Juvenile Secure Center (Part 2)

Things to Consider

- There was a pretty big debate as to whether I'd ever be allowed to visit the secure center. I spent about three months at my fellowship site before I was finally asked to come along for a trip.

- I'd asked my supervisor about why people had reservations about bringing me to the secure center.

"It's really about the students," she told me. "We don't want them to feel like they're living in a fishbowl. Like you're gawking at them."

At the time, I was upset. I know how to act in a facility. I wouldn't gawk at anyone. I voiced my frustrations to the directors of the program, who listened. I talked with my professor, who listened. I was patient. Eventually, I was allowed to visit. I got to go again and again. The students were accepting and welcoming.

- Touring the center, however, felt like a zoo. I wanted information, and I got it. I was curious about the Others. I saw them. I saw more than I wanted to. I have to go back. Pretend I didn't see it. Move away from those issues. You can't save them all. You want to be asked back, don't you?

- This is only the beginning. I have seen and will see more things that stick in my body like a spear. And if you do this work, you will, too.

Touring the Juvenile Secure Center

The last time I went to the Secure Center, I was accompanied by both a student studying social work as well as some members of the Vera Institute of Justice. This included a young man who had come home from this particular secure center nearly two years beforehand. He was particularly kind to me - we giggled through security and he spoke genially with the staff. Sometimes, he'd run into people he used to know. They'd pull him into bear hugs and he'd tell them how happy he was. The staff would pull us in; tell us stories about him before he'd interrupt with joking indignation. They'd start laughing all over again. (There we are, standing in the middle of a pseudo-prison, laughing. The surreal aspects of incarceration are amazing.)

We were being escorted by a new officer that day. I didn't mind this; the former officer who brought us everywhere used to take a lot of pleasure in making the kids uncomfortable. (He'd once stuck a Trump/Pence sticker on the whiteboard because he thought it was "funny" that the kids would see it every day.) The Vera staff asked questions and I listened diligently. This was one of the first opportunities that I'd had to learn more about the center, and what the students did when I was not there.

They asked all kinds of questions. How did you hear about the college program? What do you do when you don't go to the college program for the day? What about the Others who don't go at all? What sort of incentives do you have to be in the Program? The students answered, sometimes dully. "We sit there," said one of the students I was sitting next to. "If we don't go to school, we sit there."

I wrote notes with a fury. The Vera questions began to change. What can we do for you here? What would you like to add to this program? What works for you? What doesn't? The students would cast furtive glances over at the director of the program before answering. Sometimes the director would answer for them. I wrote that down, too.

Eventually, the students filed out of the room. Vera stood up. We stood up. They led us out of the room, down a hallway I'd never seen before. This was the "trade" center of the facility, where students learned skills like construction and computers. The doors opened with a flourish. Boys stood just inside of the doorway, wrapping up a lesson. The Others. I see you.

We stared at each other. I'd never expected to meet the Others, and they sure as hell didn't expect to meet me. I was immediately uncomfortable. Here were boys trying to live their lives and they'd just become an exhibit for us. They twisted their bodies slightly away from us and didn't meet my eye line. Vera didn't seem to notice, nor did my supervisors. They went around, touching the work the Others had been working on; chatting with the teacher. One of my supervisors spoke quietly with the teacher - to advertise our college program, I'm sure. We want them all in the program. We want them all to have options when they come home.

The officer talked to us a bit while we moved from room to room, opening doors to see the Others and their surprised faces. I worked on with my newfound role of an unwelcome guest. I concentrated on asking the officer questions, hell-bent on learning more about the facility. He gave me answers when he could, but it was clear his knowledge only went so far.

I saw a dorm for the first time that day. There's a common area in the middle of the room, and a television mounted up high on a wall that plays with no sound. Some of the boys were playing cards, while others were listening to tiny MP3 players and shouting lyrics out loud. All of them eyed me uneasily. There was a menu hanging up of food for the month; different than what I'd had whenever we came to visit and they offered us lunch. I remember the room being loud - the way a laundry room can get loud with noise, even if it's something like a hum. I'm sure for them the noise was subaudible.

We moved on quickly; other officers clearly weren't happy with the space we took up in the dorm room. I saw big empty rooms with paint peeling and tables pushed off to the side. "We used to have games," the officer said, a little wistfully, "but some of the inmates tore them apart and we don't have them anymore." We saw the gym, where he explained the students here operate on the Missouri Model. (It sounded more like a token economy to me.)

It was leaving the gym that I saw my final Other; one solitary young man with an officer on either side of him in a poorly lit "dorm" of his own. He has to be under 21, because he's here and not at an adult facility. I got closer to the window and peered through the wired glass.

"Who is he?" I asked, softly.

The officer glanced over at me. "Oh, he's one of our special needs inmates. That's his space."

I traced a circle around the glass with my finger. The boy had stopped right in front of me - we were separated only by the glass. "Can he see me?"

"Not well," the officer answered. Still, I looked up at his face, trying to make eye contact. I see you; I see you; I see you; I see you -

Vera took a look and stepped away. They had already moved on; their attention was on getting home or seeing more. I stood firm. Either my supervisor or these officers are going to have to drag me away from this spot, because I'm not leaving this kid by himself.

A hand tugged me out of my reverie. The social worker student was pulling my arm with a warning glance. Not here.

I walked away from the boy with my stomach in knots. Even so, I needed more information. I went back to the officer. "Why is he in there by himself?"

My mind screamed at my forwardness. Tone it down. He won't answer if you stay harsh like this.

"He's special needs," the officer repeated, as though I hadn't heard him the first time.

"But what does that mean?" I pressed.

"He has his own special program. He's not, he's not right."

Keep your voice even. "Okay, 'not right' like developmentally, or psychologically?"

"Psychologically," he answered, and my shoulders lowered a fraction of an inch. "He's assaulted five officers now. He makes himself bleed. And he throws feces at the wall. So."

So. I took a breath. Talk less. Smile more. "Wouldn't he do better with a doctor?"

The officer studied me carefully. "This is really bothering you, isn't it? I can tell." His face looked relaxed, as though he'd just finished laughing. It was the same look the Rikers officer had given me. It's the same look they all give me.

My insides rolled. Talk less. Smile more. Don't let them know -

I mimicked his face. The same peace radiated out of my pores. "I'm only wondering," I said. My voice got higher, softer*. He beamed at me. "If you're really curious, you can ask the doctor over there." He pointed towards a tall, pale, sallow woman.

I looked her up and down, struggling with if I wanted to bombard her with questions or to remain oblivious, but trustworthy.

She won't answer you, my mind whispered. I looked back up at the officer. "I'm okay."

We left the facility for the day. We said goodbye to Vera and began the long drive home. I went home that night and considered crying. I couldn't do it. (I still haven't, and the feelings will bubble up sometimes - as if they've rattled around me like a can of soda.) I don't know if I've fully processed what I saw. I don't know if I ever will.

Additional Tour Drabbles

- It was on this trip that I was grateful to have another student worker with me. While I am studying psychology and she studies social work, we share similar activism viewpoints. Still, the differences in our viewpoints were obvious. My immediate first thought was that this boy was Sick and needed a hospital. Her training taught her that the environment was entirely to blame.

- The rooms were a little bigger than I expected. They had a bed and a desk and a cabinet. That's about what I had when I moved into my first place in the city. The doors are heavy and metal. They look more like this than this. There were bathrooms in the common areas.

- *When I give officers that Look and it works, they tend to be men. I've found that male officers suspect a little less than female, and because of that, it's easier to ask them questions. I am, of course, generalizing, and it's wrong to generalize. But it's wrong to put people in cages, so we're all just over here doing our best, aren't we?

- What will forever bother me most about seeing passive doctors who look like me is that on some level, they frighten me. I could be that. I could be the doctor who walks by a young person clearly in pain every day and does not do anything about it. This thought keeps me up at night.

- When I brought this up to my supervisor, this being my fear of becoming apathetic, she told me that I should be in therapy because it keeps you tied to your emotions. It's far more painful to react to things than to not, but it will make you a Better Clinician. I'm a little wary of therapy, but she has a point.