NEW YORK — In 2017, a disabled 8-year-old Latino boy was sitting at his school lunch table with other students. They were playing with a spork, poking each other. The boy, who was being excluded, decided to poke the other children anyway, causing school staff to take it away. The staff became frustrated and called in school safety agents to diffuse the situation. The agents were unable to calm the child down and instead called the police.
Who are youth with intellectual and developmental disabilities (IDD)? The population of youth with IDD is vast. In 2018-19, the number of students ages 3–21 who received special education services under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) was 7.1 million or 14% of all public school students. You may know some better-known IDDs such as autism spectrum disorder (ASD), fetal alcohol spectrum disorder (FASD), Down syndrome and cerebral palsy, to name a few.
What you may not know is that many youth with IDDs may have behavioral challenges associated with their disability due to communication barriers, which in turn may evolve into behavioral problems such as property destruction, harm to themselves, harm to others or elopement. However, often the student with IDD behavior serves a purpose and is most likely functional.
The year 2020 will be remembered as a year of great upheaval in the United States, with so many lives and communities upended by the intersecting crises of COVID-19 and systemic racism. But of course, there is another crisis woven into the fabric of this incredibly challenging year — rising rates of gun violence in urban communities across the country.
This troubling trend is also being felt in Massachusetts, a state known for having one of the strongest packages of gun-related legislation in the country. While we do have more regulations on gun ownership in place than almost any other state, we still experience far too many losses and far too much trauma as a result of firearms. Every shooting results in a ripple effect of emotional pain for all the individuals involved in the shooting, for their families and also for their communities.
If we want to move the needle on gun violence, we must zero in on root causes and support the communities disparately impacted by this violence. We must focus on the trauma that surrounds gun violence, not just the guns themselves. And we must also push back on public officials that exacerbate the pain of gun violence through their words and policy recommendations.
A growing number of local jurisdictions are engaging in juvenile justice reform efforts to reduce the number of youth in the justice system overall and particularly in out-of-home placements. In the era of COVID, with over 3,300 youth in juvenile justice facilities testing positive as of early January, these efforts are particularly urgent.
Addressing structural racism in the juvenile justice system and collaborating more closely with youth, their families and caregivers are two of the most important and challenging aspects of decarceration efforts and other types of juvenile justice reform. Both elements are pillars of the Annie E. Casey Foundation’s (the Foundation) local deep-end reform work, which involves collaborating with local jurisdictions to reduce the use of out-of-home placement, particularly for youth of color.
The Urban Institute and Mathematica collaborated on a developmental evaluation of the Foundation’s deep-end work that documented the creative ways 12 participating sites are engaging in policy and practice reform to advance race equity and increase youth and family engagement. Other communities seeking to achieve similar goals can benefit from the lessons learned from deep-end work. Racial and ethnic equity and inclusion
Systemic racism is pervasive in the juvenile justice system.
At a time when COVID-19 cases continue to rise at correctional facilities across the country, Deidra Bridgeforth considers herself lucky. Leading the juvenile detention system in Shelby County, Tennessee, which includes the city of Memphis, Bridgeforth seems almost surprised their detention system has been spared from the virus.
I ran away from home at 12 years old. I was one of millions of children who live in constant danger, who learn to fight in order to survive in a volatile environment, both on the streets and at home. A stepfather who drank and beat the mother and children. A mother who fought back against the father and also beat the children.
After one event I made up my mind. ''I have to get out of here,'' I remember thinking.
Few crimes stimulate such visceral reactions and deep-seated fears as sexual offenses. Accordingly, societal responses to sexual offending such as registration and notification laws tend to be quite punitive and highly stigmatizing for the offender. Yet these social control practices are widely considered by the public to be essential for community safety.
However, given lessons learned about the linkages between moral panic and legislation in other justice contexts (e.g., juvenile “superpredators” and waiver/transfer laws), we question the degree to which public perceptions about the characteristics of persons who commit sexual offenses are accurate — particularly of juveniles who commit these types of offenses. Specifically, we ask: If public sentiment drives public policy in a democracy, how accurate is the information they are basing their perceptions/attitudes on that ultimately frame legal responses to these juveniles? We propose here that the larger societal understanding of and reaction to youth who have committed a sexual offense has been disproportionately severe in comparison to the risk posed by these youth and what we understand about youth development and resiliency.
Our findings from a pilot study exploring public perceptions of these youth suggest practice and policy reform efforts should continue to incorporate a substantial public education and prevention component.
As I write these words, I am overcome with a rush of nostalgia. Although my time at the Youth Guidance Center Juvenile Facility (YGC) in San Francisco was anything but joyful, I found solace in the streaks of graphite that marked my paper as I wrote for The Beat Within.
Growing up in the heart of San Francisco’s Mission District, which was plagued by crime, drugs and alcohol, along with being raised by immigrant Spanish-speaking parents who did not fully grasp the consequences of our environment, evidently shifted my path from the American Dream they sought for me into a path of violence, depression and alcohol abuse.
It was not a surprise when I found myself within the white bricked walls of YGC at the young age of 14 for robbery with an added charge of conspiracy. This was only the beginning, as I would find myself staring out of the graffiti-carved plexiglass surrounded by the coldness of the stainless steel at least 15 more times within a four-year span.
To this day, the feeling of claustrophobia creeps in during the most unexpected times of my adult life, bringing me back to the reality of my broken childhood.
During my fifth visit to YGC for assault I was officially made a ward of the court and sent to my first group home. I ran away and eventually found myself back in YGC. I found myself revolving through the same doors of the courts, from group homes to juvenile detention, a never-ending cycle.
Growing up in San Jose, California, I had some amazing experiences with law enforcement that I can say likely made a huge difference in my path as a young adult. When I think back, in elementary school we had the Say No To Drugs campaign and McGruff the Crime Dog that led us into our middle school and high school years.
Youth sports was a huge part of our culture. Even if you were not an athlete, you supported a neighbor or friend that was. We had P.A.L. stadiums throughout Santa Clara County. These were operated by the Police Athletic League. We also had officers who volunteered or worked on campuses.
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When the COVID-19 pandemic first broke in New York City this spring, the most vulnerable populations were at the bottom of a long list of people who desperately needed help during the first few months of business and school closures, shortages of personal protective equipment, food and household necessities.
