In 2000, I was 14 years old, in Los Angeles' Skid Row. You wouldn't believe such a Third World slum existed within history's richest country; oh, but it did. It does. A section of one of the world's most glamorous cities set aside to hide thousands of homeless people, to hide America's unwillingness to deal with poverty, mental health, drug addiction and homelessness. It’s all swept under the rug, or under the shadow of downtown's skyscrapers from the top of the world, down to a grimy, violent underworld, where you had to fight just to eat and humanity was perverted into its most animalistic tendencies.
Since 2016, Elder Yusef Qualls has been on a tireless campaign to have officials in Michigan revisit a criminal case that has kept his son incarcerated for over two decades.
A so-called “juvenile lifer,” Qualls’ son, also named Yusef Qualls, has lived within Michigan’s adult correctional system since 1997. At 17 Qualls was sentenced to life without parole after police linked him as an accomplice to the murder of a woman in Detroit. Elder Qualls has been a juvenile justice advocate since his son’s incarceration began. But the fight took a new turn when, in 2016, the Supreme Court retroactively banned sentences of life in prison without the possibility of parole for juvenile offenders. That meant the courts had to revisit his son’s case.
Juvenile justice reforms, including the growing use of youth diversion programs that offer alternatives to youth arrest and incarceration, have helped contribute to a substantial decrease in the number of young people who are involved in the justice system in recent years. Despite this overall decrease, such reforms have also corresponded with a troubling increase in the juvenile justice system’s inequitable burden on youth of color and Black youth in particular.
Often differing from one another in their theoretical framework, structure and implementation, the constellation of justice reform strategies referred to as youth diversion vary widely in their ability to improve outcomes for participating youth or meaningfully reduce justice system involvement. When implemented well, with a clear theory of change grounded in youth development, collaborative design and oversight and data-driven protections against widening the net of justice system involvement, youth diversion can be an important tool for equity, justice and overall public health. When implemented poorly, however, youth diversion efforts are in danger of unintentionally deepening inequity. Before turning to strategies and tools that help promote equity in youth diversion, let’s consider two hypothetical youth diversion programs: Program A, designed with equity in mind as an explicit priority that therefore develops a social-ecological and social justice framework, and Program B, designed based on a solely individual-level theory of change.
In Program B, well-meaning program staff may make decisions based on assumptions that their program is beneficial for any young person and may change or grow reactively — setting eligibility guidelines, program requirements or reporting requirements based only on what particular partners are comfortable with at the time, for example, or expanding geographically only where requested.
NEW YORK — They all had disturbing stories, and they all had a familiar ring to them.
Yakov, who declined to give his last name, was waiting in line at the Whitehall Terminal in Manhattan waiting to take a leisurely ferry trip across the bay to Staten Island when he was told to get out by other passengers. He was wearing a mask, he said, but that didn’t matter as much as his conservative garb.
“They’re looking for an excuse to hate us, and they found it in the virus,” the 16-year-old said. “The pandemic has given them the freedom to say what they always have wanted.”
Yehuda Weinstock took his children upstate to go apple picking. “We were treated like we had the plague,” he said. ‘What do you say to your children?”
Coronavirus and the fear it has stoked across the city after bodies were piled up outside hospitals in the spring has led to the resurgence of a social virus. Scarred by daily experiences of anti-Semitism, Hasidic Jews in Brooklyn fear the pandemic and the restrictions that come with it will incite hatred and violence toward them.
How is this possible?" I ask my friend Felix. There’s a noticeable and rare twist of anger in my voice.
"You know what to expect,” he says. “When have they ever ruled on the side of the law when it comes to us?" Felix is responding to the news I just shared with him: My case in the Washington State Court of Appeals was denied.
"Yeah, I know! What was I thinking, having hope?"
I want to scream in the justices’ faces, "HOW CAN YOU BE SO DUMB? DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND THE LAW?"
I’m annoyed with myself. I have been involved with the courts since I was 11 years old. The fact that I allowed myself to hope I could receive a fair shot in the courts, well, it pisses me off — I know better. But what hurt the most was listening to my partner cry on the phone while I read the email from my lawyer:
MACON, Georgia — Bibb County District Attorney David Cooke first heard about school-justice partnerships five years ago on the other side of the country, at a juvenile justice conference in Phoenix. But the successful program that inspired him started only 70 miles away from Macon, in Clayton County.
Nearly two decades ago, the chief judge of Clayton County’s juvenile court pioneered an approach aimed at keeping children out of the criminal justice system and in school. His strategy was to address misconduct within the school system and replace exclusionary discipline — like expulsions and suspensions — with services children needed. The model he devised, called a school-justice partnership, recognized that underlying many school disciplinary problems are histories of trauma and unmet mental health needs — and that responding to children’s disciplinary problems by involving them with the juvenile justice system only increases their risk for further justice system involvement. Under Cooke’s leadership, the Bibb County School District’s school-justice partnership had a successful start during the 2018-19 school year.
Gun violence in Maryland disproportionately impacts young Black and brown men and, increasingly, women. It is important that gun violence prevention organizations look beyond traditional efforts to curb gun violence. In light of the murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and many other individuals who have experienced police violence, advocates of violence prevention must address the growing concern of police violence and offer alternatives to community policing.
Marylanders to Prevent Gun Violence has led the charge on that front, joining with The Community Justice Action Fund to create The Maryland Violence Prevention Coalition (MVPC).
MVPC is a statewide coalition of organizations with the joint mission of reducing violence and improving living conditions in underserved Maryland communities. Using a community-led approach, we seek to empower the voices often neglected and educate elected officials and the public about urgent community needs. The coalition was initially formed in 2018 to coordinate education and advocacy efforts to support state Delegate Brooke Lierman’s legislation to establish the Maryland Violence Intervention and Prevention Program (VIPP).
As David Reeve approached the picnic, he knew he was the odd one out. After all, it took some convincing for the group to make an exception for him. Unlike the men barbecuing and swapping prison stories, Reeve never spent time in California’s juvenile justice system or its infamous Youth Training School, which the men dubbed the “Gladiator School.”
“They called YTS a gladiator school because you are going to learn and harden yourself into becoming a gladiator,” Reeve said. “You are going to learn to fight, to make deals and negotiate for survival because many of them were headed towards adult prisons like San Quentin or other hardened prisons.”
Among the picnickers who gathered at Yucaipa Community Park in Yucaipa, California, for the reunion were John Berge. He spent 22 months at YTS before returning as an adult, working as a vocational instructor and later as an institutional gang investigator, Reeve said.
ByButa Biberaj, Carol Siemon and Miriam Aroni Krinsky |
A viral video in August showed an 8-year-old boy being arrested at his elementary school in handcuffs that slid off his tiny wrists. A police officer can be heard telling the child, “You’re going to jail.” Sadly, this is just the latest disturbing example of the uniquely American phenomenon of vilifying and overpolicing our nation’s children.
America incarcerates more people under 18 than any other nation and is the only country in the world to condemn its children to die behind bars, with no chance of freedom or hope for redemption. For these “juvenile lifers,” no matter their progress in treatment or rehabilitation, their home from the age of 15 — or whenever they were sentenced as a child — is a jail cell.
This is not only a draconian approach at odds with undeniable science showing that youth who have committed even serious offenses can be successfully rehabilitated, it also perpetuates unconscionable racial inequities. The majority of kids we throw away through these juvenile life without parole (JLWOP) sentences are Black. Our system is sadly predisposed to see the humanity in white children more than children of color; approximately 70% of children sentenced to life without parole have been Black since 2012.
Since COVID-19 hit, communities like New York City's East Harlem have been dealing with multiple diseases: a deadly virus, the ongoing effects of systemic racism and gun violence.
Stand Against Violence East Harlem (SAVE), a Cure Violence program run by Getting Out and Staying Out (GOSO), has worked to address gun violence in its East Harlem neighborhood for many years. We have viewed gun violence as a public health issue, one that must be treated in order to change community norms.
When you look beyond the headlines about gun violence in New York City and actually spend some time in neighborhoods like East Harlem, it is clear that what our community doesn’t need is increased policing and incarceration — what we need is more basic resources and opportunities.
According to a recent study by the Center for Court Innovation — and as we see at GOSO — an overwhelming number of 16- to 24-year-olds who carry guns have been subject to trauma and violence themselves. This history, along with arrests for minor, nonviolent offenses, far too many of which lead to needless incarceration, can start a cycle that eventually escalates. This is why we must focus on treatment and investment, not just law enforcement. The Cure Violence model works to change attitudes and connect at-risk individuals to resources, with staff living in the communities where they work.
