On The Inside

1. One pair sits in the dull, residual pall that follows shock. Eyes rimmed red, surrounded by the umbra of sleeplessness, flicker with anger.

2. Others chat idly, smile and wave at passersby, familiar faces. This could be a church social.

3. Mother studies paperwork that explains procedures, status, rights, and consequences. She speaks to, listens to, a counselor who eyes her with kind determination, then leaves her alone. Mother fingers the stapled corner of the papers, lifts her head, eyes the room, frets.

4. Heavy-set woman occupies a toddler, a sibling to the one being shackled backstage for the walk to court. Little one giggles. Oblivious. This might be a physician’s office or the department of motor vehicles.

5. Attorneys milll about, dark suits, flip-phones and leather-bound portfolios bulging with yellow legal pads, paper, paper, paper. History. They seem direct, purposeful, confident.

6. The bailiff calls a family name over the PA. One family among the crowd rises, approaches the desk and is given the courtroom assignment for their child’s case. They pass through the metal detector, are cleared to face the judge, their children, themselves.

Ruby was sent to DOC, the department of corrections.
Juveniles end up in DOC three ways:

1—they turn 18, repeat offend and enter the adult system ‘across the street’,
2—a judge will elect to try them as an adult if the charge and their age warrants it, or
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When I first saw Kenneth Gant in the intake area of LCJC two weeks ago, I was compelled by the structure of his face. He is too beautiful to be a repeat offender from the Midwestern capital of urban blight. He was handcuffed to a teenage runaway, and with them was another handcuffed pair, Kenneth’s 14-year-old brother Kentrell and a clownishly goofy looking accomplice. They were cuffed in pairs so that the four could be managed by a single police officer.

Kenneth and Kentrell were facing charges of vandalism and criminal mischief, having been picked up for breaking into cars at the Gary train station. A local resident snapped photographs of Kenneth and crew in action, called the police.

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Although it turned into a visceral exploration of my own prejudices, my trip to Gary was motivated by a desire to understand more completely the kids that wind up in LCJC.

We see them come in—handcuffed, police escort, trapped—and we brand them DELINQUENT, TRUANT, RUNAWAY, MENACE. We see them first for the choices they’ve made, but not so much for the apartment they woke up in that morning, for the streets they walk everyday, for people that make up their neighborhood. All of these things shape who I think I am, and there have been times in my life when some may have branded me DELINQUENT, TRUANT, MENACE and I was living the good life in the California hills. Things are more complicated than they appear on the surface.

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This morning I drove to Gary, Indiana, hometown of the Jackson 5.

I was scared. Make no mistake, as I crossed Interstate 80/94 on Broadway, the wasteland of Gary decaying before me, my left foot was grinding into the floorboard and my fingers were kneading the steering wheel.

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Our call time got pushed back and I have two hours to kill, so I decided to drive up to one of the most affected communities, whence many of our offenders come, Gary Indiana.

I’m intimidated, a little scared, and would probably chicken out if I didn’t bind myself to the task with this public notice.

Photos to follow.

I’m touched and inspired that one of my readers has already taken the step to become a mentor to at-risk youths in her area. Details will follow about the steps she took, how easy and rewarding the process is.

If you look into it in your area, I want to know about it. I will be posting stories here and I would love to hear yours. What a beautiful thing! We’ll become an army of mentors!

A great place to start your search is on mentoring.org where you can search by zip code for mentoring programs:

http://www.mentoring.org
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If you have specific questions, comments, or curiosities use the “comments” link beneath this post. Or email me if it’s personal.

Girls. I’ve been asked about the girls.

At a passing guess, for every 5 fellas in the detention center there is one girl. The demographic breakdown is a bit different than what you see in the boys’ pods (70% to 80% black, the remainder a mix of white and Latino). The representation among whites and Latinas is stronger among the girls.

In leisure time (read: a never-ending tussle with boredom) they segregate themselves. One morning we shot some general footage:

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Those glitches in the system, they can work for you or against you. We met a girl named Ruby, not her real name but the name she prefers. Ruby’s story is especially sad and even with the constant reminder that we are only ever hearing one side of the story in our interviews it’s difficult to avoid the belief that her mother is mad.

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Tonight, Saturday. Night Three. I come back with the smell of the detention center on me. It’s not a bad smell, overall–only by association–but it’s one of those smells that invades your olfactory memory, sticks with you.
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