The second half of the workshop considered racism, inequity, and the consequences of unequal treatment with a particular emphasis on the healing that can occur within individuals, families, and communities. It began with a panel featuring two speakers, Frankie Guzman, National Center for Youth Law, and Judge Richard Blake, Chief Judge, Hoopa Valley Tribe, California, with direct experience in the juvenile justice system.
FROM INCARCERATION TO ADVOCACY
When Francis “Frankie” Guzman’s older brother was 16, shortly after their parents were divorced, he was arrested, prosecuted as an adult, and sentenced to 17 years to life in prison. Like his brother, Guzman gravitated toward the other boys in his neighborhood—“my neighbors became my brothers, and their older brothers became my role models.” The community did not have many afterschool or community programs, but it did have “a lot of police.” He was repeatedly stopped, frisked, even strip searched. “What happens when Brown teens become a community to themselves [is that] they’re criminalized and labeled a gang. I was not jumped into a gang. I became a gang because my environment basically required it.” He and his friends started defending themselves from the young men in the neighborhood who would rob them for drug money, or from the police who would who would beat them. “Most of my childhood I spent being anxious and fearful,” Guzman said.
In his sophomore year, he was arrested by the school’s police officer. He “came into my classroom and, in front of my classmates, handcuffed me, read my Miranda rights, and told me that I was accused of battery on a person who in fact was my friend.” Handcuffed to a chair and physically threatened, he “admitted to something I didn’t do” and was expelled from the school district. His mother was devastated. “I knew how much it meant to my mom that I do well in school, so I was pretty depressed by that.” Within 2 weeks of Frankie’s expulsion, a friend asked him to help rob a liquor store and he eventually agreed—“I very much valued my relationships with my friends as brothers.” They were caught and sent to juvenile hall for 8 months, after which Guzman was given a 15-year sentence and committed to the youth authority on his first offense. “I’ve never received an alternative to detention, and never received probation services. I went from home to juvenile hall to the youth prison system.” In a facility built to hold 6,000 young people, 11,000 were incarcerated. “For the next 3 years, I was in an environment that was extremely tumultuous: violence, ward on ward, guards on wards, sexual abuse, physical abuse, and sometimes even death.”
The court had told him he was there to be rehabilitated. “Instead, I learned to distrust authority,” he said. He learned how to survive, became
increasingly depressed, and developed PTSD. Three times he got out of prison, and three times he engaged in some sort of violation, each of which resulted in 1-year terms. “Every single time I came out I had every intention of not going back, of doing well. But there were no opportunities in my community. All we had was probation and parole.” He received no counseling, no job referrals, and no money for interviewing, which made him more depressed and more anxious. Only through “a lot of luck,” he said, “am I not in prison serving life today.”
When he was 21, after a total of 6 years in the juvenile justice system, he went to community college, in part because he could get financial aid. He met people who looked like him, including “a Brown man in a suit [who] wasn’t my public defender.” Guzman wanted to be a man who could wear a suit. “I didn’t know what I would wear a suit for, but I understood that the suit was a symbol of importance and respect and integrity.” At the community college he found mentors, a safe space, quality services, and opportunities to develop self-esteem. He joined student government and was a senator for 1 year and a public relations officer for another year. He got good grades, majored in English, and decided that he wanted to be “the ambassador between the powerful and the powerless.” When he graduated from community college, he applied to four colleges and was accepted to the University of California campuses in Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, Irvine, and Berkeley. He chose to attend the latter, partly because his counselors “surrounded me and said, ‘You’re going to go to Berkeley or we’re going to kick your A.’”
Berkeley was “terrifying,” he said, but going there was the right thing to do. It taught him to be a different person, to be able to interact with other people, to set high goals. He decided he wanted to be a lawyer and went to work at the National Center for Youth Law after graduation. As an administrative assistant there, he admired the lawyers who were suing government over abuses in the child welfare, education, juvenile justice, and mental health systems. “I remember being in youth prison and asking, ‘Where are all the adults? Who’s coming to save us? Who’s coming to keep these abuses accountable?’ And that never happened.”
He went to UCLA School of Law and graduated with a specialization in public interest law and policy. Since then, as a juvenile justice attorney at the National Center for Youth Law, he has worked with the governor to abolish direct file, so prosecutors no longer have the authority to charge children as adults, and now must seek permission from the juvenile court. He has worked to abolish life-without-parole sentences for juveniles in California and to raise the age at which a young person can be tried as an adult, from 14 to 16. He has helped enhance Miranda rights protections for children aged 17 and younger. “A police officer cannot Mirandarize them in California. It must be a public defender, who invariably will tell
them, ‘Do not speak.’” The minimum age of juvenile court jurisdiction is now 12, so 11-year-olds and younger children can no longer be incarcerated in California. All these accomplishments were “rooted in my own personal lived experiences.”
Today, a juvenile justice system that once involved thousands of adolescents has just 700 in the youth prison system. “San Francisco is poised to close down its only juvenile hall because they have less than 20 young people incarcerated in that facility,” he said. “LA County had 11 camps and ranches and now has just 4.” That has meant fewer jobs for people in the juvenile justice system, said Guzman, but “there are plenty of resources and jobs available if we choose to shift our perspective, our approach, and our priorities to build therapeutic communities in the community, not in jails.” Most recently, the governor of California has announced that the Division of Juvenile Justice will be moved out of the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation and will become part of the California Health and Human Services Agency. In addition, California has allocated $60 million in state funds for pre-arrest diversion programs around the state to give police officers alternatives to the juvenile justice system. “What we need to do is empower communities to do what they have always been able to do until very recently, which is be a community for their own children.”
SYSTEMIC REFORMS
Incarcerating children is immoral and unethical, Guzman said, and it is particularly immoral to incarcerate and punish children in the adult system, which offers very little in the way of developmentally appropriate services. On the contrary, that system imposes physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual harm on children. Both the juvenile justice and criminal justice system have roots in colonialism and racism, Guzman observed, in the boarding schools and houses of refuge that have destroyed cultures and communities. People of color have been called feeble minded, nonhuman, violent, and dangerous and have been submitted to abuse, sterilization, and even death.
California is not as progressive as it thinks it is, he pointed out. It arrests and locks up 60,000 to 70,000 children each year, two-thirds of whom are arrested for misdemeanor offenses. In California, Black youth are 11 times more likely to be arrested and incarcerated for the same crimes that White youth commit, he said, and Latinos are 4 to 5 times as likely as White youth to be incarcerated. As a result, nearly 90 percent of the young people in California’s juvenile justice system are Black and Latino youth. “It’s not true that 90 percent of all crime is committed by Black and Brown youth. The fact is that White youth receive opportuni-
ties, the benefit of the doubt, the empathy, and the resources to not only learn from their mistakes but make the most of them in a positive way and move on, whereas Black and Brown youth do not.” In the $11 billion justice system in California, $1 billion goes to juvenile justice each year. It is “very well funded, but our health and our education systems are dramatically underfunded.”
Guzman works with all levels of government, including the governor, the department of corrections, and the divisions of juvenile justice, behavioral health, and health and human services. At the local level, he works with courts, judges, probation, law enforcement, public health, and community-based organizations. “We cannot do this in silos. True reform requires a collective effort,” he said. He writes legislation in partnership with local participants and then works with state and local agencies to implement those laws, which inevitably reveals other issues. “We are continually going from policy to practice to policy, and that includes as many voices as are relevant to the conversation.”
In many communities like his own, the only place a young person or families in distress can get help is through the court system, since social workers, educators, and communities have not been resourced and empowered to provide that help. He encouraged everyone at the workshop to engage in policy, practice, and other forms of advocacy, to “champion [this issue] in any way you can.” Youth need developmentally appropriate responses to their behaviors that are rooted in health and positive development, not just punishment, he said.
Guzman remarked that he is simultaneously an attorney, a formerly incarcerated person, a victim of racism and injustice, and an advocate for justice. “I chose to engage a system that has done a lot of harm to me, my community, and my family, because I want to be a part of the solution . . . and try to bring health and healing to system-impacted communities.”
AVOIDING INVOLVEMENT WITH THE JUVENILE JUSTICE SYSTEM
Richard Blake, member and chief judge of the Hoopa Valley Tribe1 and contractual chief judge for the Redding Rancheria and Tolowa Dee-ni’ Nation Tribal Courts, provided a perspective on the assets of Indian country and how Indian people have worked to make sure that their youth have an opportunity to thrive. Blake is also president of the National American Indian Court Judges Association, which has established partnerships with many different organizations, including the National Council of Juvenile and Family Court Judges, the Casey Family Programs, the Annie E. Casey
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1 Now retired.
Foundation, the American Bar Association, and the National Center for State Courts. As he noted, the United States has more than 580 federally recognized tribes and 350 tribal court systems, some of which are developed and others of which are developing.
Blake originally worked within the state court system, but his tribe and his mother pleaded with him to become a tribal judge. “I returned to my community because I thought I wanted to make an impact. I wanted to make a change in my community. I wanted to do something that was going to be beneficial to my people,” he explained.
Blake pointed out that the removal rate is much higher for juveniles of color in California than for White juveniles. In Humboldt County, where he lives, the removal rate is 54.3 per 1,000, which is the highest number across racial and ethnic groups in California counties. Furthermore, Native American youth from his Yurok community were staying in custody in Humboldt County an average of 7.8 percent longer than any children regardless of race, adding that “we needed to find out ways that we were going to be able to help address this issue.”
One avenue Blake has particularly explored is alternatives to detention, beginning with diversion at the law enforcement level to keep children out of the juvenile justice system. He also has been involved in the establishment of the California Tribal State Forum, which consists of state and tribal court judges who work with each other to overcome roadblocks to progress. In the process, judges can talk about “which court could handle a child better, which court would provide a better opportunity for this child to be successful, and then decide that between the two judges.” This bench-to-bench communication also creates opportunities for state court officers to learn about cultures, customs, and traditions in Indian communities, he said.
Tribal justice programs provide an alternative to traditional probation and social service departments, enabling children to stay in communities and out of detention. Tribal-led support has focused on such areas as anger management, substance abuse, and physical abuse. For example, a 52-week batterers intervention program was justified even with 15- to 16-year-olds, “because the battered grow up to be batterers, and we were trying to stop that,” said Blake.
In addition, drug courts were renamed healing-to-wellness courts, with the admonition that “it takes a village to raise a child.” According to Blake, “Everybody who is going to have some benefit to a child is welcome.” When youth finish phases of the healing-to-wellness program, they earn ceremonial regalia that they can wear and keep for life. Blake also pointed out that a societal institution missing from the conversation is the medical community, and healing-to-wellness courts are one place where the medical community could especially provide benefits.
Joint jurisdiction courts have a tribal court judge and a state court judge sitting on the same bench on juvenile matters. Such an arrangement goes beyond bench-to-bench communication to sitting at the same table, hearing the same case, and discussing it together, after which an outcome in the best interests of a child and a family can be determined. Not only does this often result in allowing children to remain in their homes and communities, noted Blake, but it provides opportunities for judges to learn about communities and their justice systems and how to improve the lives of children.
Tribal youth who are detained are removed from their tribal communities and support, Blake observed. They risk a loss of culture, language, family relationships, and spirituality. Youth can become dependent on the juvenile justice system, and tribes no longer have the ability to intervene on treatment options. Young people can no longer access the resources and community-based programs that can make them whole. Such an experience recapitulates the dispossession of Native Americans in the United States, who were removed from the best land and told to acquire new skills and new jobs. This historical trauma continues to create issues for Native Americans today, said Blake. “The trauma that I heard Frankie talk about is real.”
“This is a passion for me,” Blake concluded. “I want to make certain that everybody . . . has an opportunity and the education to make that right choice. . . . My challenge to each of you is to be that champion in your community for these youth, to continue to fight for them, to keep them out of these detention facilities, because it is our responsibility as leaders in our community to make certain that we do everything we can for their future.”
INVOLVING HEALTH CARE PROFESSIONALS
In response to a question about the consequences of involvement with the juvenile justice system, Guzman noted that the system often involves fear but not healing. “There are no medical or health-based professionals in the room. And if they are, they’re largely silent and defer to what I would describe as bullying.” He urged health care professionals to speak up, even with children who are deeply involved in the juvenile justice system. “Why have we deferred, or basically relinquished, any involvement or authority to say something about kids who are deemed too far gone? That’s inappropriate, irresponsible, and not helpful.” Law enforcement offers are trained to use coercive and aggressive tactics, he pointed out, but people who have dedicated their lives and careers to helping people are left out of the conversation. Medical professionals can challenge notions of public safety that dominate the juvenile justice system
and make communities less safe by fostering high levels of recidivism. “I often challenge prosecutors who claim to be speaking on behalf of victims, because I don’t believe they are. I believe that they are speaking on behalf of their desire to win, but the child in the defendant box is not acknowledged as a victim,” he noted. Society does little to help children, and then when children do engage in a problematic behavior, society is quick to call them the problem, he said.
Guzman also pointed to the effort in California to create offices of youth development and diversion. “Sometimes a nonresponse is the best response,” he said. “Not every kid who does something wrong needs to be in a clinical program.” When Guzman was in the system, he thought he was the problem, “when really I wasn’t.” He also urged that health care professionals become involved with teachers, community-based service providers, and advocates, and that they be provided with training to understand the range of viable options and how to adopt those options to particular locales. “Evidence-based practices are limited to geography and personalities,” he acknowledged. “What happens in Boston works in Boston. You can’t just pick that up and bring it to Arizona.”
“Public safety is rooted in public health,” he said. Health care professionals should not defer to people who know relatively little about health and public health. “A healthy community doesn’t commit crimes, it doesn’t hurt each other, but a wounded community does.” The greatest harms he has experienced in his life have been at the hands of public safety actors, he said.
CULTURAL SENSITIVITY
In response to a linked set of questions about the need for cultural sensitivity training for educators at the K–12 and college levels and about the need for greater involvement of affected communities in conversations like the ones occurring at the workshop, Blake referred to the need for people to learn about the historical trauma of Native American communities. “When you talk with an elder, and they talk about being removed from their community, their hair being cut, not being able to speak their traditional language, there’s nothing more discouraging to me,” he explained. Specific steps can be taken to counter this historical trauma. For example, the state of California now allows Native American languages to be used as a foreign language in schools, “which is phenomenal,” Blake said.
He also talked about the value of medical professionals who are Native American. Such health care professionals can particularly understand the issues of Native American children and why they behave the way they do. For example, he described a social worker who recom-
mended a placement for a child in part because a home investigation found that the child shared a bed with a sibling, but sharing beds is “pretty routine for tribal communities.” His responsibility, he said, is to “be an educator to my counterparts, to those other people, so that we’re able to show them that our tradition may not look like yours, but it works for us.”
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