makes Me Uneasy)
One of my favorite songs is Gil Scott-Heron’s Winter in America. Released in 1974, in the wake of the Vietnam War and as the Watergate scandal unraveled the Nixon presidency, it captured a national mood of disillusionment and political fatigue. The Civil Rights Movement had stalled, trust in government was crumbling, and the promise of a just America felt increasingly distant.
Heron’s lyrics are both powerful and depressing. “Nobody’s fighting ‘cause nobody knows what to save,” he sings, summing up a moment when America seemed not just broken, but lost. The song wasn’t just a critique of failed expectations and political leadership; it was a lament for a country adrift, unsure of its future.
And here we are, nearly fifty years later, and “things still seem the same.”
Since the release of Winter in America, the U.S. has cycled through administrations that offered fleeting hope or deepened despair. For many, the presidencies of Bill Clinton and Barack Obama were moments of cautious optimism. But they were followed by less empathetic presidencies (i.e., Reagan, the Bushes, and Trump) and more turbulent times: endless wars that America participated in, economic volatility, rising inequality, mass incarceration, and political divisions so deep they feel unbridgeable. Now, in Trump’s second term, despair is settling back in.
A few months ago, while driving through the streets of Washington, DC, I saw deflated Santas slumped over on lawns, months after Christmas, long past when they should have been put away. I couldn’t help but feel like they symbolized something deeper. It’s as if the country has collapsed under political, emotional, and existential exhaustion. You can almost hear people saying, not just “What the hell are we gonna do?” but “Why the fuck bother?”
Winter in America was written in a different time, but its message still resonates. Although new methods of communication, especially social media, have entered the scene, they often amplify the same confusion and discontent that Heron captured decades ago. The platforms may be new, but the sense of alienation and polarization they foster remains the same, if not more intense than ever.
Meanwhile, the institutions we’re supposed to trust (Congress, the Supreme Court, police, etc. ) often seem more interested in protecting power than serving the average American. Heron sings “The Constitution… Struggled, but it died in vain.”
The wealth gap has only widened. The streets of American cities echo with homelessness, frustration, and fear. (Visible reminders that many of today’s politicians like to distract us with).
We’ve been here before. In the 1970s, New York City and Detroit teetered on the edge of bankruptcy, and urban decay was blatantly visible. After 9/11, and again during the COVID-19 pandemic, we saw the same patterns: fear, isolation, blaming the powerless, and uncertainty about what the future holds.
But this time, the darkness that Heron sings about feels heavier. Perhaps it’s because we’ve already lived through so much. Perhaps because the contrast with the hope that came before it feels so sharp. Maybe because the myths of justice for all, religious freedom, the land of opportunity, etc., no longer hold.
Winter in America remains relevant not just because it predicted cycles of decline but also because it reflected on something deeper—the emotional toll of living in a country that promises so much but delivers so little to so many.
It continues when we decide to confront the myths upon which the country was built, attempt to educate those who believe them to be true, collectively work for a just society, and elect leaders at the local, state, and federal level who truly care about the welfare of others and who don’t use their positions to line their own pockets.
Photo Credit
Title: Gil Scott-Heron in Locorotondo, Italy, July 2010
Photographer: Michele Giaovelli
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/Screen-Shot-2025-05-17-at-11.08.29-PM.png397597Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2025-05-18 03:33:492025-05-18 03:33:49The Continuing Relevance of Gil Scott-Heron’s “Winter in America”
Although spoken and written words matter, provocative visuals often capture public attention more quickly and viscerally.
Admittedly, some visual content, such as television programs and Hollywood films, requires significant resources to produce. However, other forms, like graffiti, street art, and memes, are far more affordable.
Meanwhile, one often overlooked, enduring, and accessible form of low-cost visual resistance is the protest sign or placard.
Over the past three decades, protest signage has evolved into a more visually expressive and sophisticated medium of communication.
Increasingly, protest signs have become both physical objects and digital artifacts. In many respects, they are one of the most agile and immediate tools of grassroots communication. From the Women’s March to Black Lives Matter demonstrations to global climate strikes, hand-held placards have shaped the visual lexicon of 21st-century resistance.
No longer limited to quickly scrawled slogans on cardboard, today’s signs often incorporate photography, collage, stylized typography, and digital illustration. This transformation reflects not only changing aesthetic sensibilities but also broader technological and cultural shifts.
Individuals who want to create a relatively engaging placard no longer need to visit a print shop. The tools required to produce compelling visuals are now widely accessible. Design software like Photoshop, mobile apps, and AI-based image tools allows almost anyone with a laptop or smartphone to create professional-looking graphics. Affordable home printers and easy online purchase of poster board, stencils, and other materials have removed many logistical hurdles in creating compelling protest placards.
Yet despite the sophistication of these materials, most protest signs are inherently ephemeral. They are discarded, destroyed, or lost shortly after the event. In contrast, politically charged murals, graffiti, and street art may linger for weeks or years in the public realm. As with graffiti and street art, unless we are physically present at a protest, we depend on photographers, journalists, or participants to capture and circulate these images, often through social media.
Another aspect should be considered. It’s fair to say that, like some graffiti writers and street artists, protestors may now design their signs to capture the attention of people at the protest and a social media audience beyond. Thus, the line between political messaging and performance can be thin, raising questions about authenticity and the commodification of dissent.
In the end, thanks to accessible technology and widespread digital platforms, activists now possess the tools to create protest signs that, though materially fragile, can achieve enduring cultural visibility. A well-designed placard may disappear after the march, but its image can live on, influencing discourse far beyond the street.
Photo Credit
Title: Anti-Trump Protest Sign
Photographer: Jeffrey Ian Ross
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/IMG_6901-scaled.jpg25601920Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2025-05-11 13:04:422025-05-11 13:38:42The Visual Evolution of Digital Age Protest Signs
Why I Use the Word “Corrections” (Even Though It Makes Me Uneasy)
/by Jeffrey Ian RossAlthough corrections is one of my primary scholarly research areas, I’ve never been entirely comfortable with the term. And yet, I still use it.
So, what do most scholars, practitioners, and journalists mean when they use corrections? Broadly speaking, the term refers to the institutions/facilities (i.e., prisons, jails, detention centers), policies, practices, programs, laws, and people (i.e., inmates; correctional officers and administrators; and other correctional workers) related to incarceration.
That said, the shift from terms like penology and punishment to corrections wasn’t neutral. It was a deliberate rhetorical move, designed to humanize the system during a politically sensitive era. The idea was to recast the purpose of incarceration as something rehabilitative rather than purely punitive.
The core problem with the term “corrections” is that very few people sentenced to a correctional facility are actually “corrected.” This raises several questions. Most importantly, what exactly are the goals of corrections? What should people be “corrected” to, and to what end?
Traditionally, corrections are said to have four principal goals: punishment, public safety, deterrence, and rehabilitation. Most criminologists, correctional staff, and incarcerated individuals would agree that the system is very effective at punishing people. But when it comes to the other three objectives, the system largely falls short.
Rehabilitative programs, if they exist at all, are often underfunded, poorly implemented, and overshadowed by institutional priorities that emphasize security and control over transformation.
And when we talk about “correcting” people, what are we imagining them being corrected into? Presumably, into law-abiding citizens. But that’s a harder sell in a society where political and corporate elites regularly break the law and do not face meaningful consequences. When crimes of the powerful go unchecked, the moral authority of the system erodes—and so does the assumption that being “law-abiding” is a universally agreed-upon ideal.
In this situation, the term corrections doesn’t just overpromise. It obscures.
So, where does that leave me and us?
I still use the term corrections, not because I believe in what it implies, but because it provides a shared reference point. I want people to quickly understand what topic I am discussing, and the word corrections allows me to communicate this efficiently and improve the likelihood that I will be understood.
Moreover, I don’t believe that any appropriate alternative terms have the same traction in mainstream discourse.
Thus, I use the term with caution. I stay aware of what it hides and encourage others to do the same.
Photo credit:
Photographer: California Department of Corrections
Title: Overcrowding in California State Prison
The Continuing Relevance of Gil Scott-Heron’s “Winter in America”
/by Jeffrey Ian RossOne of my favorite songs is Gil Scott-Heron’s Winter in America. Released in 1974, in the wake of the Vietnam War and as the Watergate scandal unraveled the Nixon presidency, it captured a national mood of disillusionment and political fatigue. The Civil Rights Movement had stalled, trust in government was crumbling, and the promise of a just America felt increasingly distant.
Heron’s lyrics are both powerful and depressing. “Nobody’s fighting ‘cause nobody knows what to save,” he sings, summing up a moment when America seemed not just broken, but lost. The song wasn’t just a critique of failed expectations and political leadership; it was a lament for a country adrift, unsure of its future.
And here we are, nearly fifty years later, and “things still seem the same.”
Since the release of Winter in America, the U.S. has cycled through administrations that offered fleeting hope or deepened despair. For many, the presidencies of Bill Clinton and Barack Obama were moments of cautious optimism. But they were followed by less empathetic presidencies (i.e., Reagan, the Bushes, and Trump) and more turbulent times: endless wars that America participated in, economic volatility, rising inequality, mass incarceration, and political divisions so deep they feel unbridgeable. Now, in Trump’s second term, despair is settling back in.
A few months ago, while driving through the streets of Washington, DC, I saw deflated Santas slumped over on lawns, months after Christmas, long past when they should have been put away. I couldn’t help but feel like they symbolized something deeper. It’s as if the country has collapsed under political, emotional, and existential exhaustion. You can almost hear people saying, not just “What the hell are we gonna do?” but “Why the fuck bother?”
Winter in America was written in a different time, but its message still resonates. Although new methods of communication, especially social media, have entered the scene, they often amplify the same confusion and discontent that Heron captured decades ago. The platforms may be new, but the sense of alienation and polarization they foster remains the same, if not more intense than ever.
Meanwhile, the institutions we’re supposed to trust (Congress, the Supreme Court, police, etc. ) often seem more interested in protecting power than serving the average American. Heron sings “The Constitution… Struggled, but it died in vain.”
The wealth gap has only widened. The streets of American cities echo with homelessness, frustration, and fear. (Visible reminders that many of today’s politicians like to distract us with).
We’ve been here before. In the 1970s, New York City and Detroit teetered on the edge of bankruptcy, and urban decay was blatantly visible. After 9/11, and again during the COVID-19 pandemic, we saw the same patterns: fear, isolation, blaming the powerless, and uncertainty about what the future holds.
But this time, the darkness that Heron sings about feels heavier. Perhaps it’s because we’ve already lived through so much. Perhaps because the contrast with the hope that came before it feels so sharp. Maybe because the myths of justice for all, religious freedom, the land of opportunity, etc., no longer hold.
Winter in America remains relevant not just because it predicted cycles of decline but also because it reflected on something deeper—the emotional toll of living in a country that promises so much but delivers so little to so many.
That kind of winter doesn’t end with a change in the weather. It starts with a critical self-examination, like the one Albert Hirschman discussed in his book, Exit, Voice, Loyalty.
It continues when we decide to confront the myths upon which the country was built, attempt to educate those who believe them to be true, collectively work for a just society, and elect leaders at the local, state, and federal level who truly care about the welfare of others and who don’t use their positions to line their own pockets.
Photo Credit
Title: Gil Scott-Heron in Locorotondo, Italy, July 2010
Photographer: Michele Giaovelli
The Visual Evolution of Digital Age Protest Signs
/by Jeffrey Ian RossPolitical expression takes many forms.
Although spoken and written words matter, provocative visuals often capture public attention more quickly and viscerally.
Admittedly, some visual content, such as television programs and Hollywood films, requires significant resources to produce. However, other forms, like graffiti, street art, and memes, are far more affordable.
Meanwhile, one often overlooked, enduring, and accessible form of low-cost visual resistance is the protest sign or placard.
Over the past three decades, protest signage has evolved into a more visually expressive and sophisticated medium of communication.
Increasingly, protest signs have become both physical objects and digital artifacts. In many respects, they are one of the most agile and immediate tools of grassroots communication. From the Women’s March to Black Lives Matter demonstrations to global climate strikes, hand-held placards have shaped the visual lexicon of 21st-century resistance.
No longer limited to quickly scrawled slogans on cardboard, today’s signs often incorporate photography, collage, stylized typography, and digital illustration. This transformation reflects not only changing aesthetic sensibilities but also broader technological and cultural shifts.
Individuals who want to create a relatively engaging placard no longer need to visit a print shop. The tools required to produce compelling visuals are now widely accessible. Design software like Photoshop, mobile apps, and AI-based image tools allows almost anyone with a laptop or smartphone to create professional-looking graphics. Affordable home printers and easy online purchase of poster board, stencils, and other materials have removed many logistical hurdles in creating compelling protest placards.
Yet despite the sophistication of these materials, most protest signs are inherently ephemeral. They are discarded, destroyed, or lost shortly after the event. In contrast, politically charged murals, graffiti, and street art may linger for weeks or years in the public realm. As with graffiti and street art, unless we are physically present at a protest, we depend on photographers, journalists, or participants to capture and circulate these images, often through social media.
Another aspect should be considered. It’s fair to say that, like some graffiti writers and street artists, protestors may now design their signs to capture the attention of people at the protest and a social media audience beyond. Thus, the line between political messaging and performance can be thin, raising questions about authenticity and the commodification of dissent.
In the end, thanks to accessible technology and widespread digital platforms, activists now possess the tools to create protest signs that, though materially fragile, can achieve enduring cultural visibility. A well-designed placard may disappear after the march, but its image can live on, influencing discourse far beyond the street.
Photo Credit
Title: Anti-Trump Protest Sign
Photographer: Jeffrey Ian Ross