A New Morning Habit

I’ve been testing myself to start each morning differently. For years, my habit was automatic: get up, head downstairs, drink sixteen glasses of water, drink too much coffee, and go straight to email.

Recently, I’ve been trying something else. I still drink the water. I still have too much coffee. But I’ve been forcing myself to stay away from technology for the first sixty minutes. Instead, I read.

It’s harder than it sounds. Too often, I am reacting to calls, to emails, to news. But when I use that first hour to read instead, I find something I had been missing. Enjoyment. Real enjoyment.

I used my mornings this week to finish Sunny Boy, Al Pacino’s memoir. On page 128, I came across a story that made me stop and reflect. I so enjoyed reading it!

Pacino Writes About Filming The Godfather in Italy:

“It got really hot out there in July. All of us were wearing wool. We were filming a scene that required a large group of extras to stand in a line when a lunch break was called and people started to scatter. The assistant director, a top-of-the-line, very experienced guy from Rome who was corralling the extras, started screaming at these Sicilians, hey, get back there, like he was talking to donkeys. Once again, I saw that inevitable whip being cracked like that director from the Wicked Cooks had done, and it bothered me. These people had been standing in the heat since early in the morning. One of the men on the line raised his hand, said something in Italian, and pointed to his watch because it was about two in the afternoon. And the Roman said in Italian, you shut up and you get back in line. The extra was a short, thin man with gray hair and a good-looking face. I would imagine he was in his 60s. He had a modesty to him. He just shrugged his shoulders and walked away. He quit the film, which meant he wouldn’t get paid. I loved him. I imagined what it must be like to be him. What courage. These were poor people getting paid a little to help fill in the background of the film. This guy’s got no money, and he’s walking away because he has lunchtime to go to. He’s going to go somewhere and have some cheese and a little piece of fruit. I had that freedom once, too. But I didn’t want to trade places with the guy. I was just indulging in the fantasy that he inspired. I watched him and I thought, that’s something I agree with. In spirit, to me, he was a hero.”

Pacino admired the man not because he had power, but because he walked away with dignity. He gave up money he needed. He left work others would have clung to. He chose something small but essential: his own self-respect.

My First Test After My Release From Federal Prison

When I read these sorts of stories, I think about my time in prison. Also, my release in August 2009.

Several months after I got out, I was tested in a way that doesn’t show up in books or movies. While I was still in the halfway house, someone reached out for advice. We even met while I was on one of my passes. He offered me money. I told him I couldn’t accept any payment until I had completed my sentence on August 16, 2009. He called me weak, even a coward, for being “compliant to the man.”

I reminded him I had already been to prison once, and no amount of money was worth going back. I hated that I felt the need to defend why I was doing the right thing.

After my release date, he sent me $3,000. I admit: I didn’t know how to price my work. There were no clear deliverables, no structure. It was basically: pay me and we’ll talk. That was my responsibility, and I own it. But what became obvious quickly was that he had no intention of doing the work. He ignored my suggestions. He mocked the process. He expected me to answer his calls at all hours, as if he owned me.

I rationalized at first. I needed the money. I had already spent the money. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew I was trading my dignity for convenience. I wasn’t helping him. I was hurting myself.

So I sent him back the money. Every dollar. He told me to keep some because I had “done some work.” I refused. Keeping some money, even a penny, could suggest I had some continued responsibility. We never spoke again.

I shouldn’t be rewarded for doing the right thing, nor am I looking for false praise or admiration. But I will tell you this: sending that money back, even when I had nothing, filled me with something that money can’t buy. Dignity.

The Men I Admired Inside

I saw the same thing inside prison. Some men had very little. Few commissary funds. No family sending letters. No outside support. And still, they carried themselves with dignity in the smallest of ways.

They kept their cubicles spotless. They cleaned the microwave after someone else left it dirty. They did their prison jobs with energy and pride when others barely showed up, or paid someone else to do it.

It may have been prison, but they recognized it was also their home at that moment. They chose to contribute. They didn’t make speeches about it. They didn’t advertise it. They just did the work. I admired those men. I think about them often.

Dignity. Dignity. That’s what I’ve wanted more than anything going through this process.

Michael’s Reminder In Federal Prison

Michael Santos often told me, “I wanted to emerge from 26 consecutive years in prison with my dignity intact.” He said it wasn’t about proving anything to anyone else. It was about making sure he could look at himself honestly as a man of discipline.

The longer I’ve been home, the more I’ve realized how hard that is. In prison, it’s one thing to eat healthier, exercise, read, write, and think about who you want to become. But life on the outside adds layers: mortgages, health care, restitution, expectations from family, and clients. It’s one thing to say you’ll live differently. It’s another thing to keep living that way when tested.

That’s where dignity shows up, in the choices you make when no one else is applauding.

What Others Have Said

Cicero wrote that “dignity consists not in possessing honors, but in deserving them.”

Martin Luther King Jr. said, “All labor that uplifts humanity has dignity and importance and should be undertaken with painstaking excellence.”

Viktor Frankl wrote that “everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms, to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.”

Those words sound lofty until you place them next to Pacino’s Sicilian extra, or the man in prison who mops the floor with care, or the younger version of me reaching into his pocket and finding lint because he sent $3,000 back. That’s the reality of dignity. It costs something.

A Question for You

Are you living with dignity, or are you trading it away?

You may feel stuck. Some days, you may struggle to get out of bed to brush your teeth. You may be drowning in shame or thinking life is over. I know that place. But you still have choices, even if they’re small ones.

That means asking yourself:

• Are you avoiding writing your life story because it’s uncomfortable?
• Are you letting your lawyer speak for you without demanding more?
• Are you putting money, pride, or convenience ahead of doing what’s right?

Pacino watched a poor extra walk away from wages because he wouldn’t be treated like a donkey. I’ve seen men in prison take pride in their work when no one rewarded them. I’ve seen Michael spend 26 years making sure he would leave with his dignity intact.

The choice is in front of you, too.

Don’t tell me what you value. Show me what you’re willing to give up to keep your dignity. That’s where people see who you really are.

If you’re in the middle of this storm, ask yourself:

What am I pretending to know?
What am I tolerating that chips away at my dignity?
What would it look like to protect it, even if it costs me?

Then take one step today that answers those questions with action.

Thank you,

Justin Paperny