At some point, the question stops being whether AZDOC is effective and starts becoming why the public continues to accept outcomes that clearly aren’t. Recidivism persists. Trauma is mishandled. Obedience is confused with growth. Release remains destabilizing. None of this is hidden. It’s documented, visible, and repeated.
And yet the system remains largely unquestioned.
Arizona Department of Corrections doesn’t operate in isolation. It operates with public permission. That permission is maintained through three powerful forces: language, fear, and distance.
Language is the first shield. Words like “accountability,” “public safety,” and “corrections” create an assumption of purpose. The terminology implies improvement, responsibility, and protection. When those words are repeated often enough, they become accepted as proof of effectiveness—even when the outcomes contradict them. Most people don’t examine the gap between language and reality because the language feels reassuring.
Fear is the second layer. Crime triggers instinctive reactions. When fear is activated, nuance disappears. The public becomes more concerned with control than with outcomes. If a system appears tough, strict, and uncompromising, it feels safer—even if it doesn’t actually reduce harm long-term. Fear narrows the conversation to punishment and away from effectiveness.
Distance completes the insulation. Most people never see the inside of a prison. They don’t witness how trauma is handled. They don’t watch how structure replaces support. They don’t see what release actually looks like. The consequences unfold quietly, often in communities that already carry the weight of instability. When harm is out of sight, it’s easier to assume the system is functioning as intended.
This combination—comforting language, emotional fear responses, and physical distance—creates a powerful buffer. It allows institutional failure to continue without widespread outrage. People assume that if the system were truly broken, someone would have fixed it by now. But institutions can persist for decades on inertia alone, especially when the public isn’t directly exposed to their shortcomings.
There’s also a deeper psychological factor at play. Acknowledging that the system doesn’t work forces uncomfortable questions. If incarceration doesn’t rehabilitate, what does that mean about how we define justice? If punishment alone doesn’t produce safety, what would? Those questions require more complexity than most public conversations are willing to tolerate. It’s easier to accept the existing structure than to rethink it.
The result is a quiet agreement. The institution maintains the image of control. The public maintains the belief in safety. And the people cycling through the system absorb the cost of that arrangement.
The system continues not because it works, but because it is familiar. And familiarity is often mistaken for effectiveness.
Tomorrow, we’re going to talk about what would actually have to change for outcomes to improve—and why incremental tweaks won’t be enough.
This isn’t about outrage.
It’s about awareness.
And awareness is the first thing distance tries to prevent.
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