Forced to Learn: Community-Based Correctional Education

Volume 1 Number 2 October 2013 Journal of Qualitative Criminal Justice and Criminology JQCJC Southwestern Association of Criminal Justice Journal of Qualitative Criminal Justice & Criminology (JQCJC) Editor Willard M. Oliver – Sam Houston State University Book Review Editor Kevin Steinmetz – Sam Houston State University Associate Editors Patricia Adler – University of Colorado, Boulder Peter Adler – University of Denver Gordon Bazemore – Florida Atlantic University Fiona Brookman – University of Glamorgan, Wales Patrick Carr – Rutgers University Kathy Charmaz – Sonoma State University J. Heith Copes – University of Alabama at Birmingham Dean A. Dabney – Georgia State University Jeff Ferrell – University of Kent & Texas Christian University Craig Hemmens – Missouri State University Andrew Hochstetler – Iowa State University Stephanie C. Kane – Indiana University Paul Klenowski – Clarion University Peter Kraska – Eastern Kentucky University Nancy E. Marion – University of Akron Shadd Maruna – Queen’s University Belfast, Ireland Karen McElrath – Fayetteville State University J. Mitchell Miller – University of Texas at San Antonio Jody Miller – Rutgers University Wilson R. Palacios – University of South Florida Mark Pogrebin – University of Colorado, Denver Sveinung Sandberg – University of Oslo Richard Tewksbury – University of Louisville Jock Young – University of Kent Ronald Weitzer – George Washington University Contact & Submissions: Dr. Willard M. Oliver Sam Houston State University College of Criminal Justice PO Box 2296 Huntsville, TX 77341 (936) 294-4173 [email protected] Sponsored by: Southwestern Association of Criminal Justice Sam Houston State University, College of Criminal Justice Journal of Qualitative Criminal Justice & Criminology (JQCJC) JQCJC Reviewers for Volume 1 (Issues 1 & 2) Todd L. Matthews, University of Maryland-Eastern Shore Amanda L. Farrell, Old Dominion University Jeff Gruenewald, University of Arkansas Gordon Bazemore, Florida Atlantic Univeristy Karen Souza, University of Cambridge Kent R. Kerley, University of Alabama at Birmingham Lauren Martin, University of Minnesota Joanna R. Adler, Middlesex University Grant Duwe, Minnesota Department of Corrections Samuel R. Gross, University of Michigan Law School Megan M. Denver, University of Albany Jennifer Cole, University of Kentucky Jody Raphael, DePaul University College of Law Elizabeth Wheaton, Southern Methodist University Ronald Weitzer, George Washington University Heith Copes, University of Alabama at Birmingham Liz Kelly, London University Metropolitan Jeff Bouffard, Sam Houston State University Gaylene Armstrong, Sam Houston State University Kate Fox, University of Arizona Elaine Enriquez, Princeton University Jody Sundt, Portland State University Richard Tewksbury, University of Louisville Rochelle L. Dalla, University of Nebraska-Lincoln Lauren Martin, University of Minnesota Cortney Franklin, Sam Houston State University Jim Thomas, Northern Illinois University Dennis Longmire, Sam Houston State University Scott Vollum, James Madison University Eric Lambert, Wayne State University Danielle Rudes, George Mason University Nancy Marion, University of Akron Shawn Bushway, University of Albany Kevin Steinmetz, Sam Houston State University Betsy Matthews, Eastern Kentucky University Richard Tewksbury, University of Louisville Craig Hemmens, Missouri State University Peter Kraska, Eastern Kentucky University Sarah Beth Kaufman, New York University Jamie J. Fader, State University of New York, Albany Melinda Schlager, Texas A&M Commerce Paul Kaplan, San Diego State University Kimberly D. Dodson, Western Illinois University Susan Dietzel, State University of New York, Albany Jeffrey Rojek, University of South Carolina Elaine Gunnison, Seattle University J. Michael Vecchio, University of Missouri-St. Louis George E. Higgins, University of Louisville Robert G. Morris, University of Texas at Dallas Paul Klenowski, Clarion University Megan C. Kurlychek, University of Albany Marvin Zalman, Wayne State University James Frank, University of Cincinnati Daniel Mears, Florida State University William King, Sam Houston State University Augusto De Venanzi, Indiana Perdue University Fort Wayne David Skarbeck, King’s College London James J. Willis, George Mason University Richard Johnson, University of Toledo Andrew Hochstetler, Iowa State University Caitlin Gormley, University of Glasgow John H. Laub, University of Maryland College Park Donald M. Linhorst, St. Louis University Mary Laing, Northumbria University Jill S. Levenson, Lynn University Robert M. Worley, Texas A&M University, Central Texas Mark Pogrebin, University of Colorado, Denver Patti Adler, University of Colorado, Boulder Gary Potter, Eastern Kentucky University Lori Hughes, University of Nebraska at Omaha Richard Curtis, John Jay College of Criminal Justice Kathy Charmaz, Sonoma State University Jennifer A. Schlosser, Tennessee Tech University Travis W. Linnemann, Old Dominion University Jody Miller, Rutgers University Stacy Calhoun, University of California, Los Angeles Robert Donald Weide, New York University Stephen Owen, Radford University Andrea Leverentz, University of Massachusetts Boston Tod Burke, Radford University Holly V. Miller, University of Texas at San Antonio Janis Ahmad, University of Houston Allan Patenaude, University of the West Indies Michael C. Gizzi, Illinois State University Kimberly R. Kras, University of Missouri-St. Louis Tamara O’Doherty, Simon Fraser University Tammy Garland, University of Tennessee at Chattanooga Donna Vandiver, Texas State University, San Marcos Shadd Maruna, Queen’s University Belfast Shaun L. Gabbidon, Pennsylvania State University, Harrisburg Welcome to the Second Issue of the Journal of Qualitative Criminal Justice & Criminology (JQCJC)! In light of this being the second issue of the new journal and the last issue of Volume 1, I have many people to thank for making this issue – this volume – this journal – a reality. The first group of people I would like to thank for their dedicated work on making this journal come to fruition are the many people who have agreed to conduct peer-reviews for JQCJC. All of the reviewers for Volume 1 are listed on the first pages of this issue. These are the people who have graciously answered my pleas for help and have given their precious time to ensure the high quality of this journal. To them, on behalf of everyone involved, and from my own deepest gratitude, I extend a JQCJC thank you! I would also like to single out one individual who agreed to conduct a review and then, after finishing the review, agreed to my further entreaties to join the JQCJC Editorial Board, and that is Dr. Jody Miller from the School of Criminal Justice at Rutger’s University. Welcome aboard, Jody! As this is the first issue since the premier of the journal, I also wanted to acknowledge my appreciation for the dozens of congratulatory e-mails for the inaugural issue of the journal, which was published on April 15, 2013. Many of you noted that “the website looks great” and told me “nice job with the journal.” Some of my favorite comments included, “What a fantastic looking inaugural issue!” and “I have already spotted one article that I will be using/citing in some of my other work.” I should also note that many of you voiced support through our Facebook page as well as via Twitter. Regarding the latter, one editorial board member noted that his tweet about the inaugural issue helped him to achieve an all-time personal record for retweets – I was glad the journal could help! I really must say that I have appreciated all of the positive reactions to the first issue and I would like to thank everyone for taking the time to reaffirm the reason why I committed myself two years ago to making this journal become a reality. While I was really excited about publishing the inaugural issue, I am equally excited about the current issue at hand. In my opinion, I believe the quality of the articles contained herein demonstrates that the journal will have staying power. Whether it is articles from well-established qualitative scholars such as Ron Weitzer, Rod Brunson, Richard Tewksbury, or Scott Decker, to the qualitative research of such rising stars as Brittnie L. Aiello (Merrimack College) or Andrea Cantora (University of Baltimore), I hope you will agree with me that the journal is achieving its aim of publishing only high quality qualitative research. I must also extend my thanks to the many people behind the journal who have made this issue and the journal happen. I would first like to extend an acknowledgment and thanks for the support I have received from the executive board and membership of the Southwestern Association of Criminal Justice, as well as the journal’s host institution, Sam Houston State University. Second, the copy-editing by Ronda Harris from Sam Houston’s Writing Center has been invaluable to keeping the quality of the journal high and every one of the authors in this volume knows exactly what I am talking about. Third, to my book review editor Kevin Steinmetz, who brought in seven book reviews for this issue, I must extend my sincere thanks. As someone who has a strong passion for qualitative research methods and is a rising qualitative star in his own right, it is one aspect of this journal I have not had to worry about. Finally, I would like to extend my appreciation to the production team of Harriet McHale and Melina Gilbert, for simply put: the journal would not look like a journal if it was not for their hard work and dedication. As the first volume of the Journal of Qualitative Criminal Justice & Criminology comes to a close, I hope you find both this issue and the entire volume to be a significant contribution to CJC, and that you will consider JQCJC as an outlet for your future qualitative research. Willard M. Oliver Sam Houston State University Huntsville, TX, USA JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) ConTEnTS ARTIClES Building Grounds for Release: Women’s Perceptions of a Community Corrections Program Andrea Cantora . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197 Sex Offenders and Campus-Based Sex Offender Registration: Stigma, Vulnerability, Isolation, and the Classroom as Refuge Richard Tewksbury . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221 African American Perceptions of Police Misconduct and Accountability Ronald Weitzer & Rod K. Brunson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243 “Hidden in Plain Sight”: Locating the Men and Women of the 1954 Boston Special Youth Program Richard K. Moule Jr. & Scott H. Decker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267 “We Incarcerate to Set Free:” Negotiating Punishment and Rehabilitation in Jail Brittnie L. Aiello . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 292 Forced To Learn: Community-based Correctional Education Ron Mottern, C. Amelia Davis, & Mary F. Ziegler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 317 Motivation to Reduce Risk Behaviors While in Prison: Qualitative Analysis of Interviews with Current and Formerly Incarcerated Women Neetu Abad, Monique Carry, Jeffrey H. Herbst, & Catherine I. Fogel . . . . . . 347 JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Book REVIEWS Miriam Boeri, Women on Ice: Methamphetamine Use among Suburban Women Reviewed by: Karen McElrath, Fayetteville State University . . . . . . . . . . . . . 364 Barrett, C.J., Courting Kids: Inside an Experimental Youth Court. Reviewed by: Avi Brisman, Eastern Kentucky University, USA . . . . . . . . . . . 368 Jamie J. Fader, Falling Back: Incarceration and Transitions to Adulthood among Urban Youth Reviewed by: Kallee Spooner, Sam Houston State University, USA . . . . . . . 372 Ronald Weitzer, Legalizing Prostitution: From Illicit Vice to Lawful Business Reviewed by: Tammy Castle, James Madison University, USA . . . . . . . . . . . . 374 Stephanie C. Kane, Where Rivers Meet the Sea: The Political Ecology of Water Reviewed by: Ashley K. Farmer, University of Delaware, USA . . . . . . . . . . . . 377 John Irwin, Lifers: Seeking Redemption in Prison Reviewed by: Brian P. Schaefer, University of Louisville, USA . . . . . . . . . . . 380 Historical Book Review Eugene Debs, Walls & Bars: Prisons & Prison Life in the “Land of the Free” Reviewed by: Edward L.W. Green, Kansas State University, USA . . . . . . . . . 384 JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Building Grounds for Release: Women’s Perceptions of a Community Corrections Program Andrea Cantora* University of Baltimore ABSTRACT Few studies have examined the role halfway houses play in helping women navigate the transition from prison to community. To add to this research, my article explores the perceptions and experiences of women residing at a New Jersey female halfway house upon their release from prison. In-depth qualitative interviews with 33 women that I conducted were analyzed to understand the prison to halfway house transition. The study aims to answer the following questions: How does the halfway house help and/or hinder the reentry process? How do women perceive the halfway house during this transitional phase? The results of my research provides support for the argument that more residential opportunities should be provided for returning prisoners as they begin the reentry process. InTRoduCTIon Women constitute the fastest growing demographic group incarcerated in prisons in the United States. Less than 20 years ago, approximately 61,146 women were incarcerated in state prisons (Gillard & Beck, 1996) compared with 108,866 in 2012 (Carson & Golinelli, 2013). As a result of this increase, there is a growing body of research focused on women prisoners and the problems they experience before, during, and after incarceration. Studies consistently find that women enter the criminal justice system with more severe needs than male prisoners. For example, women self-report more severe histories of substance abuse (Mumola & Karberg, 2006), medical and mental health problems (James & Glaze, 2006; Maruschak, 2008), and physical and sexual abuse (Belknap, 2007). Women also face unique circumstances due to the fact that they are more likely to be the primary caregiver of young children than male prisoners (Glaze & Maruschak, 2008). Unfortunately, the *Corresponding Author Andrea Cantora, University of Baltimore, School of Criminal Justice, 10 W. Preston St. Baltimore, MD 21201 USA, e-mail: [email protected] 198 CANTORA issues women enter prison with are often left unaddressed while incarcerated (Holtfreter & Morash, 2003). Depending on whether these needs are addressed while they are incarcerated, women may leave prison with unmet needs and face further challenges as they attempt to reintegrate back into the community (Bergseth, Jens, Bergeron-Vigessa, & McDonald, 2011). Securing housing, finding work, accessing treatment programs, and reconnecting with children are just a few of the challenges awaiting women upon their release from prison. Few studies have examined the role halfway houses play in helping women navigate the transition from prison to community. To add to the research, my study explores women’s perceptions and experiences while residing at a female halfway house upon their release from prison. The study aims to answer the following questions: How does the halfway house help and/or hinder the reentry process? How do women perceive the halfway house experience during this transitional phase? I conducted in-depth qualitative interviews with 33 women and analyzed their responses to understand the prison to halfway house transition. The following section provides context on the challenges women experience when reentering the community. Next, the literature on the benefit of using community correction facilities to address women’s needs will be presented. The results of this study further support the argument that there is a definite need to provide more residential opportunities for returning prisoners as they begin the reentry process. WoMEn’S REEnTRY EXPERIEnCE As evident from the large body of research on reentry barriers, women face multiple challenges when trying to address their needs immediately after their release. Securing housing is often the most immediate need. Housing issues are often the result of limited availability of safe and affordable housing, legal issues (i.e., the restrictions of living with other parolees and in certain public housing buildings), and family conflict (Roman & Travis, 2004). Most returning prisoners live with family or friends upon their release (LaVigne & Kachnowski, 2003; Nelson, Perry, & Allen, 1999); however, for those with family conflicts, this is not a viable option (Roman & Travis, 2004). For women, securing housing where they will not be faced with victimization and substance use is not always possible, causing many women to end up homeless or in conditions that do not support a drug-free lifestyle (Bloom & Covington, 2000). To be successful, women need safe and affordable housing that supports sober living and provides child-friendly accommodations (Berman, 2005). When searching for work, returning prisoners experience multiple barriers because of their low educational attainment, unemployment history, or lack of work experience (Western, 2007). Other challenges associated with securing employment include health issues, mental health problems, and BUILDING GROUNDS FOR RELEASE 199 their possible history of substance abuse (Visher, Debus, & Yahner, 2008). The stigma associated with having a criminal record also impacts employment prospects (Sampson & Laub, 1993; Western, 2007). This stigma is known to decrease an employer’s willingness to hire returning prisoners, resulting in difficulties the women face when searching for jobs (Pager, 2007). Though some research indicates that learning about job opportunities through social networks is often weakened as a result of incarceration (Western, 2007), many returning prisoners often secure job opportunities through friends, family, and former employers (Nelson et al., 1999; Solomon, Roman, & Waul, 2001). Women face additional work challenges because they are often the primary caregiver for young children and access to affordable childcare is not always available (Berman, 2005; Flowers, 2010). Furthermore, the social and economic marginalization women have historically faced adds to the barriers they face as they attempt to find a salaried job after spending time in prison (Scroggins & Malley, 2010). Addressing substance abuse and other health needs is another important area for many returning prisoners. Richie (2001) noted that women in transition lack treatment options for substance abuse, physical and mental health problems, and unresolved trauma issues. The prevalence of co-occurring disorders among women prisoners (Bloom, Owen, & Covington, 2003; Holtfreter & Morash, 2003) highlights the importance of addressing substance abuse, mental health, and victimization in the same treatment setting. Prendergast, Wellisch, and Falkin (1995) reported that while many community-based substance abuse programs provide referrals for women to address other needs (i.e., mental health and victimization), it is uncommon for programs to address these women-specific needs in one site. Prendergast et al. also identified the challenge of finding child care and adequate transportation to attend substance abuse treatment programs. Furthermore, public transportation to services may not always be located in safe areas (Berman, 2005) which may prevent women from using transportation options and addressing certain needs (O’Brien & Young, 2006). Another barrier to accessing services involves the social stigma women experience when returning home from prison. Women may perceive the stigma and rejection from society greater than men due to the double violation of legal and gender social norms (Belknap, 2007). Unfortunately this stigma may prevent them from accessing community resources (Travis, 2005). Current research further illustrates the challenges women have accessing reentry services. Scroggins and Malley’s (2010) research on female community reentry programs showed a disconnect between program availability and meeting women’s needs. These authors found that the most common unmet needs included access to childcare, parenting classes, healthcare, housing, transportation, and education. Reasons for not meeting women’s needs included limited availability of programs, lack of program capacity, and lengthy distance to programs. According to Scoggins and Malley, little 200 CANTORA research exists on whether reentry programs for women help them access services to achieve success in the community. As indicated in the reentry literature on housing and employment, family and community support are crucial elements in addressing all reentry needs. In addition to providing housing and job leads, family and friends often end up financially supporting returning family members (Mallik-Kane & Visher, 2008). For women, reestablishing relationships with family and children is critical to successful reentry (Arditti & Few, 2006). When incarcerated, women are often held in facilities far from their home communities, making it challenging for families to visit (Pollock, 2003). This separation from children is known to impact the psychological development of women offenders (Hollin & Palmer, 2006), making reunification a central focus for many women upon release. THE RolE oF CoMMunITY CoRRECTIon FACIlITIES The literature on the needs women must address when returning to civilian life indicates the importance of providing transitional and long-term services that help women navigate complex social service systems (Covington, 2003; Richie, 2001). To address the multiple needs of women, many researchers have suggested providing women with comprehensive community-based services that involve linkages among multiple systems (Covington, 2003; O’Brien & Lee, 2006; Richie, 2001). One approach to help women make a successful transition to free society is the use of community correction facilities–traditionally known as halfway houses.1 Though not a new intervention, community correction facilities provide returning prisoners an opportunity to secure employment, save money, and have a place to “get back on their feet” (Latessa, 2004, p. 138). Community correction facilities were originally developed due to the ineffectiveness of traditional prison programs, to reduce overcrowding, and as a cost-effective strategy to keep prisoners in the community (Donnelly & Forschner, 1987; Latessa & Allen, 1982). Described by Latessa and Travis (1991): Halfway houses provide the security of a structured controlled residence, similar to incarceration, combined with the freedom of residents to seek and engage in employment and other activities in the free community. (p. 54) This intermediate phase of incarceration is viewed as less intrusive, allows the returning prisoner to learn how to cope with the community environment, provides graduated levels of supervision, and addresses specific needs (Zaplin, 1998). Community facilities are also better positioned to use neighborhood resources such as local employment services, housing programs, drug treatment, and other social services. Most community programs focus on rehabilitation and some offer services designed to address the unique challenges returning prisoners face in regard to employment, ed- BUILDING GROUNDS FOR RELEASE 201 ucation, and treatment. Across the country, programs especially for women have been designed to address gender-specific issues such as parenting, victimization, and co-occurring disorders (Kelley, 2003; Mackey & Fretz, 2007; Prendergast, Hall, & Wellisch, 2002). Researchers who have evaluated these programs reported that women who transitioned through community correction facilities have lower recidivism rates than those who have not (Mackey & Fretz, 2007; O’Brien, 2002). METHodoloGY The findings discussed in this paper were extracted from interview transcripts of women residing at a halfway house in New Jersey. The larger study from which these findings came was designed to capture women’s perceptions and experiences with prison and halfway house programming, their support systems, childhood experiences, and release plans. My article, however, focuses on women’s perceptions and experiences transitioning through a halfway house. The study aims to answer the following questions: How does the halfway house help and/or hinder the reentry process, and how do women perceive the halfway house during this transitional phase? Sample and Data Collection Methods Permission to conduct research at the halfway house site was approved by the director of the facility and the Institutional Review Board at John Jay College of Criminal Justice. All women residing at the halfway house between June 2007 and November 2007 were eligible to participate in this study. I interviewed any resident who was present at the halfway house during the hours I was onsite, which included morning, afternoon, or evening. Case workers used a daily roster to determine which residents were onsite. Once several residents were identified, the case worker or other halfway house staff called each resident individually and gave her directions to the location of the interview space. During the day, interviews often took place in a private classroom space where group treatment was held. During the evening, the interviews took place in the case manager’s office after she left for the day. Both spaces had a door that was closed during the time of the interview. When a resident entered the interview space, I introduced the study and consent process, informed participants about the voluntary nature of the interview, and assured her that confidentiality would be protected. After women agreed to participate, their permission to audio-record the interview was requested. Over time, many of the residents became familiar with me and had heard about the study prior to entering the interview space. Several women offered, without being asked, to participate in the interview. On the day of the first interview, 43 women were residing in the halfway house. Over a six month period, 35 women were selected to be interviewed; however, only 33 agreed to participate.2 Four of the 33 women refused to have the interview recorded. The in-depth qualitative interviews lasted 202 CANTORA between 45 minutes and 2 hours. Each interview was structured around a series of broad questions on a woman’s pathway to prison, her experience at the New Jersey Department of Corrections (NJDOC), the transition to the halfway house, and daily life at the house. Reentry needs (e.g., job search, housing, family reunification, treatment for substance abuse and mental health, etc.), were addressed as well as family relationships and expectations for reentry to the community. I transcribed all recorded interviews and took detailed notes during the four interviews with participants who refused to be recorded. Additionally, demographic, criminal history, and family history data on the sample population were collected from resident case files. Data from case files included Pre-Sentence Investigation Reports, the NJDOC Comprehensive Assessment Profile, a Correctional Facility Assessment, and the Level of Service Inventory-Revised (LSI-R) conducted by halfway house staff. These documents were used to develop a profile for each participant. Data Analysis The interviews covered a wide range of topics; therefore I identified subsections of the transcripts in which respondents specifically spoke about the halfway house personnel’s assistance in the reentry process and daily life at the house; they also addressed various reentry needs while at the house. Participants were categorized into three broad categories: Perceived house as helpful in the reentry process, perceived house as barrier to reentry, or had mixed/neutral views. A process of initial coding then took place as a method of studying fragments of interview transcripts (Charmaz, 2006). As segments of transcripts were labeled, I analyzed the meaning of the participants’ words by writing analytical memos (Strauss & Corbin, 1998). Codes developed during initial coding were applied during the second analytical phase of focused coding. During this phase, I used the qualitative software program Atlas.ti to aid in making connections between interviews and to search for additional themes related to women’s perceptions of the halfway house experience. This phase allowed me to further identify aspects of the data that may have been overlooked during initial coding and also allowed for greater comparison between participants (Charmaz, 2006). As much as possible, the analysis focused on the participants’ perceptions of the halfway house, including the structure of the program and their ability to address reentry needs. Lastly, to develop a participant profile, I reviewed participant case files and analyzed the data using descriptive statistics related to key demographic, criminal history, and family variables. STudY SAMPlE All participants were previously incarcerated in New Jersey’s Edna Mahan Correctional Facility (NJDOC). Twenty-five women entered NJDOC as new admissions and were released to the halfway house to serve the remainder BUILDING GROUNDS FOR RELEASE 203 of their sentence, or until they reached their parole eligibility date. Eight women initially entered NJDOC as parole violators and were referred to the halfway house by the New Jersey State Parole Board (NJSPB). When the interviews took place, the length of time the sample participants had lived at the halfway house varied; 12 of the women interviewed had been at the halfway house for less than 30 days; 11 had been there for more than 30 days, and 10 were within two weeks of release from the program. The average length of time participants remained in the program was 202 days (with a range of 51-475 days). The length of time in the program varied and often depended on how much time remained on their sentence until parole eligible. Participants’ ages ranged from 19 to 58 years old, with an average age of 39. Women were primarily African American (52%), followed by 27% White, and 21% Hispanic. The racial/ethnic breakdown of the sample was similar to the NJDOC female prison population (51% African American, 35% White, and 13% Hispanic) (NJDOC, 2009). More than half of the women were unmarried (61%), and the majority had at least one child under the age of 18 (64%). Sixty-one percent of participants had a high school diploma, or GED and 55% were frequently unemployed. The majority of the sample had an extensive criminal history with 58% having three or more criminal convictions. The most frequent crimes women were convicted of were non-violent (42% drug related; 27% theft; 6% other) with a lesser percentage serving time for violent offenses (24%). In comparison, the 2009 New Jersey female prison population had less frequent drug related charges (27%) and a higher percentage of violent crimes (48%) than the study sample (NJDOC, 2009). 3 According to LSI-R scores, a history of substance use was common in most of the sample (64%), however only 49% had a current substance abuse problem. An indication of a mental health problem was less frequently identified. According to LSI-R data, only 24% of the sample received previous mental health treatment. Typical mental health problems included depression, post traumatic stress disorder, and bipolar disorder. Although the sample had a lower percentage of prior mental health treatment, the LSI-R indicated that 49% of women had moderate interference caused by emotional/personal problems. Problems assessed included anger issues, impulsivity, depression, domestic violence, and PTSD. In addition, participant case files indicated that 46% had experienced domestic violence in an intimate relationship and 30% were sexually abused in their childhood. Case files revealed 39% of participants had health related problems, including diabetes, high blood pressure, and asthma, or more serious health problems such as HIV, cancer, and Hepatitis C. Additionally, family risk factors and criminal associations were common among most participants. Sixty-seven percent of the sample had a close family member with a criminal history and 76% had an immediate family member with a substance abuse 204 CANTORA problem. In addition, 52% of participants had an indication of instability4 in the home growing up. Most participants also reported having criminal associations with acquaintances (73%) and friends (55%). PRoGRAM ConTEXT In New Jersey, the NJDOC contracts with non-profit agencies to provide inmates with programming in the community, known as Residential Community Release Programs (RCRP). In 2003, the NJDOC contracted with 23 RCRPs where 2,803 beds were available (Travis, Keegan, & Cadora, 2003). According to the NJDOC website, in 2012 there were 20 RCRPs with 2,657 beds available throughout the state. These programs offer a range of services, including employment assistance, education, substance abuse treatment, counseling, and housing assistance. My article is based on research conducted at a female RCRP (referred to as “the halfway house” hereafter). The 47-bed halfway house is located in a high crime neighborhood in New Jersey. The facility looks like a residential setting with no obvious security or surveillance on the exterior of the house. Women are referred to the halfway house from either the NJDOC or the New Jersey State Parole Board (NJSPB). Women referred from the NJDOC must be within 18 months of their parole eligibility date. Women referred from the NJSPB enter the halfway house after violating parole conditions. A small staff of 15 works at the halfway house, including 3 staff in high administrative positions, 2 case managers, 1 employment specialist, 1 administrative assistant, and several staff that rotate shifts at the front desk. The halfway house follows a gradual phase system that provides residents with privileges as they achieve certain goals and maintain good standing in the program. The core program focus is on employment and education. Residents must obtain and maintain work or attend school while in the program. Other program objectives include attending job readiness classes, participating in mandatory onsite treatment groups, and following other goals outlined on individualized treatment plans. To help residents achieve their individual treatment goals, staff requires eligible residents to participate in an onsite substance abuse and gender-responsive treatment groups. Residents also receive individual life skills coaching, employment assistance, and case management services. Women in need of additional services such as mental health, domestic violence counseling, and parenting are referred to outside programs in the local area. RESEARCH FIndInGS Prisoners returning straight from prison to the community are forced to return to high-risk situations, find immediate housing, reunite with family, and obtain employment (Visher & Travis, 2003). The participants in my study did not have to worry about finding immediate housing or return to BUILDING GROUNDS FOR RELEASE 205 high-risk living situations because they were provided with housing as they dealt with a variety of emotional events including anxiety about relapsing, employment rejection, family adjustment, and other personal and emotional issues. As they addressed their personal needs and began the preparation for release, participants were still under the supervision of a correctional agency and had to navigate through a system that provided both opportunity and restraint in one setting. The following themes highlight the different perceptions women had of the halfway house program. Building ground for release. Even though residents were still under correctional supervision and movement was limited, the majority of participants perceived the halfway house as less restrictive than prison. Residents discussed having the ability to wear their own clothing, wear cosmetics, walk freely around the house, sleep in unlocked rooms, order take-out food, wash their own laundry, go shopping, use the pay phone, and participate in recreational activities off-site with staff. Participants described these as freedoms not afforded to them while in custody. The deprivation of goods and services so commonly talked about among prisoners in Sykes’ research (1958) was immediately identified by the women in my research as the first indicator that the halfway house was different from prison. They also had opportunities to search for employment and housing while simultaneously reconnecting with family and addressing personal needs. Participants were asked if they would rather finish their time in prison or at the halfway house. Most women agreed that the halfway house was a more desired place to prepare for release. According to Nicky, no, I would rather finish my time here ‘cause I feel like I have more freedom for me and a lot of opportunities and I can go out there and do something for me today as far as getting a job, getting my own apartment, things like that. I want to go back to school so I prefer to be here. This is my opportunity that I need to take advantage of. Even with these new found freedoms, the majority of residents discussed feeling regulated by the program rules that included making accountability calls when out in the community, having their money monitored, and asking for permission to visit family and access services. The regulations related to job searches, especially the pressure to find work within 30 days, and the multiple barriers associated with finding work in general left many participants discouraged with the job search experience. As participants waited for employers to call them, they expressed anxiety over never obtaining a job. Rachel, one of the interviewees, expressed frustration and discouragement that she could not secure a job after two weeks of searching. At 31, she was a first-time offender who had served five years for reckless manslaughter. While incarcerated, she obtained her GED. She had no history of substance 206 CANTORA abuse but had experienced childhood neglect and sexual abuse. After spending 35 days at the halfway house, she recognized that, although difficult, the requirements of the program would help her deal with other responsibilities once released. Yes, I’ve been doing it for two weeks. It’s–it’s frustrating, aggravating. It can get discouraging, you know, but I just tell myself that I’ve been through worse, you know? I didn’t come all this–I’ve been thinking about going back to Clinton [prison] and take the easy way out, but I just say to myself that I didn’t come all this way just to go backwards, you know? And I feel like, you know, if I don’t make it here while in the halfway house it’s like how will I make it on the street because on the streets, there’s bigger issues that I’m going to have to deal with, you know? There’s more than just going out looking for a job. There’s getting an apartment, there’s reporting to my parole officer and, you know, being a mother to my daughter and all of that type of stuff I have to deal with it. So it’s like if I try to cop out now and then wait until I go home and think everything is going to be all right then, you know, I’m mistaken in that area. So this is–to me this is like building ground for when I go home. For first-time offenders and those who never worked prior to entering the halfway house, the stigma associated with having a criminal record was “humiliating” when trying to secure employment. Many participants discussed the rejection they experienced while out on the search and the feeling of hopelessness when not hearing back from employers. One participant who was at the halfway house for eight months at the time of the interview described her struggle dealing with the stigma associated with her criminal record. Gail (age 39) was also a first time offender charged with reckless manslaughter. Going through the employment process while at the halfway house prepared her for the challenges associated with job searching, something she felt that she would have struggled with if she was released straight to the community. My biggest thing was I thought I would have a hard time with feeling like people are staring at me–knowing where I came from and what I did. The stigma bothered me. The hardest thing was getting a job and the rejection. I’m glad that I am here doing this–I think I would have gone through a depression if I was home doing this. The rejection was hard and I don’t think I would have been prepared for it if I went straight home. Gail was one of the few women at the halfway house with a college degree. She was also enrolled in law school and had a lengthy employment his- BUILDING GROUNDS FOR RELEASE 207 tory with a financial institution. Gail and Rachel were both first-time offenders with similar charges, and although they had very different upbringings and educational backgrounds, the stigma and anxiety of the job search each experienced was similar. Gail ended up finding work at a fast-food restaurant, while Rachel enrolled in school at a community college. Many of the women discussed the hardships of job searching they encountered, which were not alleviated by higher levels of education. While they described the process as humiliating and burdensome, they accepted their situation and were willing to follow the required rules to successfully make it through the halfway house. It was common for women to take any job to just fulfill the program requirements. For some, any job was a positive outcome when their employment history was weak. For others, like Gail, accepting a low-skilled job was considered a career setback. Unfortunately, the 30 day period to find work limits the opportunity for qualified residents to obtain more advanced work. How this impacts their ability to support themselves and their families, once released, was not explored in this study, but may have important implications for their ability to sustain their financial independence and community success. In terms of program rules, many perceived the rules and structure as a positive factor. According to Beth, They give you a little more freedom here…sometimes the freedom is not good for some of the girls because maybe you are not ready for it. It is a place that helps you come here and you can live and get your life together if that is what you want to do. You can go out the same way you came in, because a lot of these girls are going out the same way they came in. A lot of them don’t want anything different, they want to stay the way they are and that is cool–that is them. They give you all the support you need to do better in life and they try to show you a better way. The rules are kind of strict here, but I don’t have a problem with them because I need rules in my life. We all do really, because that is why we are here–because we messed up. Beth was a 48 year old resident with a lengthy criminal history (18 convictions) and substance abuse problem; she had spent eight months at the halfway house and was within two days of release at the time of the interview. Beth recognized the halfway house rules and requirements as a necessary component of her success. Several participants also pointed out that some residents did not want to follow the rules, and as Beth stated, “A lot of them don’t want anything different.” This was recognized by several participants. They shared the perception that as long as residents are ready to change, following program regulations is not difficult. To many of these women the rules were a necessary part of the reentry process. 208 CANTORA Protective haven. The halfway house was often viewed as a safe and supportive place to reenter. Women described halfway house workers as more supportive than prison staff. They “care about me”, “treat me like a human being”, and help with personal problems. Participants also spoke often about the surrounding community and viewed the halfway house as a space they could rely on for physical safety. Some women were returning to the same neighborhood as the house and felt the gradual transition allowed them to address some of the stressors in the community (e.g., drug activity and drug associates). Researchers have reported that some women prisoners described correctional facilities as safe havens that protected them from victimization experienced at home or on the streets (Bradley & Davino, 2002; Henriquez & Jones-Brown, 2000). Marie, aged 44, described the halfway house as a protective haven that provided her with the opportunity to slowly readjust to the neighborhood. In this case, the halfway house provided her temporary shelter and support as she addressed her substance abuse. Because I know this is where I’m going to be. It doesn’t matter where you send me. This is where I’m going to be whether I’m clean and sober or high and drunk. This is where I’m going to be. I stand a better chance of making a foundation when I’m clean and sober, of staying clean and sober –you know what I mean?–because my foundation is already made in here. You know, I don’t have to come here and seek it out. You know, I’ve–I’ve got, you know, a protective little haven right now, and if things don’t work out I have some place I can run back to and talk, its right here. Marie’s extensive substance abuse and criminal history background (27 convictions for drug and prostitution offenses) prevented her from leading a law abiding lifestyle. She explained that after several other incarcerations, she was sent to halfway houses outside of her home community. The opportunity to finally re-enter her home community from a local halfway house was perceived as a positive factor. For some women, the halfway house was also perceived as a place of respite. This feeling was shared by women who were not originally from the surrounding area, and in some cases, had never been exposed to city life. Not only did residing in an unfamiliar place make out-of-town participants feel uneasy, but there was the fact that this unfamiliarity was coupled with a neighborhood characterized as disorderly and high-crime. When asking residents about navigating the community when out on a job search, Nora (age 31) expressed fears of traveling in an unfamiliar place. Nora, a first-time offender with no history of substance abuse, grew up in a middle class community. To Nora, like many others, the halfway house was a safe escape from the neighborhood conditions. BUILDING GROUNDS FOR RELEASE 209 Ms. S. has to map out where I am going. Because otherwise I would get lost, and that is one of my fears, getting lost in an area…I don’t know where I am. Being in a…this isn’t…I didn’t grow up in a city…this is a city to me. Seeing bums…and I am not…this is not in my neighborhood. And they laugh at me when I come in, because it’s like “you should have seen the people out there!” They are like relax… I don’t want anybody talking to me or nothing, just let me get back there. Jamie (age 29) also described the uneasiness of navigating an unfamiliar community, and the desire to remain inside the halfway house. I don’t know nothing about this place [the neighborhood]. Like the other day when I went out on a job search this guy followed me from the front all the way to the bus station, and it was driving me crazy like is this man nuts or what? I just knew that I didn’t want to go [outside to job search]. I just wanted to stay in this building, but I [also] want to get out. For women not originally from the community, the benefit of living in the halfway house may help them prepare for the job market and deal with the stigma of their criminal record; however, the anxiety felt when outside the house was overwhelming for some of these women. The house served as a protective shield against the community, but only temporarily. All residents were required to leave for work and/or education regardless of their fears of traveling through an unfamiliar place. Gaining responsibility. After obtaining employment, many women were able to maintain their jobs, develop a structured work week, and begin building a savings account for release. For residents with little or no employment background, the halfway house also provided them with the opportunity to build their résumés and gain new experience. It also provided residents with a sense of responsibility and accomplishment. To Jenny, a participant with four months of residency at the halfway house, the routine of going to work, obtaining a paycheck, and paying bills provided her with skills to maintain a daily structure and live a law-abiding lifestyle. I have never maintained a job, me job oh hell no. Keeping a job for me is an achievement already. Paying my maintenance fees, getting my own personal things, it’s like an achievement. So that I just look at it like helping me get ready for coming out. That’s how I put it in my mind. It’s just another thing you have to do to so you can teach yourself to do the right thing. Because if you keep doing it like that you will do it without even knowing it. And that’s the way I have been trying to do things. At 41, Jenny had been in and out of prison multiple times. She had an extensive substance abuse history, had experienced sexual abuse and neglect 210 CANTORA as a child, and had no employment history. Based on her prior history, it is unlikely she would have been successful obtaining and maintaining work if released straight to the community. Obtaining legitimate work became an empowering experience that led Jenny to recognize that improving other areas of her life was possible as well. Marie, a participant with a very similar background, also recognized the value of learning responsibility. This is more like the real world, you know, because you have to go out there and you have to face them responsibilities. You have to pay to live there. If you work you have to give them 30% of your pay and you have to give them 17% of your pay just for your fines, you know? So, you see, you have to pay back, you know, what you took from the community. You’re paying them back. You know, you have responsibilities. It’s not like, hey, everything’s free. It teaches you. Learning to pay bills, restitution, and rent is part of being a productive citizen in the community. Participants who held positive views of the halfway house and recognized the value of following program requirements were also proactive in their reentry transition. They discussed future plans, began taking steps to reach their goals, and expressed an overall sense of relief that they were finally moving on. “Can’t make moves by myself.” Even though the majority of participants acknowledged some degree of surveillance and control over their lives, they were willing to follow rules and rarely questioned staff about the program’s policies. The halfway house was viewed as an opportunity for transformation, one that they did not have while incarcerated. A less common view was a perception that the house was simply an extension of prison. The freedoms and opportunities identified by the majority were not embraced by a select few who shared the perception that they were in a system of control and did not have the freedom to control their own lives. “This is the system” was a common phrase. Participants with negative perceptions stated that they would rather have finished their time in prison or another facility. These women perceived the halfway house as worse than prison because although they had opportunity to work and leave the facility, their lives were still under constant surveillance. They either perceived the facility to be too far from their family, viewed staff as unprofessional, or they felt too restricted by the house rules. To April, 37, the idea of transitioning from prison straight to community release would have been an easier process. You are still locked up. We had a lot of girls run–I would never–‘cause I have a daughter who is sick, but I think if I was a weak individual I would have been skated out of here. Because of their rules, like I said you are out their working and stuff but then you have to come back and listen to the crap over BUILDING GROUNDS FOR RELEASE 211 here. This is aggravating here. Once you get out here in society once again it’s like everything is coming at you. Whereas if you are in prison and you are coming out here it’s a little– to me it would have probably been easier. In here everything gets to me and it is because I can’t make moves by myself. April spent three months at the halfway house and was one week from release at the time of the interview. She discussed the challenges of securing housing. She was unable to return to her family’s home because her live-in partner had a criminal record. At the time of her release, the parole board denied her address and instead sent her to a homeless shelter until she was able to secure housing that was appropriate according to parole standards. During the interview, April expressed frustration over her housing situation. Prior to her incarceration, she was able to successfully support her three teenage children through her employment as a nurse and a supplemental income of selling drugs. To April, the inability to live the same lifestyle and make her own decisions about housing was disempowering and prevented her from addressing her reentry needs. Other residents expressed concerns about not being able to leave the halfway house without an escort because they were classified as an A304 offender. The New Jersey A304 law prohibits furloughs for prisoners convicted of certain violent crimes (such as murder, manslaughter, rape, robbery, kidnapping, or aggravated assault). Six participants were convicted of violent crimes and were classified as A304 offenders. These participants were unable to leave the building without a staff escort, with the exception of going to work. This created a greater dependency on staff, as A304 residents were forced to rely on staff to take them to the bank, shopping, apartment searching, and other personal errands. Several participants complained that staff members were often too busy to take them out. For example, Rachel shared: Like my main issue is that I can’t go out to the bank or to shopping alone. That gets on my nerves because it’s like either they don’t have the ride to take me or they’re too busy to do it, so that’s frustrating. That’s like my main issue with that, because I can’t go shopping and things like that for myself. But other than that it’s just something that I have to deal with for the next 10 months. Although women expressed frustration over the inability to “make moves” by themselves, they still followed the regulations of the program. The threat of returning to prison was a strong deterrent against breaking program rules. Only two participants were sent back to prison for breaking program rules. One woman (age 23) violated rules for having a urine sample that tested positive for drugs, and the other (age 28) for being in a part of the halfway house prohibited to residents. Both participants were first-time offenders, with a GED or diploma, and no major history of substance abuse 212 CANTORA or childhood abuse. Nothing disclosed during their interviews indicated that they would have violated rules. Both discussed being motivated to do well because they wanted to return to their children. Only one participant, Deedra (age 35), discussed several instances where she violated program rules. Deedra would often “deviate”5 when out on a community pass by going to locations that were not approved by the halfway house. She had an extensive history of substance abuse, mental health problems, and had a criminal record. She had no family support and was estranged from her husband and children. During the interview, Deedra was unable to explain why she broke program rules. Staff did not send her back to prison and instead placed her on more restrictive supervision. After spending three months at the halfway house, she was released to a homeless shelter, ended up violating her parole within the first month, and returned to prison. 6 In contrast, Phyllis (age 46) a resident with an almost identical case profile as Deedra, excelled in the halfway house. Phyllis was extremely motivated and, as she put it, was “tired” of cycling in and out of institutions. She described the many resources at the halfway house that she took advantage of. Phyllis spent less than six months at the halfway house and participated in mental health treatment, substance abuse programs, and found housing in a transitional living program. Both Phyllis and Deedra were interviewed several days before their official release from the halfway house. The only identifiable difference between the two women was the excitement and high motivation expressed by Phyllis. The desire to make a change and proactively take steps to be successful was absent during the interview with Deedra. Just going with the program. Some women had been through the system multiple times or had been in the system for many years and followed the structure of the program just to fulfill the requirements. They did not trust the process and saw it as an extension of prison. They were not completely invested in their rehabilitation compared to those who perceived the program as a positive place to address needs. I asked Carol, 32, if there was anything the community correction facility does to help her prepare for release, and as she talked, her demeanor changed from interested in the interview to one of boredom. She repeatedly rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders. They listen to me….(resident yawns)…they help me…I’ve been doing this for so long, you understand so it’s all the same. Everything is the same. They are doing nothing different than I’ve been doing before here, before here. I really can’t say I am going to go out and be able to use the tools that they give me. This is all just….the same. Everything I’ve been doing is the same [as prison]. The real test comes when I leave. That’s when I know if I can use everything they taught me, which can’t come to mind yet and I can remember. BUILDING GROUNDS FOR RELEASE 213 Carol, unlike many other women in this study, did not have solid release plans. She had been at the halfway house six months and was interviewed one month prior to her release. Carol was not proactive in her reentry preparation, was unsure about the status of her housing, and did not have employment prospects lined up. She eventually returned to prison on a parole violation several months after release from the halfway house. When released from the halfway house, Carol went straight to a homeless shelter, and although she was employed during her stay at the house, she was unable to maintain her job due to the long distance between her work place and the shelter. Carol’s reentry barriers extended beyond the lack of housing and work. Having spent all of her adult life institutionalized, Carol had lost most of her outside support network, which now consisted only of friends and family inside prison. Returning to custody for a parole violation was not perceived as a setback. Carol’s experience, although distinctive from other participants in this study, points to the unique challenges long-term prisoners experience during transition. Other women with long histories of cycling in and out of prison shared similarities with Carol. Deedra also shared Carol’s nonchalant demeanor. They were not invested in their reentry preparation and seemed to just go along with the program. Like Carol, Deedra had few family and community supports in place; she also struggled to secure housing. They were very nonchalant about what would happen to them in the future. During their stay at the halfway house, they placed little emphasis on developing their support networks or ensuring they were transferred to a supportive living environment. SuMMARY And dISCuSSIon There were two general narratives that emerged during the analysis of women’s halfway house experience. The majority viewed the halfway house as a helping institution. They shared a belief that the halfway house was an important intermediate phase linking the transition between institution and community. It was perceived as a place to start the employment process, search for housing, and reconnect with family. Working, paying maintenance fees, and following a structure instilled a sense of accomplishment and empowerment for many women, especially for those women who were employed for the first time. The halfway house also served as a safety net for participants who had a long history with the drug culture in the community. The slow readjustment to the area allowed women to deal with community pressures while having a supportive environment to address their issues. This safety net also served as a place of respite for women unfamiliar to the area. However, not all women shared the helping institution perspective. To some, the halfway house was just an extension of the system. It was not 214 CANTORA viewed as a place to advance and prepare for release–rather the halfway house was just another barrier in the overall experience. Participants who shared this narrative were not proactive in their release preparation. They expressed frustration about not being able to make their own decisions, struggled to follow the strict structure, or felt it was not their responsibility to find work and housing on their own. Long-term prisoners and those with a history of cycling in and out prison went along with the program but were not invested in their transition. Their participation in the program was superficial and their plans for release were minimal or non-existent. Their lack of motivation may have been attributed to their long history within the system and the monotony of the experience. The findings from this study also allude to the contradictory role the halfway house plays in the transitional process. The program is designed to help residents get established for community release. It is a program funded and monitored by the New Jersey Department of Corrections and the New Jersey State Parole Board with accountability and rigid program requirements well documented and implemented throughout. Residents are made aware that if they do not follow the program requirements, they risk returning to prison. Some participants in this study developed negative perceptions of the entire program due to the rigid restrictions and developed the view that the halfway house was “an extension of the system.” Others recognized the restrictions and rules as a necessary component in their transition process. They described needing rules in their lives, developed responsibility from the work and payment requirements, and learned how to emotionally deal with the stigma of having a criminal record. The women who participated in my research came from varying backgrounds. Their experiences and perceptions were often similar, regardless of where they came from. The major difference existed among women from the community versus those from other areas of the state. Women originally from the surrounding neighborhood viewed the halfway house as a stepping stone or safe haven which bridged the gap between prison and the streets. Women from other areas of the state, especially those never exposed to inner city communities, experienced fear and anxiety when leaving for job hunts, shopping, etc. Furthermore, women who perceived the halfway house as a positive helping institution and a place to address reentry needs expressed high levels of motivation and a strong desire to move on with their lives. Regardless of perceptions, the majority of participants (with the exception of three women who violated program rules) followed the requirements because the reality of returning to prison was viewed as unfavorable. Speaking to women directly about their experiences sheds light on how best to improve the reentry process at various transitional stages. Research of this nature is not, however, without limitations. The method of recording interviews may have intimidated participants and prevented truthful discussion about the halfway house experience, although many participants BUILDING GROUNDS FOR RELEASE 215 spoke in great detail about their experiences and did not appear threatened by the recording device. These women gave very descriptive responses and provided more information than was asked of them. Several made comments about how the interview was actually helpful for them. Others mentioned that they were “use to telling their story,” referring to the multiple intakes and assessments throughout their incarceration process. Several women alluded to the interview as a helpful event. For example, one resident was forced to end the interview early because of a scheduled meeting with the employment specialist. She asked if she could continue the interview later in the day and stated that the interview was helping her think about her plans for the future. When asked a series of questions about release plans, another woman said that she had not thought about it yet, but the interview was helping her recognize that she needed to begin thinking about housing and treatment after leaving the halfway house. There were many other anecdotes that led me to believe that the women were genuinely forthcoming and truthful. The fact that I was of the same gender as participants and had previously worked as a reentry service provider with a similar population may have helped develop quick rapport. Perhaps my presence over a six month period made participants feel comfortable talking about their experiences. Of course, there were exceptions–the few women who provided very short responses and finished the interview in less than an hour. Another limitation of this research is the size and type of sample selected for the study. Although qualitative research is the best method for gathering perceptions of a phenomenon, due to the small number of participants and single site selection, caution should be used when generalizing these findings to other female community correction program. Another limitation is the lack of follow-up interviews. I only interviewed three participants after their release from the halfway house. Because few follow-ups took place, it is difficult to make conclusions about whether the halfway house impacted reentry success. Future research on this topic should include follow-up interviews. Several program and policy recommendations should be considered for future research and program development. First, it is important to recognize that even when reentry services are readily available, not all women will take advantage of them. Most programs require clients to be proactive in securing services and employment. Understanding how women perceive and cope with a less restrictive correctional setting will allow program administrators and front-line staff to adapt their approach when working with this population. In my study, the threat of returning to prison motivated many women to follow program requirements. Developing other mechanisms to motivate them to be successful may further enhance their desire to be successful. Additional research is needed to better understand how women’s perceptions of the transitional process contributes to their motivation to engage in rehabilitative services and impacts their community outcomes. 216 CANTORA Second, the short period of time many women spend in reentry programs restricts the ability to address all needs. Developing linkages with other community providers to provide a continuity of care will further enhance the reentry process, especially if it includes transitional housing. Several participants in this study left the halfway house without their new housing in place. Two of these women violated their parole within a few months of release to a homeless shelter. Changing policies regarding length of stay at the halfway house may be necessary to ensure all women have enough time to secure safe and affordable housing. Extending the length of program stay and developing continuum of care services would be especially beneficial for long-term prisoners and those with lengthy histories of cycling in and out of jail and prison. Third, the employment requirements of the halfway house program restricted qualified residents from obtaining meaningful work. Many residents, regardless of employment and education background, found work at fast food restaurants. The requirement to find work within 30 days restricted residents’ ability to find jobs that met their employment/education skills. Securing work that is compatible with skills should be a goal of reentry programs. Even if securing immediate work is a mandate of the program, residents should be encouraged (if not required) to continue their job search until they find compatible employment. Finally, a residential reentry program (like the program used by the halfway house in my research) is extremely important in helping all offenders start the transition from prison to community. Securing employment, saving money, and addressing other reentry needs allow women to deal with the anxiety of these events in a supportive setting. Creating more opportunities for these types of programs will benefit not only the returning prisoner population, but will serve as a public safety measure and benefit the larger community as well. EndnoTES 1 Halfway houses are often referred to as community correction facilities, community correction centers, and residential reentry centers. 2 The 2 women who refused to participate in the interview simply declined after the researcher explained the study. 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She received her Ph.D. from the CUNY Graduate Center, John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City. Her specializations include corrections, prisoner reentry, the impact of incarceration on communities, and qualitative methods. JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Sex Offenders and Campus-Based Sex Offender Registration: Stigma, Vulnerability, Isolation, and the Classroom as Refuge Richard Tewksbury* University of Louisville ABSTRACT Inclusion on the sex offender registration list is well known to produce stigma, collateral consequences, stress, and feelings of vulnerability for offenders. In addition to state-based registries, a number of institution-specific registries are beginning to appear, including those on college campuses. By using in-depth interviews with a sample of sex offenders listed on a campus-specific sex offender registry, this study explores the experiences resulting from this label. Findings highlight the feeling of vulnerability listing imposes, as well as self-isolating efforts designed to manage the possibility of identification, exposure, and confrontation. The interactional limitations, as well as the unintended consequence of heightening perceived vulnerability of actions, are discussed. Perceptions of the classroom as both a refuge from identify management efforts and as a means of reinforcement of vulnerability are explored. InTRoduCTIon Concerns about sex offenders, especially recidivist sex offenders, are one of the primary topics of discussion in the field of criminal justice and public safety. Widespread attention to sex offenders and their offenses has emerged in the past two decades and has led to increasingly stringent sanctions and restrictions. Today, sex offenders are among the most despised felons and are subject to registration, community notification, discrimination in housing and employment, and public ridicule. Among the progressively harsh responses to sex offenders today are smaller, more targeted, institution-specific sex offender registries, including those on a growing number of campuses of higher education. *Corresponding Author Richard Tewksbury, University of Louisville, Department of Justice Administration, Louisville, Kentucky 40292 USA, e-mail:[email protected] 222 TEWKSBURY While recognition of the structural restrictions imposed on sex offenders is widespread, understanding how public and private reactions impact sex offenders remains a largely uninvestigated area (see also Tewksbury, 2012). The experiences of offenders subject to continuous, long-term, highlypublicized and close supervision, such as listings on publicly available sex offender registries, are important to understand for multiple reasons. First, knowing how the results of criminal justice practices affect sex offenders advance understanding of the effectiveness of offender punishment. Second, knowing the results of those sanctions on offender life in civilian life allows criminal justice system officials to understand whether particular sanctions are taken seriously and are likely to have any desired effects on recipients. And, third, understanding the results of sanctions may also allow supervising/monitoring officials to better predict which offenders need additional/ different sanctions, programs, monitoring, or other services. The present study examines the ways offenders perceive and respond to their public listing after they have been listed on small sex offender registries maintained by institutions of higher education. Through an analysis of the experiences of a sample of sex offenders who were subject to placement on both a state registry and a registry specifically listing only registrants studying/working on a university campus, the present study explores the impact of sanctions on offenders and whether this method of community notification helps or hinders social reintegration. BACkGRound Popular assumptions about sex offenders include that they are dangerous, predatory, uncontrollable, and highly recidivistic. However, these assumptions are inaccurate or over-generalized (Hanson & Morton-Bourgon, 2004, 2005). Accompanying negative views are the imposition of both legal and extra-legal collateral consequences, or “wide-ranging, encompassing limitations on employment, education, housing, travel, immigration status, firearms ownership, political participation, public assistance, and family rights” (Uggen, 2005, 4; see also Levenson & Cotter, 2005; Levenson, D’Amora, & Hern, 2007; Levenson & Hern, 2007; Mercado, Alvarez, & Levenson, 2008; Mustaine & Tewksbury, 2009, 2011; Tewksbury, 2004, 2005; Tewksbury & Lees, 2006b, 2007). Sex offenders are publicly labeled as deviants and individuals who should be completely avoided, closely monitored, and strictly controlled. In addition, sex offenders readily recognize and must manage daily the consequences of these labels (Tewksbury, 2012; Tewksbury & Lees, 2006b, 2007). Among the collateral consequences for registered sex offenders are difficulties in intimate and social relationships, employment, housing, and mental health (Levenson, 2011; Levenson & Cotter, 2005; Levenson & D’Amora ,2007; Levenson & Hern, 2007; Mercado, et al., 2008; Mustaine & Tewksbury, Sex offenDerS AnD CAmPuS-bASeD Sex offenDer regISTrATIon 223 2009, 2011; Mustaine, Tewksbury & Stengel, 2006; Tewksbury, 2004, 2005; Tewksbury & Lees, 2006b, 2007; Tewksbury & Zgoba, 2010). Additionally, residential restriction laws that impact registration in many communities are also stressful for registered sex offenders (RSOs) (Jeglic, Mercado, & Levenson, 2012; Levenson & Hern, 2007; Levenson, Zgoba, & Tewksbury, 2007; Mercado et al., 2008; Tewksbury & Mustaine, 2009; Zgoba, Levenson, & McKee, 2009). The families of sex offenders also frequently suffer both the same, and additional, collateral consequences as sex offenders themselves (Farkas & Miller, 2007; Levenson & Tewksbury, 2009; Tewksbury & Levenson, 2009). The most commonly reported collateral consequence of sex offender registration is a persistent sense of vulnerability arising from anticipation of exposure and possible harassment or attack (Robbers, 2009; Tewksbury, 2012; Tewksbury & Lees, 2007, 2006b). The identification and assessment of collateral consequences have been among the major and earliest explored aspects of the registration and community notification experience (Levenson & Cotter, 2005; Levenson, D’Amora & Hern., 2007; Levenson & Hern, 2007, Levenson & Tewksbury, 2009; Mustaine & Tewksbury, 2011; Robbers, 2009; Tewksbury, 2004, 2005, 2012; Tewksbury & Lees, 2006a, 2006b, 2007; Tewksbury & Mustaine, 2009; Tewksbury & Zgoba, 2010). This literature has shown that registration and community notification often result in social, economic, housing and interpersonal losses for sex offenders. However, only a handful of studies have explored the experience of being a registered sex offender and how sex offenders experience collateral consequences and their status as registrants subjected to community notification. Robbers (2009) drew on qualitative interviews with a sample of registered sex offenders to show that the offenders both recognize their status as social outcasts and also use this recognition as a reason to limit their community involvement and social activities. Sex offender registration leads to “decreases in social support, loss of familial ties, loss of civic identity, and increased psychological stress.” Robbers’ (2009) conclusions support the findings of Tewksbury and Lees (2006b, 2007) that registration causes the offender to be socially marginalized and functions to severely restrict their activities, as a result of formal prohibitions and perceived social pressures and responses; sex offender registration is stigmatizing. Restrictions on social activities and community involvement may be a consequence of sex offenders’ receiving informal social control messages from community members (Mustaine & Tewksbury, 2011). In the course of daily activities and interactions, sex offenders experience informal social control in three forms: recognition that they are being observed/monitored in the community, expressions of disapproval from others, and direct sanctioning actions (Mustaine & Tewksbury, 2011). The frequency and intensity of community efforts are also important. As offenders experience increased frequency and intensity of these informal actions, they also experience an increased level of stress (Mustaine & Tewksbury, 2011). 224 TEWKSBURY Messages that they are devalued and despised are communicated to registered sex offenders in numerous ways. In addition to obvious and direct methods used by the general public, such as times when offenders are personally told that they are unwanted and unwelcome in numerous settings and circumstances, community members also use informal communications methods, including staring, disapproving looks, ignoring individuals when they speak or enter a location, being rejected by former friends, acquaintances, or family members, receiving harassing phone calls, letters or posted flyers, and being asked to leave a job or place of business (Mustaine & Tewksbury, 2011). As a result of the receipt of these messages, which may occur multiple times per day, sex offenders develop internalized feelings of shame, hopelessness/depression, and fear. Externalized consequences result when they perceive that they are treated more harshly and unfair than others and therefore develop a sense of resentment toward those communicating stigmas (Tewksbury, 2012). In these ways, applications of stigmas to registered sex offenders have numerous, important consequences for both daily life and ongoing efforts to plan and enact behavioral patterns. Sex Offenders on University Campuses In addition to the well-known although not necessarily widely-used state-based sex offender registries, a number of more specialized publiclyaccessible offender registries have appeared in the past decade (Anderson & Sample, 2008; Kernsmith Comartin, Craun & Kernsmith, 2009; Lieb & Nunlist, 2008). These newly developed registries focus either on new registerable offenses including drunk drivers (Steinhauer, 2007), owners of dangerous dogs (Schoetz, 2007), and in some states, murder, manslaughter, assault with intent to kill and explosives violations (Logan, 2009). Registries may also be an exclusive list of sex offenders specific to a particular setting, organization or institution, as in the case of a university campus. Sex offender registries are present on an unknown number of university campuses (although likely fewer than 10% of campuses). When campusbased registries are maintained, they are most often found on the university website (typically via the campus police department) and may include photographs, names, and informational pages for all registered sex offenders who are enrolled as students or employed at the institution. This information may be unique text created for each listed offender or simply a link to the state registry page for the offender. Whereas state registries contain thousands of offenders, university-based sex offender registries rarely list more than a dozen individuals. Campus-based sex offender registries and the individuals listed on them are a rarely studied set of issues. To date, only two studies (Lees, 2007; Tewksbury & Lees, 2006a) have focused on this variety of registries and registrants. Lees (2007) surveyed 611 undergraduate students at two universities, one with a university-specific sex offender registry and one without. Sex offenDerS AnD CAmPuS-bASeD Sex offenDer regISTrATIon 225 Results show that relatively few students on either campus correctly knew whether their campus maintained a university-specific sex offender registry (9.5% of students on the campus with a registry reporting knowing of it, 21% of students on the campus without a registry reported knowing there was not a registry). As with the general public and sex offender registries, few students (7.8%) reported having ever seen or checked the campus-based registry. Lees (2007, p. 60) concluded that “the university SOR is rarely used by students…(and) even if they were aware of such a registry, they would likely use it on an infrequent basis or never at all.” Tewksbury and Lees (2006a) surveyed sex offenders listed on institution-specific registries to assess their experiences. Following a review of the webpage for 579 four-year colleges and universities, they identified 39 institutions with a campus-based registry in 2005. A total of 113 individuals were listed on the 39 identified campus-based sex offender registries, and 26 registrants responded to mailed surveys. Based on these 26 survey responses, Tewksbury and Lees (2006a) reported that 38.5% of the registrants did not know of the existence of the university-specific registry, yet 56.5% reported being at least occasionally recognized on campus as a registered sex offender. Experiences of collateral consequences including denial of a job or promotion, denial of a place to live, loss of friends, public harassment, rude treatment in public, and assault are common, with student registrants more likely to report most collateral consequences than employee registrants. Being listed on an institution-specific sex offender registry introduces greater possibilities for identification, exposure, and receipt of collateral consequences (despite Lees’ (2007) finding that few students use these registries). But, how these actions are experienced is the focus of this research. THE PRESEnT STudY The purpose of this study is to expand on the sparse existing literature and understandings of how registered sex offenders experience the results of registration and how its consequences impact day-to-day life for registrants. The focus is on registrants who are subject to both registration on a state-wide sex offender registry and a registry specific to an academic institution; the social, emotional and interpersonal experiences of registrants are explored. METHodS Data for the present study come from semi-structured, in-depth interviews conducted with nine individuals who are listed on an academic institution-specific sex offender registry. These individuals are all listed on both a state-maintained sex offender registry and a sex offender registry specific to the academic institution where they are students/employees. 226 TEWKSBURY Sample The sample for the present study was identified and collected from a review of the websites of 311 institutions of higher education across the United States. These institutions were selected based on their membership in chosen Division 1 collegiate athletic conferences (Atlantic Coast, Atlantic 10, Big East, Big 10, Big 12, Big West, Conference USA, Ivy League, Mid-American, Mountain West, Ohio Valley, Pac-10, Patriot League, Southeastern, Sunbelt, West Coast and Western Athletic). Review of these 311 institutional websites identified 18 institutions with a campus-based sex offender registry; 5.7% of reviewed institutions have a campus-based registry. These 18 registries listed 92 sex offenders, and all 92 listed offenders were mailed a letter providing an invitation to participate in the study via a telephone interview. Nine invitations were returned with consent forms, and those 9 were interviewed over the telephone during the summer and fall of 2011, a response rate of 9.8%. However, registered sex offenders are a notoriously challenging population to reach; previous research studies on registered sex offenders have yielded similar response rates. While not ideal, reliance on small response rates is quite common (Robbers, 2009; Tewksbury & Lees, 2006a, 2006b, 2007). Because response rates are low for registered sex offenders, accessing those enrolled in academic institutions where college-based sex offender registries are maintained must also be noted as an equally, if not more, difficult population from which to recruit. Interviewees were male; five students were either current graduate students or had graduated within the last year. There were three undergraduate students and one faculty member. The mean age of interviewees was 38. For those whose offenses were known, three were convicted of sexual abuse of a minor, one for possession of child pornography, and one for voyeurism. Seven of the interviewees had been convicted, sentenced, and added to their state’s registry prior to coming to their current campus, and two experienced an interruption to their time on campus due to arrest and sentencing. Research Process All interviews were conducted using a semi-structured interview guide consisting of 18 open ended questions. Interviews focused on offenders’ knowledge of the institutional sex offender registry, challenges with and expectations of social and academic activities, community responses to the interviewee’s status as a registered sex offender, identified sources of support on campus, and academic activities. All interviews were conducted by a specially trained research assistant who is also a registered sex offender (although not on an institution-specific registry). This was done to maximize the likelihood of establishing rapport between the interviewer and interviewee, in response to past researchers’ arguments that registered sex offenders are especially difficult to access and with whom to establish rapport. All interviews were audio recorded with the consent of the interviewee. In- Sex offenDerS AnD CAmPuS-bASeD Sex offenDer regISTrATIon 227 terview recordings were between 30 and 120 minutes in length. Following interview completion, all interviews were transcribed for data collection, analysis, and coding. All coded data by hand, following principles of analytic induction in multiple readings (Charmaz, 1983, 2006). This approach uses numerous readings of all transcripts, with each reading focused on a narrow range of issues and conceptual categories. Because this was an exploratory study, open coding was used, and findings reflected issues that emerged from the data during the coding for the concepts of primary interest. Prior to data collection, all procedures were reviewed by the author’s institutional review board to ensure that ethical standards were met. FIndInGS Analysis of interview data reveals that sex offenders subject to institution-specific registration almost universally experience social isolation, intense feelings of vulnerability, and find the classroom setting to be a liberating and empowering refuge. However, this sense of freedom and liberation also serves to reinforce feelings of vulnerability and fear of additional collateral consequences. Social Isolation One of the most commonly reported experiences of registered sex offenders subject to public registration and community notification is a sense of social isolation; this is also true for registrants subject to institution-specific registration. As members of a campus community, these individuals exert substantial energies to limit their exposure as registrants and in the process avoid many forms of interaction and activities on their campuses. Randy, an undergraduate student, pointed to the fact that not only does he feel isolated in life due to his listing on the state registry, but he clearly sees his institution-specific registry listing as very limiting. In his words: You have the registry as well as your campus registry. It’s isolating, and it can make it more difficult to communicate to people. I myself am feeling cut off from people, which is probably one of the more dangerous positions to be in for somebody who is an RSO. Having to constantly worry about it and be on guard is a very difficult thing to deal with. The use of two registries adds to the stresses Randy experiences, and makes him both more concerned and more likely to restrict his activities. As a part of their striving to limit knowledge of their stigmatizing status, campus registrants report having few social interactions, few if any friends, and a very limited range of activities beyond the classroom. These restricted social interactions are purposefully and intentionally limited, largely due to fear of exposure and what are thought to be the likely repercussions of expo- 228 TEWKSBURY sure. They think that if they simply stay by themselves, interact only superficially (if at all) with other campus community members, and do nothing to draw attention to them, then they will remain anonymous and undetected. This purposeful imposition of self-limitations is explained by Eric, a recently retired faculty member, I didn’t socialize with anyone except a few of my cohorts and you could literally count them on two hands. It was about 10 people total…. That to me was always one of the most difficult things about the experience was who knew and who didn’t know? Of the nine interviewees, Eric reported the largest number of people who he interacted with on campus. Other interviewees indicated perhaps 2 or 3 or at most 5 others they regularly had contact and conversation with outside the classroom; typically those who shared the same studies or campus work assignments that placed them in ongoing, close contact. With time, the regularity of interactions may lead to a loosening of the self-imposed restrictions on interactions, however this may typically be only slight. What is notable is that interactions are almost always only with those a registrant is forced to have contact with, not voluntary interactions or true friendships. When asked if he had any regular interactions with specific others while on campus, David, an undergraduate majoring in a social science discipline replied, “I really don’t…. I kind of just talk to the students on either side of me in class, (pause) maybe.” Or in the words of Michael, who was 44 years old and had been out of prison and on campus for two years, “I don’t run with anybody, I talk to them because they are my peers and we attend classes together.” While knowledge of these registrants’ status is publicly available to any members of the community who seek it out, registrants stated that they had definitive knowledge of only a very few individuals who knew of their status. Only two restricted sets of individuals were reported as definitely knowing their status, institutional officials who are required to be informed of the registrant’s presence and for graduate students, perhaps a mentor. When reflecting on whom he knew is informed of his status, Walsh, a recent graduate of an urban planning undergraduate program at a state university, responded, “The campus police, pretty much that’s [all]. Well on campus just the campus police.” Similarly, Lester, a graduate student in a natural sciences discipline, after thinking for a few moments suggested that “I honestly don’t know, the people who read my application? And that’s probably it as far as I know.” For all of the registrants interviewed, there was a recognition that campus police and perhaps one or two other individuals or offices who might have knowledge of their presence on campus, but no one else. Graduate students reported a slightly different experience, most had established a mentoring relationship with an individual faculty member having informed that individual, but few if any others. Wayne, a graduate Sex offenDerS AnD CAmPuS-bASeD Sex offenDer regISTrATIon 229 student on the same campus where he had received his undergraduate degree, explained: At first I didn’t really feel the need to tell too many people. but then as I started working with people, especially like Kerry who’s my thesis chair, I felt like it was important to tell them because I would be working so close with them, you know and be publishing papers with them. I can remember telling one teacher at X, and she goes, “I don’t think you need to tell anybody that, that’s not anybody’s business.” She said, “it makes no difference to me and I don’t think that you really need to tell people.” So, I took that advice. In a similar way, Walsh, who earlier reported that he believed only the campus police knew of his status and clarified his comments saying, “there was one professor that I had, he was pretty much my mentor in the interdisciplinary program. I explained things to him and he helped guide me in my degree and everything. We still keep in contact.” In the graduate studentmentor relationship, it is believed that bonds are closer, interpersonal relations are stronger, and consequently it is both safer and more important to disclose one’s status. None of the registrants reported any negative experiences from disclosure to faculty, and all who did mention ever sharing their information with a trusted faculty member indicated that their trust was upheld and reinforced. Registrants of institution-specific sex offender registries used self-isolation as a tool to limit the possibility of exposure and their fear of subsequent ostracism. However, even with the restrictions that these individuals imposed on themselves, they did not achieve a sense of comfort or safety on campus. Rather, all reported on-going, near constant feelings of vulnerability throughout their day-to-day activities on campus. Feelings of Vulnerability David’s words provide an excellent overview of how isolating himself, restricting activities, and a constant sense of vulnerability go hand in hand for registrants subject to institution-specific registration: You just can’t allow yourself to feel like you can be a student. You can’t just get involved in anything and everything ‘cause there are so many different activities and organizations that you would like to be a part of to get the experience or to help build your résumé. And you just know you can’t do those things. I think that is one of the harder things is that you feel like you always got to look over your shoulder. You don’t know from one day to the next if you’re going to be confronted You really put yourself out there in the public eye, it is not like you are just going from home to work every day. 230 TEWKSBURY Despite actively limiting his potential exposure on campus, David continues to feel like he has to worry “if you’re going to be confronted.” Not only is this worry present, but by working to limit the possibility of being identified, isolating himself serves to merely intensify the feelings of vulnerability. Concerns about being identified and confronted are distractions for students and serve to further restrict the benefits of immersion in an academic setting that registrants can access. Anxieties associated with possibly being identified are therefore kept front and center in the individual’s mind. By being on the lookout for settings and interactions that may enhance risks of exposure, there is less mental energy and focus available for attending to studies and academic relationships and more energy and focus devoted to worrying and feeling vulnerable. Randy reflected on what he calls his “constant stressor” of worrying about exposure when he explained: I think that being surrounded by a lot of strangers on a regular basis and constantly worrying about being found out, that is probably one of the biggest stressors. And it continues to be a fairly large stressor throughout my life whether its school, work or anywhere else because it’s information that is easily accessible to people. But yeah, just having my personal life put out in front of everybody I think is a constant stressor…. Having to constantly worry about it and be on guard is a very difficult thing to deal with. Or, as related by Lester, “I guess sometimes you are like, you wonder who knows type of thing, you know? Does someone know and they are not telling you type of thing? Are people going to find out and make a big deal out of it? I have never had any issues with it but I definitely do think about it and wonder.” The fact that concerns and worries are constantly present in the minds of these registrants is a taxing situation, and Eric suggested that the most difficult part of his entire experience was worrying about being exposed. When asked about his overall experience on campus, and what he found most challenging about being on campus, Eric turned the conversation back to his status as a registrant saying, I guess for me it was never knowing who knew and who didn’t know…. To me that was always the most difficult thing of being in school, never really knowing who knew what and if they knew what they knew. Beyond that I think that pretty much would be the most difficult thing for me. Similar sentiments were expressed by Brady a graduate student who shared: I think the biggest issue is, that just subtle paranoia just the way technology and communication is you know, one person Sex offenDerS AnD CAmPuS-bASeD Sex offenDer regISTrATIon 231 finds out and then they tell two of their friends and they facebook it and then somebody tweets it and I come on campus one day and the entire student body knows. That’s a fear that, you know, it’s probably irrational, it’s probably never going to happen but it’s a situation which of course would be devastating and career ending. As Brady suggested, fears of being identified, exposed, or confronted are at the forefront of registrants’ minds on most occasions; however, actually being identified, exposed and confronted is not very common. Almost all of the offenders in this sample were approached on campus by someone who learned of their status. In nearly all cases this confrontation was, in fact, more of a supportive encounter, and not at all what each registrant fears on a daily basis. When confronted either by fellow students, undergraduate students in the classes taught by graduate student/faculty registrants, or others on campus, these situations were initially met with great trepidation and fear, but in almost all cases were quickly recognized as non-threatening and in fact, supportive. Walsh taught large undergraduate classes every semester as part of his graduate program and reported, “I would have students slink up after class and they would say, ________ we think it is awesome that you are up here teaching because my dad or my uncle or brother is in that situation and we think it is kind of neat.” Or, also in a non-confrontational manner, Lester related that a very casual female acquaintance on campus discovered his status, and approached him with questions. I had one person, I guess she was typing my name into Facebook or typed it in Google. So she brought it up. But that is the only person, she wasn’t angry about it, she just had some questions about it. I don’t even remember how she brought it up but she texted me and was like “hey” on this and “what’s the deal?” type of thing. In the end we didn’t get a chance to talk about it. I am not opposed to talking about it but it really hasn’t come back up. Not all encounters with people who discover a registrant’s status go this smoothly, although in this sample no one reported anything significant of a negative nature. Typically, however, these registrants believed that they might have narrowly missed out on a very bad situation and that weathering a confrontation that ends positively becomes a concern that now only negative confrontations remain to be experienced. Ned, a 27 year old graduate student, reported that another student he had recently become acquainted with discovered his status, and this led to the end of their interactions. As he explained it, I don’t know how he did it but he took it upon himself to look me up I guess on the net or I don’t know. He addressed it to me and he said, you know I understand you’re a SO. I said where 232 TEWKSBURY did you find that? He said, I looked on the internet. I said well, there is not much I can do about it…. It just became easier to drop the friendship. In a much more dangerous situation, Wayne, who was a graduate student on a campus where a deadly, classroom shooting incident took place, related the story that the shooter had learned of Wayne’s status as a registrant on the school’s sex offender registry. The guy who did the shooting was one of the guys in my department. Apparently he found out about my background at some point and all of a sudden he got real nasty. So all of a sudden he was getting like mean and belligerent. He didn’t come right out and say: “I know about you.” But he made really mean comments that even the professor didn’t understand. And then eventually he kind of dropped off the scene and the next thing you know he’s shooting up the school. In retrospect, Wayne wondered whether this discovery had anything to do with the shooter’s actions, or whether he simply was lucky and did not end up on the wrong end of the shooter’s wrath. Regardless, this situation served to reinforce the idea that although the incident was not as bad as it could have been for him, Wayne needed to be very careful about protecting his stigmatized identity, and he interpreted this situation as evidence of the importance and need for him to continue isolating himself from others, because, as Wayne said, “you just never know who is going to react how.” Most often, however, discovery and confrontation are uneventful and others who approach registrants want to either express support or ask questions, perhaps for helping them to understand their own and their loved one’s situations. Brady stated: I have never been actively approached by somebody that I didn’t know or that I haven’t previously told about it. On occasion there are people that are aware just within my social network. And they will come more out of curiosity they ask me, “hey how does this work?” and “how is your situation?” They just have questions and I am more than happy to answer them because usually what happens is clearing up the misconceptions that there are about SOs. Similarly, Eric related that: I have never been approached in terms of, “I heard you are a sex offender is that true?” or anything like that. I have been approached by students when they wanted to say, “well my dad is one,” or “my brother is one, my uncle is one,” and they say “I told them about you and they thought that was really cool.” It was like well if he is up there doing this, maybe my Sex offenDerS AnD CAmPuS-bASeD Sex offenDer regISTrATIon 233 dad will get a job sometime. It was those types of encounters, I can’t recall a single one, there simply was not a single one because I would have remembered it if individuals confronted me directly. On a more personal note, Walsh recalled that he was approached by another male student who found Walsh’s name on the university’s registry and “he was in the same situation, newly in the situation…. He asked for my advice on some stuff “ Vulnerability defines much of the experience of registrants on institution-specific sex offender registries, and this vulnerability is seen as enhanced by the small nature of the campus community and the close contact within which campus community members interact. Fears of being identified and publicly outed as a sex offender are frequent, if not constant, experiences for these offenders. Yet, while nearly all of the experiences these men relate regarding identification are generally positive and do not correspond with their expectations and fears, these interactions are perceived as exceptions, and are interpreted as indications that now “only bad possibilities remain.” In this regard, the sense of vulnerability felt by these registrants appears unsupported by experience, yet reinforced and strengthened by both self-imposed isolation and redefinition of positive interactions as exceptions rather than indicators of likely interactions. While feeling vulnerable and on-guard characterizes the on-campus experience of these institution-specific registry listed individuals, there is one place where these feelings dissipate, and for some even temporarily disappear–inside the classroom. The Classroom as a Refuge Registrants of university-based sex offender registries report that class sessions are among the few times they are able to block out and disengage from their continual sense of vulnerability and concerns regarding their status as sex offenders. The classroom is described as a place where these individuals are able to refocus their attentions and energies and where they come closest to being able to fully let down their guard and also interact in a “normal” fashion. In this way, the classroom is a refuge from the pressures and constraints of being a publicly labeled sex offender and one place where attempts to isolate are mitigated. Therefore, classroom experiences are very highly valued and seen as some of the most important times and activities in the lives of sex offenders. The idea that the classroom is a place where interactions can be (largely) free of concerns or a need for isolation is evident in the words of several sample members. Wayne said that in the classroom he was a very active participant, “Even in the classroom it never stopped me from participating in class. I’ve always been just as vocal as I’ve always been.” Or, as Michael stated, “With what I have been through I have a perspective that not many 234 TEWKSBURY people can say, you have the opportunity for a second shot at life. I actively participate in class exercises and group discussions.” All registrants, however, were not able to abandon their self-isolating approaches or to interact without some degree of protective shield. Sometimes, especially for students in the social sciences, classroom discussions can approach issues that may be seen as “too close” or “too familiar” for registrants, and they therefore might self-regulate the participation. Here the words of Eric are instructive. When reflecting on his years of campus activity as a registered sex offender Eric stated, “I was never shy about participating. Now, there were sometimes things that you wanted to comment on but I knew I just couldn’t. I just kept certain comments to myself and bit my tongue and just didn’t say anything, which is awful.” Continuing on, Eric seemed to retract from his position that he was a common participant in any and all gatherings on campus. As he thought about his experiences on the whole, he explained, Oh god no! Are you kidding? I guess if I really wanted to be cynical I would just say I just played the game. That makes it sound like I am arrogant and I am smarter than everybody else and I am not. There was a certain level of that and it translated into guardedness mostly on my part. For me that’s the big difference is I have to always be on guard with regards to this particular issue. Eric’s experiences aside (and they might be unique due to his status as a faculty member), for the most part the rest of the sample reported feeling more comfortable in the classroom than elsewhere on campus, especially during structured activities and discussions that remained focused on class materials. This comfort may in part be a function of care exercised in course selection and specific topics registrants placed at the center of their educational activities. Only one sample member reported avoiding any classes due to his status as a registered sex offender. David reported that as a sociology student, he avoided sexuality and gender classes “because there’s like 95% women in those classes” rather than because of the course materials or content. However, outside the classroom activities, he also avoided the drug and alcohol treatment class. You actually get involved with counseling so you are dealing with clients and stuff like that. The other one is penology class. They actually take a couple field trips out to a couple correctional facilities. I wouldn’t want to get out there and get stopped and not let in because of my background. That would be a very embarrassing situation. Inside the classroom, these students reported being able to relax their focus on identity-protecting efforts and were able to engross themselves in course materials and engage with fellow students and professors “just like anyone else would.” In this regard, the classroom served as a refuge; the Sex offenDerS AnD CAmPuS-bASeD Sex offenDer regISTrATIon 235 structure, guided discussions and specific foci that individual courses provided served as an environment where (in most instances) their status as registered sex offenders was not an issue. Such positive experiences are not common for registrants, and therefore the students saw these occasions as especially valuable and important. Registrants spend significant amounts of time and energy attempting to “pass” in daily life as non-stigmatized persons (largely via isolating themselves). Yet, it is notable that one setting where they feel they are able to do this is a setting where they expend relatively little energy on managing their identities–inside the classroom. The campus experience, and especially the classroom experience, is valued by registered sex offenders not only because it a location where they do not have to be so guarded, but also because it is seen as a form of activity that assists them in ensuring that they do not re-offend. This is perceived to operate in two different ways. First, offenders see their educational pursuits as a means to overcome at least some of the material barriers they encounter as registered sex offenders. Second, and perhaps more importantly, the educational experience is valued because it is perceived as an investment in a community that offenders both enjoy and value. Educational pursuits are commonly expressed as a means to employment and an income– there is the goal of a material payoff. David explained that he believed his pursuits are important because “I have too much to lose. I have a family, I got a home, I am in school to better myself and help others. So, that does keep me grounded because it keeps me focused on what I want to accomplish and what I want to do with my life.” Similarly, Lester saw being in school as important because it provided a structure to his life, which he had learned through his treatment experiences are important for avoiding re-offending. “This keeps me busy. It definitely makes life easier. I know guys who might not have a job or whatever, but this basically is my job.” The school structure is seen as important to avoid re-offending, an important goal for this sample of offenders. By being involved with their education and their campus, even with internal or external restrictions, these offenders recognized that they have an investment in something that they enjoy and benefit from, and that investment is important for them mentally, emotionally and socially. Such opportunities are rare in the restricted life of a sex offender. When asked whether he saw his being involved in his campus community as related to avoidance of re-offending, Eric replied, Well, only in the sense that I have worked my ass off to get to a certain place and I don’t want that to go away. So, yeah, I guess to some extent it does. It also gives you new roles in society as well as a new status. I consider the SO label to be a primary status because of the way it affects your life. If you have other positive statuses in society, particularly those that are not 236 TEWKSBURY ascribed to you, but that you’ve earned, then yeah, I think to some extent it does help to keep you from re-offending. Also endorsing the idea that being involved in educational pursuits is important for him, Walsh explained that “I think it does because it allows you to learn that you can interact with other people. You can have a normal relationship with someone. You can participate and you are still part of society.” The idea of education assisting the offender to remain crime free was also echoed by Wayne, Absolutely! I think that education is critical. I would advise everybody to go back and get more education, yeah. And that is the key to changing the whole mindset. Because here is the problem, when you are stigmatized like we are, and you begin to feel bad about yourself, you begin to believe what other people say about you. That tends to throw you into a cycle, which is where you are in danger of reoffending and when I get into a program like this and I begin to see that what half of what people are saying about me is just rhetoric, I don’t have to believe what they are saying, just because they are saying it. It helps me feel better about myself and when I feel better about myself I am at less risk of putting myself in a situation that would put me in danger of re-offending. By being in school, then, this sample of offenders sees themselves benefitting in numerous ways. Not only is there a material payoff of getting more education, but equally or more importantly for these individuals, there is a value attached to feeling better about themselves and feeling that they are both a part of something and that they have something to lose. Many offenders believe they had nothing to lose when they committed their original offenses; however, in the college setting, the structure, the value of an education, the more positive outlook on life can be lost. Immersion in one’s educational program provides a degree of distraction from their near constant recognition of vulnerability; it provides them a realistic hope of being able to overcome their material barriers, and it provides them with something to care about and which they can control. Both of these last two issues are largely absent from their lives, except in this setting. The classroom and possibly the campus itself is experienced as a refuge for registered sex offenders. Here, there is hope; there is a chance for the offender to at least momentarily move away from thinking about his stigmatized status, and there is something he can care for. All of these are important, but only rarely accessible to registered sex offenders. dISCuSSIon As shown in this analysis, sex offenders who are subject to community notification via both state-based registries and institution-specific registries as- Sex offenDerS AnD CAmPuS-bASeD Sex offenDer regISTrATIon 237 sociated with institutions of higher education experience significant collateral consequences. The most common experiences reported are those of intense and near-constant feelings of vulnerability at a heightened level, essentially the same experience but in a different form and intensity, as was reported by registered sex offenders in community samples (Tewksbury, 2004, 2005, 2012). In response to their experience, these offenders isolated themselves from many campus activities and peers, and through their active attempts to isolate themselves, they intensified their apprehensions of being publicly identified and subsequently yet further marginalized or sanctioned. In this way, efforts to reintegrate to free society may be inhibited and restricted. These actions and feelings are an extension of the experiences previously reported by registered sex offenders in general (see Tewksbury, 2012). What this analysis adds to understanding of these experiences is that recognition of one’s stigmatization is not only experienced in its own right but also has a direct effect on these individuals’ behaviors, views of self, and subsequent social interactions and integration. Additionally, recognizing oneself as stigmatized and working to manage the extent and consequences of stigmatization has important influences on the ways in which an individual develops and manages their public and personal identities. Through their attempts to control the possibility of identification, exposure and confrontation, isolation necessarily reinforces the persistent sense of vulnerability. Ironically, in this respect, registrants’ attempts to mitigate their vulnerability instead served to reinforce and strengthen their experience of vulnerability. Sex offenders listed on institution-specific sex offender registries experience, recognize and work to manage or limit the consequences of their stigmatization, they also experience intensified value regarding their activities and the environments and interactions when there are at least temporary distractions from their stigmatized identity. This research demonstrates that classroom experiences are highly valued interactions for offenders. As individuals experience an increasing sense of investment in this setting/activity, they both enjoy its positive aspects and also sense an intensified degree of vulnerability that arises from the recognition that they are at risk of losing this positive interaction if they were to be discovered. Consequently, their sense of vulnerability becomes deeper and more frequently considered. When this occurs, a cyclical process is set in process; the increasing sense of vulnerability makes the refuge of the classroom more valued, and this enhanced value leads to increasing concerns about potentially losing these experiences. As the refuge of the classroom is experienced and valued more, individuals increase their efforts to isolate themselves in attempts to ensure they are not identified and exposed; an ever-intensifying cycle of valuing experiences and fearing the loss of such experiences is born. As these individuals invest in their time and place of refuge they are reminded of their lack of control and ability to function freely in the community and therefore exaggerate the value attached to the opportunity to have 238 TEWKSBURY and enhance desired, rewarding and affirming experiences (e.g. the refuge of the classroom). Efforts to protect that which is valued lead to more isolation as a protective measure. As individuals experience fewer aspects of life where they have control or influence and have less that is considered important (e.g. experience more collateral consequences of registration), that which is valued takes on an even more central role in life. When something is valued, the possibilities of having it taken away are heightened, and efforts to protect and prevent this loss become more important. While sex offenders on campus or listed on a campus-based sex offender registry experience and recognize significant benefits from their on-campus activities and interactions, they are also limited in their degree of benefits because of their efforts to protect themselves and their access to those valued activities and interactions; sex offenders subject to both state-based and institution-specific registries become caught in a vicious circle. They recognize their devalued, stigmatized status and feel vulnerable; therefore they seek to withdraw from many social settings and interactions (e.g. self isolate) as a way to avoid further negative experiences. Then, as they isolate themselves, they recognize and increasingly value those interactions they define as positive. To continue to experience these positive interactions, they feel it necessary to further act to protect themselves and their possible exposure; this intensifies the experience of vulnerability. Although classroom experiences are seen as a safe refuge for registered sex offenders, it contributes to their ongoing efforts to socially isolate themselves and have persistent feelings of vulnerability. These findings should be viewed in light of the sparse previous research regarding university-specific sex offender registries and the broader literature regarding collateral consequences. Lees (2007) showed that few students on a campus with a campus-specific registry were aware of it or used it. In the present analysis, sex offenders on campus reported significant collateral consequences (similar to that also previously shown by Tewksbury and Lees, 2006a), and therefore, questions about the specific generators of these offenders’ experiences must be raised. One consideration is that university-based sex offender registries are more widely known about and used today than nearly a decade ago. It may be that the university in Lees’ (2007) study is unique in its (lack of) use and promotion of its registry. The few students on campus who access the campus-based registry may or may not be active in seeking out and reacting to registered offenders on campus; or, the experiences of offenders listed on campus-based sex offender registries may be due to factors other than the campus-specific registry? These possibilities cannot be considered with the data in the present study but offer interesting and important questions for future research. Even if the campus-specific registry is not directly related to the largely self-imposed isolation, persistent sense of vulnerability, and subsequent perceptions of the classroom as a refuge for these offenders, the fact remains that these registries contribute Sex offenDerS AnD CAmPuS-bASeD Sex offenDer regISTrATIon 239 to stigmatizing experiences and are seen as limits and barriers to community reintegration for sex offenders. Because of the known collateral consequences in the realm of social life, employment, and housing, the addition of a second publicly accessible registry may be a source of heightened negative experiences, especially one in which typically fewer than a dozen individuals are listed in a community of often-interacting individuals. Or, even in the face of what registrants perceive as a high likelihood of identification and disclosure, as in the case of the registrants interviewed here, there can be supportive structures and activities that may provide a sense of hope and motivation for continuing efforts to move ahead. The classroom as a refuge appears to be one such supportive and rewarding environment. Despite apprehensions about possible or likely disclosure and resulting stigmatization and discrimination, these offenders found experiences that largely outweighed their apprehensions and provided them with a sense of purpose and reassurances that normal interactions could be (re)achieved. The present study is not without limitations. The sample is small (as is common in studies, especially qualitative studies of a marginalized population). The data do not address the specific mechanisms by which the presence of a campus-based registry contributes to offenders’ experiences, and the veracity of interviewees’ accounts cannot be verified. Nonetheless, this study has produced valuable insights into the experiences of a frequently discussed, often feared, yet essentially misunderstood and understudied population of criminal justice system clients. Registered sex offenders on higher education campuses access highly valued additional social supports and positive inputs that registrants outside of this environment may not have. Their presence on a campus-based registry is in addition to registration on a state-based registry; this may not impose significant or substantial additional restrictions on sex offenders, although this status appears to intensify the perceptions of restrictions commonly associated with registration and community notification. Registered sex offenders are subject to social stigmatization, experience collateral consequences, and with the advent of institution-specific registries supplementing state-wide sex offender registries, are provided with yet additional barriers to community reintegration and challenges for remaining crime-free. REFEREnCES Anderson, A.L. & Sample, L.L. (2008). Public awareness and action resulting from sex offender community notification laws. Criminal Justice Policy Review, 19, 371–396. Charmaz, K. (1983). The grounded theory method: An explication and interpretation. Pp. 109-126. In R. Emerson (Ed.), Contemporary field research. Boston: Little and Brown. 240 TEWKSBURY Charmaz, K. (2006). Constructing grounded theory: A practical guide through qualitative analysis. London: Sage. Farkas, M.A. & Miller, G. (2007). Reentry and reintegration: Challenges faced by the families of convicted sex offenders. Federal Sentencing Reporter, 20, 88-92. Hanson, R.K. & Morton-Bourgon, K.E. (2004). 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Community protection from sexual violence: Intended and unintended outcomes of U.S. policies. In D.P. Boer, L.A. Craig, R. eher, m.H. miner and f. Pfafflin (eds.) International Perspectives on the Assessment and Treatment of Sexual Offenders: Theory, Practice and Research West Sussex: Wiley-Blackwell. Levenson, J.S. & Cotter, L.P. (2005). The effect of Megan’s Law on sex offender reintegration. Journal of Contemporary Criminal Justice, 21, 49-66. Levenson, J.S., D’Amora, D.A. & Hern, A.L. (2007). Megan’s Law and its impact on community re-entry for sex offenders. Behavioral Sciences and the Law, 25, 587-602. Levenson, J.S. &. Hern, A.L. (2007). Sex offender residence restrictions: Unintended consequences and community reentry. Justice Research and Policy, 9, 59-73. Levenson, J.S. & Tewksbury, R. (2009). Collateral damage: Family members of registered sex offenders. American Journal of Criminal Justice, 34, 54-68. Levenson, J.S., Zgoba, K.M. & Tewksbury, R. (2007). 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Sex offenders on campus: Universitybased sex offender registries and the collateral consequences of registration. Federal Probation 70 (3), 50-56. Tewksbury, R. & Lees, M.B. (2006b). Perceptions of sex offender registration: Collateral consequences and community experiences. Sociological Spectrum, 26, 309-334. Tewksbury, R. & Lees, M.B. (2007). Perceptions of punishment: How registered sex offenders view registries. Crime & Delinquency, 53, 380-407. Tewksbury, R. & Levenson, J.S. (2009). Stress experiences of family members of registered sex offenders. Behavioral Sciences and the Law, 27, 611-626. Tewksbury, R. & Mustaine, E.E. (2009). Stress and collateral consequences for registered sex offenders. Journal of Public Management and Social Policy, 15, 215-239. Tewksbury, R. & Zgoba, K.M. (2010). Perceptions and coping with punishment: How registered sex offenders respond to stress, 242 TEWKSBURY internet restrictions, and the collateral consequences of registration. International Journal of Offender Therapy and Comparative Criminology 54, 537-551. Uggen, C. (2005). Editorial comment. Journal of Contemporary Criminal Justice, 21, 4-5. Zgoba, K.M., Levenson, J.S. & McKee, T. (2009). Examining the impact of sex offender residence restrictions on housing availability. Criminal Justice Policy Review, 20, 91-110. AuTHoR BIoGRAPHY Richard Tewksbury is Professor of Justice Administration at the University of Louisville. He has published extensively on issues of sex offender registration, experiential aspects of identity construction and alternative sexualities. He is currently editor of Criminal Justice Studies. JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) African American Perceptions of Police Misconduct and Accountability Ronald Weitzer* George Washington University Rod k. Brunson Rutgers University ABSTRACT This article examines city residents’ reported experiences with and perceptions of various forms of police misconduct as well as their perspectives on two types of accountability mechanisms: internal and external to the police department. The data are derived from in-depth interviews with adult African American residents of the city. our findings highlight the complexities involved in establishing credible citizen-led review boards, particularly in the types of cities such as the one examined here, East St. Louis. Survey research reveals that a majority of the public supports the principle of external oversight, but this general support may be diluted in settings where the public lacks confidence in both the police and in external mechanisms of accountability. The study draws on rich, qualitative data in examining the factors and universes of meaning that influence public attitudes toward police misconduct and accountability. InTRoduCTIon Prominent civil rights groups historically have led the charge for police reform, often demanding citizen review as an effective strategy for raising public awareness of and reducing suspected police misconduct–especially concerning racial discrimination (Hudson, 1968, 1970; Terrill, 1988). Public discourse surrounding efforts to restructure police oversight processes typically involves spirited disagreement about who is best suited to arbitrate claims of police malfeasance. Those favoring internal review by police management typically argue that ordinary citizens lack the requisite knowledge of police procedure necessary for determining whether officers’ actions are justified. By contrast, supporters of external review by citizen-led panels *Corresponding Author Ronald Weitzer, George Washington University Dept. of Sociology, Washington DC, 20052 USA, e-mail: [email protected] 244 WEITZER & BRUNSON counter that argument, stating that internal mechanisms favor police officers and that oversight should be independent of the department. Internal oversight is not unique to municipal police departments. In fact, many professions rely upon internal mechanisms to investigate and discipline colleagues suspected of wrongdoing, asserting that only individuals from within an organization are capable of scrutinizing its operations. Further, proponents of internal review argue that because police departments are paramilitary in structure and function, self-regulation is critical for maintaining discipline among the rank-and-file (Hudson, 1970). Critics of internal review contend, however, that such systems may be deficient in identifying staff misconduct, and that they also tend to overlook embedded organizational problems that may be responsible for recurrent patterns of misconduct (Sherman, 1978; Walker, 2005). Irrespective of the preferred method of oversight, internal versus external,1 public confidence in the police is periodically shaken by controversial incidents as well as recurrent patterns of abuse involving police officers (e.g., brutality, corruption, racial profiling) and the perceived lack of accountability for their actions. Such incidents undermine public trust in and cooperation with the police (Weitzer, 2002). Police legitimacy is crucial to their crimefighting mission because officers depend heavily upon assistance from the public in the performance of their duties, and citizens are more willing to comply if they view the police favorably. These points can be extended to public perceptions of accountability–the perceived fairness of the procedures and outcomes of different mechanisms (police department, civilian review, and the courts). Citizen perceptions of fairness and justice are important during face-to-face encounters (Tyler & Huo, 2002) and also in regard to the operations of oversight bodies (Weitzer & Tuch, 2006, pp. 146-149). Yet, fairly little research has been conducted on citizen assessments of justice specifically in the accountability arena—i.e., fairness in both the process and the outcome of cases against police officers (De Angelis, 2009; Kerstetter, 1996; Kerstettter & Rasinski, 1994). This article reports findings on citizens’ views regarding police misconduct in their city as well as their assessments of police accountability for such conduct. RACE And PolICE ACCounTABIlITY: THE lITERATuRE African Americans’ long tenuous relationship with urban police departments is well documented (e.g., Brunson & Miller, 2006; Brunson & Weitzer, 2009; National Research Council, 2004; Smith, 1986; Weitzer & Tuch, 2006). This legacy may have contributed to the popular assumption that Blacks generally distrust the practice of police policing themselves and, instead, favor external oversight. The conventional wisdom that associates people of color with demands for external, civilian review likely stems from pioneering efforts of well known civil rights groups to create external review processes AFRICAN AMERICAN PERCEPTIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT 245 (see Hudson, 1968; Terrill, 1988). Historically, “the civilian review issue has also been a civil rights issue, pitting the African American community against predominantly white police departments” (Walker & Bumphus, 1992, p. 1). One outcome of such struggles was the creation, especially in large cities, of civilian oversight agencies designed to redress citizen complaints. A 2003 survey of 474 law enforcement agencies that employed more than 100 sworn officers found that the percentage of African Americans in the population was positively correlated with the existence of a citizen complaint review board, net of other variables (percent Latino was not a significant predictor) (Wilson & Buckler, 2010). The explanation offered by the researchers is that Blacks are “more inclined to believe that their group interests would be advanced by greater controls on the police” (Wilson & Buckler, 2010, p. 193). Minority citizens in the U.S. appear to be more likely to lodge complaints about the police than Whites. A study of 731 police departments reported that African Americans accounted for twice as many complaints against the police, compared to their proportion of the population (Pate & Fridell, 1993). At the same time, many citizens who believe that they have grounds for filing an official complaint opt not to do so for several reasons: Because of the time involved in going through the process; because they have no confidence that they will get a fair hearing; or because they fear retaliation from the accused officer (Box & Russell, 1975; Weitzer & Brunson, 2009). A majority of Americans lack confidence in the capacity of internal departmental accountability mechanisms to effectively control officers. When asked in one poll whether police officers would be too lenient in investigating citizen complaints against other officers, 58% of Hispanics, 62% of Whites, and 70% of Blacks answered affirmatively (Harris, 1992). External mechanisms of oversight are widely regarded as superior. A national survey found that 58% of Whites and 75% of Blacks wanted authorities external to the police to investigate cases of officers accused of brutality against citizens (New York Times, 1991). More recent evidence confirms the existence of popular support for external oversight, at least in principle. For example, creation of an external citizen review of the police department’s internal affairs unit’s complaint processing in Minneapolis elevated the minority residents’ level of satisfaction with the complaint system, which was formerly purely internal to the police department (Kerstetter & Rasinski, 1994). A national survey found that the vast majority of Blacks and Latinos (about 8 out of 10) who live in cities that lack civilian review boards favor creation of such boards in their cities; at the same time, in cities that currently have external review boards, only 57% of Blacks believed that the board helps to reduce police abuse of citizens, compared to 71% of Latinos and 84% of Whites (Weitzer & Tuch, 2006, p. 146). In other words, while the principle of external oversight is endorsed by all three groups, African Americans are more dubious of it in practice. There are several reasons for this skepticism: Civilian review boards often 246 WEITZER & BRUNSON lack sufficient local political support and resources to carry out their duties (Lewis, 2000); the substantiation rates of most boards are typically less than 10% (Walker, 2005, p. 99)2; and the image of a board can be tainted by wellpublicized incidents in which a board rules in favor of an accused officer. Because the attitudinal data reported above reflect national-level opinions, citizens’ views may vary to at least some extent from city to city for various reasons. One such factor may be the racial composition of a police department. A few studies examine police-citizen relations in cities whose population and police department have an African American majority (Brunson & Weitzer, 2011; Frank, Brandl, Cullen, & Stichman, 1996; Howell, Perry, & Vile, 2004; Weitzer, 1999, 2000), but these studies did not focus directly on public perceptions of police accountability. Generally, most studies of police accountability in the U.S have focused on large cities, most of which now have some external review mechanism (Walker, 2005, p. 73). What about smaller cities? We know of no published research on public perceptions of police accountability in such places, where police practices may be subject to less scrutiny than in larger cities, especially in the absence of external oversight mechanisms. The vast majority of research on citizens and police accountability has involved survey research or quantitative analysis of formally lodged complaints (e.g., Hudson, 1968; Kane, 2002; Terrill & McCluskey, 2002; Weitzer & Tuch, 2006). To fully understand how citizens perceive various accountability mechanisms, however, these studies need to be supplemented with qualitative data. The latter are well-suited for examining the range of factors and universes of meaning that may influence public attitudes toward police accountability (Jones, 1994; Walker, 1997). The purpose of the current study is to examine (1) the reported experiences with and views of various forms of police misconduct in a sample of African Americans in one city and (2) how they view two types of accountability mechanism–internal and external to the police department. The findings can be used to enrich our understanding of citizens’ beliefs about the larger issues of procedural justice and police legitimacy. METHodS Data for our research come from a larger project on residents’ experiences with and perceptions of crime and policing in East St. Louis, Illinois (ESL). We conducted in-depth interviews with 44 adult African American residents of the city. Many had lived in the city for decades (mean = 41 years) and, for several, their entire lives; it was assumed that they would therefore have extensive experiential knowledge of events in their neighborhoods and in the city. Sampling was purposive: The goal was to interview persons with considerable knowledge about the city. Potential respondents were recruited with the assistance of two research associates who have extensive ties AFRICAN AMERICAN PERCEPTIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT 247 to several neighborhood organizations and community liaisons, consisting of religious, social, and community-based groups in ESL. We asked research team members to identify and approach individuals (18 years of age and older and who were known to live in ESL) for participation in the study. Interviews lasted approximately one hour and took place in private residences and offices. Study participants ranged in age from 18 to 70 (mean = 45) and included 25 women and 19 men; the vast majority were middle-aged, with only 3 under 25 years old. Interviewing took place between the fall of 2007 and the summer of 2008. Respondents were paid $25 and were assured anonymity (pseudonyms are used here). The age and social class position is indicated for each respondent quoted. Social class position was measured by occupation; in the quotations presented here, respondents are identified as middle class (MC), working class (WC), or lower class (LC); the vast majority (77%) were working class. In addition, in order to gain a fuller understanding of our respondents’ socioeconomic backgrounds, we sought information on the areas in which they live. We asked them to provide the names of the two cross-streets closest to their homes and used this information to locate the respondents within one of the city’s ten census tracts. Using census data, we categorized each tract socioeconomically: 9% of respondents lived in middle-class areas; 33% lived in working-class areas; and the remaining 58% lived in lower-class areas. Given the generally disadvantaged character of much of this city, some of those who have working-class occupations reside in poorer, predominantly lower-class neighborhoods. Interviews were semi-structured, with open-ended questions that allowed for considerable probing. Our goal was to collect data that would provide a holistic assessment of respondents’ experiences with police misconduct, as well as their perceptions on the effectiveness of accountability mechanisms used by the police in ESL. Interviews were audio-recorded with the respondent’s permission, and the recordings were transcribed verbatim. In the interviews, respondents were asked: “Have you ever been mistreated by the police?” If the answer was affirmative, the respondent was asked for a detailed account of the most recent contact(s) and the circumstances involved. Study participants were then asked, “Has anyone you know ever been mistreated by the police?” If the answer was affirmative, the respondent was asked for a detailed account of the most recent contact(s) and the circumstances involved. Later in the interview, respondents were asked, “Have you ever felt like you had a reason to file a complaint against an East St. Louis police officer?” If the answer was affirmative, the respondents were asked whether they ultimately decided to lodge an official complaint and why they decided upon their chosen course of action. The next question was, “Do you know that the East St. Louis police department has an Internal Affairs Bureau that reviews and investigates complaints against police officers?” Those answering yes were asked, “Do you think that Internal Affairs 248 WEITZER & BRUNSON does a good job?” and “Do you think it helps control police wrongdoing?” Finally we asked: “Do you think we need a group made up of non-police officers to handle or investigate allegations of police misconduct here in East St. Louis?” and then probed the reasons for their answers. The two interviewers instructed and frequently reminded respondents to use ESL police as their reference point, so respondents’ statements would be interpreted as applying to the police in this city. The full scope of a person’s encounters with and beliefs about police accountability are difficult to capture with quantitative methods. Some previous studies have shown that in-depth interviewing is well-suited for understanding people’s perceptions, observations, and experiences with police officers. Moreover, as several scholars have argued, citizens’ perceptions of police behavior, regardless of their objective basis or legal parameters, are important to understand because they may affect an individual’s demeanor when they interact with officers as well as larger community relations with the police. Since efforts to increase police legitimacy are often predicated on the input of community members, speaking with those individuals most likely to have extensive knowledge about the community and the police provides important insights for better understanding police-citizen interactions. The interview data are limited to our respondents’ versions of events, but we also situated their views and reported experiences within the context of local media reporting on the ESL police department. We identified and systematically reviewed all newspaper reports on policing in ESL that were published in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch from 2001 through 2012 and archived in Lexis-Nexis, covering the period prior to and after our interviewing, in order to document particular incidents as well as broader patterns of police misconduct in the city. This content analysis provided essential background information that helped to triangulate the interview data. With regard to the reliability and validity of the interview data, interviewers asked respondents similar questions at multiple points during the interviews and probed for detailed narratives of events. Each of us read transcripts in their entirety before engaging in the initial coding stage. Then, we independently coded and analyzed the interview transcripts by hand (recording notes in the margins) to identify common themes about police accountability (Strauss, 1987). We then jointly identified recurrent themes in the interview data. Considerable care was taken to ensure that the quoted material in this article typified the most common themes and subthemes in respondents’ accounts. STudY SETTInG: EAST ST. louIS East St. Louis, Illinois, is situated across the state line from St. Louis, Missouri. Historically a largely White, working-class city, today its population is almost entirely African American (98%); 94% of officers in the police department are Black and 6% are White (ESL police official, personal communica- AFRICAN AMERICAN PERCEPTIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT 249 tion, 2009).The nationwide industrial decline decades ago hit ESL especially hard (Theising, 2003). Many residents with the financial means to leave fled, leaving behind those whose socioeconomic deprivation made departure difficult. The city’s population is currently less than half what it was at the turn of the 20th century: 27,027 in 2011. Table 1 reports recent census figures for ESL, St. Louis, and the United States. Compared to St. Louis, ESL has a higher rate of poverty, substantially lower median household income, twice the percent of single-parent/femaleheaded households, and a lower rate of educational attainment. More than 4 out of 10 ESL residents live below the poverty line, one-quarter have not graduated from high school, and almost one-quarter of households are headed by females with children. Table 1 Socioeconomic Characteristics: East St. louis, St. louis, and the u.S., 2011 East St. louis Percent black population St. louis u.S. 98.0 49.2 13.1 $19,934 $34,402 $52,762 Percent of persons below poverty level 42.1 26.0 14.3 Percent female-headed households with children under age 18 23.8 11.3 7.1 9.0 13.8 9.3 25.3 18.1 14.6 Median household income Percent unemployed Percent of adult population without high school completion Source: U.S. Census Bureau, American Community Survey 2011. Because of ESL’s small population and racial homogeneity, it differs from most previous studies of police-citizen relations which have focused on large cities with racially diverse populations as well as racially diverse police departments. At the same time, the study site is by no means unique, since there are other small, predominantly African American cities in the nation that rank similarly on socioeconomic disadvantage. A 1999 government report listed ESL as one of 37 jurisdictions in the United States that had an unemployment rate at least double that of the nation as a whole (Dept. Housing and Urban Development, 1999). As a research site, ESL offers potential insights, 250 WEITZER & BRUNSON in regard to policing and police-citizen relations in similar cities, that may not be as evident in large, multi-racial cities with police departments that are fairly diverse in composition. Crime rates in ESL have been high for a long time. The city’s average annual homicide rate from 1985 to 1994 was 116 per 100,000, at least double the rates of large cities (Lattimore, Trudeau, Riley, Leiter, & Edwards, (1997). The homicide rate has remained consistently high in ESL in recent years (Watkins & Decker, 2007). In 2006, for example, it was 102 per 100,000 residents, compared to 37 in nearby St. Louis. ESL also compares unfavorably with most cities on other violent and property crimes. In fact, in 2011 the St. Louis Post-Dispatch newspaper ranked East St. Louis statistically more dangerous than 97% of American cities (Walker, 2011). The city’s problems extend into the local political arena (see Moore, 2005; St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 2003). For decades, the city government has been afflicted with power struggles between different political factions. Corruption and mismanagement have tainted all sectors of city government in recent decades (St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 2003); in 2005, for example, one of the city’s top politicians, along with four others, was convicted of vote fraud–one of many such electoral incidents in the city’s history (Moore, 2005). The police department has struggled as well. Until recently, the department was unable to purchase new cars, radios, and other essential equipment. Funds were sometimes unavailable to pay officers, and gasoline money for patrol cars was scarce (Macko, 1996; Smith, 2006a, 2006b). The department may also be considered understaffed. In 1997, there were 110 sworn police officers in the city, which dropped to 46 in 2012 due to layoffs and retirements (Pistor, 2012b); this translates into a ratio of 1.7 officers per 1,000 residents. By contrast, Chicago had 4.8 and St. Louis 3.9 officers per 1,000 residents (Department of Justice, 2010). And it is not unusual in ESL for only a handful of officers (between 2 and 6) to be patrolling the streets on a particular day, in a city of 27,000 residents (Hollinshed, 2006; Walker, 2011). At times, officers from the Illinois State Police have been called in to help patrol the city and to assist with homicide investigations (Hollinshed, 2006). The ESL police department has a long history of serious police corruption. In order to set the stage for our discussion of citizens’ views of the department, we summarize a selection of these incidents below: • • In 2003, the president of the local police union was fired after being found guilty of seven violations of department protocol, including having sex with a woman after a traffic stop; the woman had an outstanding warrant for her arrest, and the officer allowed her to leave instead of arresting her in return for the sexual tryst (Lamb, 2003). The police department’s only Internal Affairs officer was arraigned in federal court in 2004 on charges of wire fraud, AFRICAN AMERICAN PERCEPTIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT • • 251 lying to FBI agents, and taking a bribe (Shaw, 2004). It is noteworthy that the Internal Affairs unit is staffed by a single officer, given the city’s population of 27,000. A year and a half later, the police chief was convicted of perjury, conspiracy to obstruct justice, and attempted obstruction of justice after he (1) tried to block a federal investigation of a friend who was an auxiliary police officer, who he had been accused of illegally possessing a gun because of his past convictions for illicit business practices and domestic battery (Shaw, 2005a) and (2) bribed a city council member to influence the hiring of the department’s Internal Affairs officer (Shaw, 2005b). In 2012, another police chief pled guilty in federal court to felony theft after a FBI sting caught him stealing video-game players from a bait car. During his previous term as police chief (2007-2009), this individual had less than a stellar record: he hired several officers with criminal records and mishandled homicide investigations. In 1982, his police license had been revoked after being convicted of felony theft and burglary, but his credentials were reinstated after the convictions were expunged in 1989. Remarkably, at the time of the police chief’s post-conviction resignation in 2012, the mayor (who had helped him return as police chief) stated that he wanted the former chief to play an “advisory role” in the police department and consult with the new chief after completing his sentence (Pistor, 2012a). The city’s Police and Fire Board has the power to hire, fire, and discipline staff in the police and fire departments. The board is considered fairly ineffectual, however, and the independence of some of its three members has been questionable, e.g., a former police chief and a former fire chief have been appointed as board members. A recent bill in the Illinois State Legislature would establish an independent commission to oversee the police departments in ESL and the nearby towns of Alorton, Brooklyn, and Washington Park. The legislation stipulates that seven members would be appointed by the governor and seven by the mayors of the four towns, in addition to three officials representing the Illinois State Police, the state’s attorney’s office, and the Southern Illinois Law Enforcement Commission. The board would have the power to establish rules regarding officer ethics, search and seizure procedures, and other important aspects of police operations. The legislation is in response to ongoing problems of corruption and mismanagement in the four police departments (Pistor, 2012b). The instances of misconduct just described involved senior officers in the police department, but rank-and-file officers have engaged in miscon- 252 WEITZER & BRUNSON duct as well. The economic decline and political disarray of ESL makes the city highly conducive to police deviance across the board. Research in other cities shows that patrol officers are more likely to resort to corruption and harsh treatment of citizens in economically disadvantaged contexts (in this case, most of the entire city of ESL), and police misconduct is also more likely in these settings because residents with low social status lack the political capital necessary to pressure the authorities to curb police misconduct (Fagan & Davies, 2000; Kane, 2002; Smith, 1986; Weitzer, 1999). Our review of newspaper reports documented instances in ESL of patrol officers accused of racketeering, perjury, accepting bribes (e.g., sexual favors from prostitutes and other women), beatings, and rape. Such incidents influence the public’s confidence in the police department. The remainder of this article examines how a sample of citizens living in ESL view its police force generally, the scope of officer misconduct, and alternative mechanisms of accountability that might help curb misconduct. FIndInGS In the newspaper sources we examined over the past decade, the media has frequently chronicled East St. Louis’s record of public corruption scandals, including those involving police officials (Moore, 2005; Shaw, 2005a, 2006), and our study participants were accustomed to hearing about such incidents. Local folklore routinely refers to the ESL Police Department as besieged, crippled, plagued, and troubled by corruption. Bearing in mind this background, we begin this section by describing how residents view local politics and the police in the city. A sizeable number of our respondents expressed to us that they have become somewhat desensitized to corruption in the city, because they are longtime ESL residents who are frequently exposed to reports of local corruption. They cited a number of unsettling instances of alleged police wrongdoing, and we illustrate this with narratives of the three most often mentioned recent events. The first misconduct incident involved an off-duty ESL detective found asleep behind the wheel of a department vehicle. The officer was also suspected of drunk driving, but the supervisor called to the scene reportedly decided against conducting a thorough investigation, electing instead to surrender him to ESL police officials who reportedly advised that “the matter would be handled internally” (Girresch, 2007; Hollinshed, 2007; Smith, 2007). One respondent, Bettie (working class [hereafter WC], age 63), observed, “We just recently had a policeman that’s on leave now for driving drunk in Belleville [in a police car].” Likewise, Quintin (lower class [hereafter LC], age 33) complained about officers who “drink on the job and get caught while [they] sleep.” Finally, Lorraine (WC, age 56) recounted the following incident: AFRICAN AMERICAN PERCEPTIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT 253 A [certain detective] got caught sleeping in a car and the policeman in Bellville didn’t report it because he was a fellow officer, but…the officer in bellville who didn’t report it ended up getting in a world of trouble and I think [the East St. Louis] detective also got in a world of trouble. Because he was parked, I believe in the police car, drunk, asleep. The second type of misconduct involved officers who profited from corruption. One officer, for example, pled guilty to two counts of felony wire fraud and a ruse in which he used a prostitute to shake down male customers (Smith, 2005). Thomas (WC, age 49) noted, “[A story] was published in the paper about the police officer who had hookers on the street, he was [pulling over customers’] cars, ripping them off and letting them go.” Other respondents recounted other ways in which officers used criminals to enrich themselves. John (LC, age 49) mentioned reported incidents of officers’ appropriations of seized drugs: “You got some cops that will take the drugs from the dealer and [let him go] and sell or use it themselves.” Likewise, Warren (WC, age 37) confided, “People talk among each other about incidents that the police did. Some of them are slick, dealing drugs and stealing from the evidence room.” The third event involved the arrest and conviction of the police chief for perjury and obstruction of justice, described in the previous section of this article (see Shaw, 2005a, 2006). Jeremiah (WC, age 55) recalled the case involving “that chief of police that [tampered with evidence]. The chief of police . . . got sent away to federal prison.” Whitney (WC, age 39) explained, “Before [the current] mayor came in, there was corruption down there at City Hall and at the police station. Even the chief of police was taking bribes.” Finally, Eddie (WC, age 54) remarked, “I’ve been here all my life and I’ve seen the changes. Citizens in East St. Louis don’t trust the policemen…. Whenever your police chief gets arrested, what does that tell you?” Respondents’ reactions to each of these news stories reveal how public knowledge of recurrent incidents of police malfeasance has the potential to unravel citizen confidence in the police. Gail (WC, age 36) believed that reports of corruption have done a lot to erode citizen trust. There have been multiple problems with liquor licenses and underage drinking; some taverns get shut down and others don’t. Unfortunately, we’ve made national news too many times from the police force and city hall, everything from a prostitution ring being run out of the police department and city hall to federal bribes…. [Officers] have been [involved in] every kind of scam known to man. [And] those things do not help the [public’s] perception. Police Misconduct Citizens’ negative personal and indirect experiences with police officers have been shown to adversely impact their overall opinions of the police (Sk- 254 WEITZER & BRUNSON ogan, 2006). Indirect experiences are those related to events that an individual has learned about from other sources (family, friends, neighbors, or the media) that are internalized and thus vicariously experienced. The majority of study participants reported having indirect rather than direct, personal experiences with police mistreatment. Specifically, 45% of respondents reported having been personally mistreated by ESL police officers, 61% reported that someone they knew had been mistreated by officers, and 45% reported both types of experience. In this section, we discuss respondents’ personal or vicarious experiences of police misconduct as well as their overall perceptions of the integrity of officers in the department. Respondents mentioned a wide range of behaviors that constitute police misconduct. We focus our presentation on the types of alleged police wrongdoing mentioned most often: verbal abuse, excessive force, and sexual impropriety. Verbal abuse. While respondents expressed little confidence in the department’s ability to prevent and solve crimes, they took particular exception to the way officers spoke to them. They complained that officers frequently used inflammatory language and engaged in name-calling and racial slurs during routine police-citizen encounters (i.e., traffic stops, calls for service). While this conduct is perhaps the most difficult form of wrongdoing for police administrators to monitor and control, widespread use of dehumanizing language by officers has potentially grave consequences for citizen trust. For instance, Dottie (WC, age 44) reported: [police officers] go a little overboard with words that they say to people, because all the time, when the police come to your house or pull you over, if you ask them a question, I don’t think they should holler at you and tell you to shut up. And Harold (LC, age 31) said that the police “use the N-word like it’s just something beautiful. The N-word and motherfucker…. The [officers] I ran into, they not professional with handling people…. So they’ll talk to you crazy.” Alexis (LC, age withheld) was seriously bothered by the “rough” tone officers used with her: “They treated me like a criminal, and it hurt me.” Finally, Kecia (LC, age 27) offered: Some [officers] can get a little bit out of hand. They take their position to their head. They be wanting citizens to talk to them with respect, but they can sometimes get downright nasty and say stuff that they probably shouldn’t be saying…. They don’t want you cursing at them or nothing, but they’re quick to cuss at you cause they feel like “I’m the police; I can do this.” While recognizing that not all ESL officers treated citizens with disrespect, the conduct of discourteous officers led our respondents to question the overall professionalism of the department. AFRICAN AMERICAN PERCEPTIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT 255 learning about police violence. Several respondents mentioned hearing from family members and friends about their reported experiences with excessive use of force at the hands of ESL officers. For example, Warren (WC, age 37) had “a friend that got jumped on [assaulted by] the police,” and Tonia (LC, age 28) had “cousins that have been hurt [by the police] in East St. Louis: been beaten, black eye, two black eyes.” Similarly, Lydia (WC, age 43) reported that she had been told about officers “slamming [a man] to the ground because they thought he had a gun, but he didn’t have a gun. They slammed him to the ground and made him injure his head.” Thomas (WC, age 49) recounted the following: I was talking to a guy and he said that [the police] stopped him for mistaken identity and he was trying to tell them that he wasn’t that person. And although they caught him dirty–I think he had been using drugs or something–they brutalized him pretty bad. He had black and blue eyes, and then they locked him up and found out he wasn’t the person they were looking for. Witnessing police violence. Study participants also reported witnessing officers using excessive force against compliant suspects; respondents’ firsthand observations of unwarranted police violence parallel those of respondents who had heard about allegations of police brutality from others. For example, John (LC, age 49) reported, “this guy was running from the police. He was a crack dealer. And when they caught him, they just laid him on the ground, smacked him upside the head with the gun, put the handcuffs on, and threw him in the paddy wagon.” Javone (WC, age 26) was riding in a car with a friend when they got stopped by an officer, who told them to get out of the car: “As soon as [my friend] got out, they started beating him, saying he was making a false move and saying he was reaching for something. But he was [just] actually getting out.” Kurtis (WC, age 42) stated that when his cousin was arrested the officer handcuffed him and “busted his head [and then] took a bottle of alcohol and poured it on his head…. He screamed and passed out.” Thomas (WC, age 49) saw two officers “beating one guy…. He got out of the car and then he tried to get back in his car and they dragged him out of the car and they started beating him.” Finally, Dottie (WC, age 44) witnessed an officer physically assault her younger brother while attempting to arrest him: My baby brother was doing wrong, and the police pulled up and he went running. The police ran behind him and I was running behind him too to see what [the police] was gonna do when they caught him. And when the police officer did catch my brother, he hit him upside the head…. [The officer] was choking him and I said, “Well, you don’t have to choke him. I realize he [was doing] wrong, but you don’t have to choke 256 WEITZER & BRUNSON him. You caught him. All you had to do was just make him lay on the ground and put his hands behind his back, but you didn’t have no right to put your hands on him.” Dottie understood that her brother’s criminal involvement subjected him to arrest. She was angered, however, because a lieutenant was present and, according to her, should have seen the assault and intervened to stop it. Further, when Dottie continued to protest the rough treatment her brother was receiving, the lieutenant reportedly asked her, “Well, who else saw [the alleged assault] besides you [and your brother]?” Dottie interpreted the lieutenant’s question to suggest that if she filed a complaint, it would be her word against the officer’s. In fact, many respondents mentioned being worried that Internal Affairs would favor officers over citizens and therefore they typically concluded that lodging a complaint would be a waste of time. Sexual misconduct. The vast majority of study participants said that it was widely known among ESL residents that certain male officers routinely used their positions to solicit and/or coerce women to engage in sex. Linda (middle class [hereafter MC], age 36) stated: quite a few of [the policemen] will [solicit sex from] you if you’re nice looking and things of that nature. Or they’ll let you go and won’t give you a ticket if you’re attractive. That’s their history, the East St. Louis police. Tonia (LC, age 28) was especially worried that some of the more infamous officers did not consider adolescent women off limits. She observed that officers “will [hit on] somebody that’s underage, quick too.” Vernon (MC, age 59) said he knew “several [policemen] that have been convicted of improper behavior…Taking drug money, using sex for payoffs on traffic violations or arrest warrants, and things of this nature.” Finally, Eli talked about a friend who is a police officer: He was accused of having sex with people that he took in and making deals with them if they let him have sex with them– that he’d help them get out [of jail]. And he’d be having sex with them while they were in jail…. And they would tell him that if he helped them get out, they would get him some drugs, ‘cause he was using drugs. (eli, WC, age 57) Eli added that his officer friend had subsequently been fired and might face criminal prosecution. We located several media reports of ESL officers’ involvement in sex-related crimes and misconduct. (Lamb, 2003; Smith, 2005) Police accountability A substantial proportion of our respondents said that they had been mistreated by an ESL police officer or knew others who had been mistreated, but less than half (40%) of those alleging personal mistreatment at the hands AFRICAN AMERICAN PERCEPTIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT 257 of police reported filing an official complaint. This provides a useful backdrop for understanding their views of accountability and ways of improving oversight. We organized our presentation of findings around two themes in the data regarding citizens’ perceptions of the effectiveness of internal versus external oversight. ESL lacks a civilian complaint review board (which is more common in big cities) as well as the ombudsman type of oversight (which exists in some cities) (see Walker, 2005). Citizen complaints regarding ESL officers are handled within the police department by the Internal Affairs Bureau. The only alternative to this internal oversight in ESL would be a civil suit or criminal charges against an officer, including a federal prosecution, or intervention by the Police and Fire Board, which is quite rare. The majority of respondents who felt they had been mistreated by the police elected not to file an official complaint, mainly because they lacked confidence in the police investigating themselves. For example, Randall (WC, age 58) commented, “I know about the Internal Affairs Bureau. It seems to me that Internal Affairs would be more favorable to the officer than anyone filing the complaint.” And Annie (WC, age 64) remarked “I feel that [police officers] are all in it together. This is East St. Louis we’re talking about. . . . [Here] I just do not believe that there would be anything done by Internal Affairs. I think [officers] would get off scot-free.” Alton noted: I feel that Internal Affairs in East St. Louis works more hand in hand with the police department [rather] than trying to solve the problem of the police department…. They’re more on the policemen side than they are on the citizen side. (Alton, WC, age 43) If Alton had a complaint, he would circumvent the police department entirely in an attempt to make sure the complaint was properly handled: If I was gonna file a complaint [against an officer], I would go to City Hall and I would have my complaint in writing [beforehand]. I would go to City Hall and put it in an envelope, and have the clerk give it to the mayor his self. I would not deal with nobody on the police force, because I feel that all of them work together and your paperwork might get misplaced. So I would put my paper right in the mayor’s secretary’s hand so it can go straight to the mayor. Lydia (WC, age 43) also expressed reservations regarding the department’s Internal Affairs unit. She commented: I feel like [non-police officers] would do a better job than the police officers because like I said, there are so many police officers in east St. louis that know everybody. So therefore, we need somebody that really don’t know them in order to do a better job. 258 WEITZER & BRUNSON Many of our respondents expressed concerns consistent with critics of internal review; they feared that what they considered an environment of unchecked corruption within the ESL police department would compromise internal investigations. For instance, Deborah believed: it’s always good to have an extra set of minds that doesn’t have a prejudice against the situation. I think if you’re Internal Affairs and you’re a policeman that you can be bought…. You could be [swayed] the other way if maybe you get a promotion, some money, or whatever. (Deborah, WC, age 59) Lorraine (WC, age 56) remarked, “I’m not sure people that’s closely involved with the person who’s doing the wrong should be the one investigating because it’s too great a possibility that there’s going to be kinship going on there.” Eddie (WC, age 54) noted, “I just don’t [have faith in Internal Affairs] because [of] how they got in their position, its political and they working right with the policemen and the politicians, so [alleged wrongdoers] feel like nothing will happen to them. Not here [in East St. Louis].” And Thomas (WC, age 49) noted, “Nine times out of ten, an officer is going to side with an officer. It’s hard for you to be in the same profession and turn your buddy in. That’s why I say non-police officers would be more objective.” Finally, Bridet (WC, age 45) laughed and stated that the police “are just like any group of people, they all stick together. I know it is corruption there in the police department.” Vernon (MC, age 59) agreed and suggested that a culture of wrongdoing and lax oversight was deeply embedded within the department: The last ten or twelve police chiefs have been hired from within and we’ve had all kind[s] of problems. You can go down that list: corruption, bribery, incompetence; it runs the whole gamut. So these are people that were either not qualified for the position or lacked the [appropriate] training. I’m not sure which; it might have been a case of both. Consistent with Weitzer and Tuch’s (2006) findings regarding black citizens’ preference for external review in cities where they do not currently exist, our respondents almost uniformly supported this premise. For instance, when asked his thoughts about citizen review, Randall (WC, age 58) replied, “Do I think that we need a separate review board [comprised of] non-police officers? Yeah. I think the people would be more apt to talk to a non-[police] official board than they would the [police] board.” In agreement, Mary (WC, age 53) said, I think that it would be good to have a citizen on board or somebody electable – that’s in the community, that’s very active – that sits in on allegations made against police officers, so that it just won’t stay in house or it can’t be swept up under the rug. AFRICAN AMERICAN PERCEPTIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT 259 Many respondents expressed a similar lack of confidence in Internal Affairs. Respondents were also convinced that their chances of success in redressing police wrongdoing hinged greatly on their socio-economic status; the most economically and socially disadvantaged respondents were the most likely to believe that filing complaints against ESL police would be pointless. Tonia (LC, age 28), who claimed to be a victim of frequent harassment by ESL police officers, said that she did not know how to lodge a complaint and thought it safest to keep quiet: “You don’t know who is on whose side and you [learn to] basically just keep your mouth shut and deal with it the best way you can.” Similarly, when asked why he decided not to initiate a complaint against an officer who he claimed had falsely arrested him, John replied: I always feel like the cops know you’re a poor black man. You don’t have nothing going for yourself. Where are you gonna get money to pay for a lawyer? So, you don’t even worry about going through all that. It ain’t gonna do no good…. [The result of] taking it to the chief depends on what kind of relationship the [accused] officer and the chief have. (John, lC, age 49) Harold (LC, age 31) described the situation for citizens without political capital. He said he would “go to the City Hall [to file a complaint] but looking at it, they’re all friends down there, so I don’t believe nothing would happen. I would have to go up to Belleville and talk to someone up there.” Tonia’s, John’s, and Harold’s comments represent the views held by our lower-class respondents–that what matters most in ESL is one’s political clout. On the other hand, some of our less disadvantaged respondents and those who had some connections with influential people believed that this might be an asset when it came to alleged police wrongdoing. For example, Vernon (WC, age 59) recounted an incident: I was arrested [by an off-duty officer] and I felt it was improper and I [went] down to the police station to file a complaint…. And it just so happened that a friend of mine was down there and he intervened and got the matter dropped. Another working-class respondent, Gail, (WC, age 36) explained that because of her familial ties to two ESL police chiefs, she was able to bypass Internal Affairs: I don’t know that [Internal Affairs] is effective at all. Because you’re dealing with a small town, and each time that I’ve gone to the chief–two different chiefs, two different situations–I got a great response and I got results. A lot of residents don’t know or don’t feel like they can go to the chief, or don’t know 260 WEITZER & BRUNSON how to go up the ladder [to] make anyone accountable for their actions. In one of the incidents Gail referenced, she reportedly decided to seek the chief’s assistance because the person who she had accused of committing a crime was a friend of the detective handling the case. Thus, she sought to trump the alleged suspect’s connections with her own. Earlier in the interview, Gail had expressed concerns about the erosion of citizen trust of police stemming from individuals with political influence wielding it to receive preferential treatment; therefore, the interviewer asked Gail whether, and if so how, she came to consider her appeals to the chief as proper. She replied: The only way to resolve [concerns about impropriety] is to follow the law. [My connections] have helped me in instances, but in neither of those instances or any prior to that did I ask for anything illegal to be done, did I ask for anything outside of the law…. In the instance where someone else had a relationship with the detective, what [the detective] did was illegal. Thus, Gail was insistent that because others attempted to evade justice, hers was a righteous outcome. These accounts suggest that residents are keenly aware of the advantages associated with having strong political ties and that in ESL such connections might pay dividends in increasing the chances of holding officers accountable. However, they did not believe that such connections would automatically or necessarily pay off in this way, given their overall skepticism about the integrity of the ESL police department. Reforms. Most Americans favor the creation of civilian review boards in cities that currently lack them (Weitzer & Tuch, 2006). When asked for specifics regarding how best to improve police accountability in ESL, our respondents also expressed strong support for external oversight mechanisms, but they were adamant that those sitting on external review boards should not be chosen by or have personal, familial, or political ties to ESL officials. At the same time, respondents were somewhat skeptical that truly independent and impartial citizens could be located to serve on an external review board in such a small, close-knit city. Vernon (MC, age 59) noted: The problem with East St. Louis [is that] we have a tendency to hire and put friends and associates on these agencies, which minimizes their effectiveness. If you’ve got citizens that are picked at random, not somebody that has a cousin on the City Council or somebody that works for the school board, I would feel more comfortable. Eddie (WC, age 54) proposed that “the board should [be made up of] clergymen and educators not in the political arena.” Similarly, Lorraine (WC, age AFRICAN AMERICAN PERCEPTIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT 261 56) offered, “East St. Louis is pretty small, [so] it’s going to be hard to really do what you need to do if you use somebody in East St. Louis to kind of judge somebody in East St. Louis…Everybody [is] related….It’s hard because there [are] too many cliques.” Gail (WC, age 36) explained: If a citizens’ group is going to be [part of] the same old network, then no, it’s not going be effective. If the chief appointed them, if they’re all political allies, then no, it’s not gonna make a difference because you’re dealing with the same group, just called something else. These observations represent our respondents’ deep reservations regarding the likelihood of establishing a truly independent external review process in ESL. ConCluSIon Our analysis complements prior studies of police misconduct and accountability by examining citizen perceptions of both internal and external oversight mechanisms. A city like East St. Louis, with its longstanding record of corruption among top public officials, highlights the complexity, from the perspective of our respondents, of assembling an external, citizen-led review board that has integrity and commands popular confidence. Citizens are typically skeptical of any system in which the police are responsible for holding fellow officers accountable for their treatment of civilians. This skepticism has been well-documented in previous studies. What was unexpected in our findings was a similar skepticism regarding external oversight of the police in ESL. Respondents’ doubts about the prospects for creating a satisfactory system of external accountability were driven by their strong conviction that the local government is rife with corruption and nepotism, making it virtually impossible for any external review board to operate autonomously. The fact that, at times, two of the three members of the Police and Fire Board were former police or fire chiefs lends some credence to our respondents’ concerns that a citizens’ review board might have similar appointees with questionable independence and impartiality toward the police department. Many respondents feared that citizen-led panels would be composed of operatives of local political factions and therefore would be just as ineffective as Internal Affairs is perceived to be. While they fully endorsed the principle of external citizen review of complaints against the police, our subjects were quite dubious that such a system would work successfully in practice in a setting like East St. Louis. For this reason, it is possible that in this city creation of an external board would not lead to a net increase in the number of citizen complaints against officers. And such a lack of confidence in police accountability mechanisms in ESL is consistent with prior research (Weitzer & Tuch, 2006) that documents dissatisfaction with 262 WEITZER & BRUNSON the performance of existing civilian review boards among a sizeable minority (43%) of African Americans in the U.S. If ESL residents are dubious about police accountability, they also appear somewhat desensitized to some forms of police wrongdoing as well. In our interviews, several respondents provided detailed accounts of police misconduct that were often regarded as a fact of life in this city. Almost half of our respondents reported that they had personally been mistreated by a police officer in ESL, but just 40% of the latter lodged an official complaint. Therefore, our findings seemingly reveal an interaction between respondents’ personal experiences, their awareness of the legacy of police misconduct in the city, and perceptions that internal mechanisms of accountability operated poorly. It appears that many ESL residents have come to expect a certain level of police malfeasance and have thus normalized such behavior. Moreover, being aware of incidents in which patrol officers or senior officers had been held accountable–convicted of crimes and fired–does not necessarily change a person’s diffuse perception of rampant misconduct within the ESL police department. Respondents did not interpret this as effective oversight. Instead, instances of misconduct that were punished only served to reinforce their general view that the department was a rotten one, not that rogue officers would be caught and penalized by city authorities. For ESL residents, successful cases of accountability did not mean that the system is working but instead that such cases were just the tip of the iceberg and that the majority of violators would go undetected. It is noteworthy that many of the most serious misconduct incidents were investigated and prosecuted by federal authorities, not by city officials. The implication is that police accountability requires outside intervention, only reaffirming the view that local oversight is and will remain an oxymoron. Although the findings presented in this article are drawn from respondents in a city that differs in certain respects from many other settings where issues of police misconduct and accountability have been studied, the results may be salient elsewhere, particularly for cities similar to East St. Louis. Unfortunately, little research has been done on public perceptions of extant forms of police accountability, internal or external to a police department, so we have little evidence from other settings from which to draw comparisons to the present findings. Much more research is needed, in various contexts, on the ways in which citizens assess accountability mechanisms and on their ideas for reforming existing systems. EndnoTES 1 This classification does not fully reflect important variation among contemporary police oversight processes (see Walker & Kreisel [1996] and Walker [2005] for a broader discussion). One such mechanism, used by several American police departments, is the internal “early warning sys- AFRICAN AMERICAN PERCEPTIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT 2 263 tem,” a computer-assisted method for identifying officers who generate an unusual amount of citizen complaints or use-of-force actions, thus enabling supervisors to take remedial action (Walker, Alpert, & Kenney, 2000). This mechanism has been shown to pay dividends in curbing officer misconduct when it is used properly (Alpert & Walker 2000). The substantiation rates for internal, department boards are typically higher than those of civilian review boards. A study of 77 internal affairs units in Washington State reported a complaint-substantiation rate average of 25% (Dugan & Breda, 1991), and other evidence indicates that almost everywhere “the internal system has been more prone to find police misconduct” (Perez & Muir, 1996, p. 218). 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Department of Housing and Urban Development (1999). The state of the cities. Washington, DC: HUD. Department of Justice (2010). Local police departments, 2007. Washington, DC: Bureau of Justice Statistics. Dugan, J. & breda, D. (1991). Complaints about police officers. Journal of Criminal Justice, 19, 165-171. Fagan, J. & Davies, G. (2000). Street stops and broken windows: Terry, race, and disorder in New York City. Fordham Urban Law Journal, 28, 457449. Frank, J., Brandl, S., Cullen, F., & Stichman, A. (1996). Reassessing the impact of race on citizen’s attitudes toward the police. Justice Quarterly, 13, 321-334. Girresch, L. (2007, December 21). Detective has been disciplined. Belleville News-Democrat, A1. 264 WEITZER & BRUNSON Harris. (1992). Louis Harris and Associates, Poll conducted October 2-4, 1992. Retrieved online at http://www.harrisinteractive.com/vault/ Harris-Interactive-Poll-Research-THE-PUBLIC-GIVES-POLICE-HIGHRATINGS-BUT-DOES-NOT-1992-11.pdf Hollinshed, D. (2006, July 12). Besieged police in E. St. Louis get boost. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, A1. Hollinshed, D. (2007, October 2). Fate of Belleville police sergeant to be decided: 17-year veteran could face reprimand or be fired over possible DuI case involving officer. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, B5. Howell, S, Perry, H, & Vile, M. (2004). Black cities, white cities: Evaluating the police. Political Behavior, 26, 45-68. Hudson, J. (1968). The civilian review board issue as illuminated by the Philadelphia experience. Criminologica, 6, 16-29. Hudson, J. (1970). Police-citizen encounters that lead to citizen complaints. Social Problems, 18, 179-193. Jones, R. (1994). Processing civilian complaints: A study of the Milwaukee fire and police commission. Marquette Law Review, 77, 505-519. Kane, R. (2002). The social ecology of police misconduct. Criminology, 40, 867-896. Kerstetter, W. (1996). Toward justice for all: Procedural justice and the review of citizen complaints. In W. Geller & H. Toch (Eds.), Police violence (pp. 234-246). New Haven: Yale University Press. Kerstetter, W. & Rasinski, K. (1994). Opening a window into police internal affairs: Impact of procedural justice reform on third-party attitudes. Social Justice Research, 7, 107-127. lamb, W. (2003, December 12). Police firing reportedly involves sex allegation. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, B1. Lattimore, P., Trudeau, J., Riley, J., Leiter, J., & Edwards, S. (1997). Homicide in eight U.S. cities: Trends, context, and policy implications. Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Justice. Lewis, C. (1999). Complaints against the police: The politics of reform. Sydney: Hawkins Press. Macko, S. (1996, March 7). Things improve in East St. Louis, Illinois. ENN News Service. Moore, D. (2005, July 3). City has long history of vote buying: E. St. Louis has nearly 20 recorded cases of vote fraud since 1861. St. Louis PostDispatch, E1. National Research Council (2004). Fairness and effectiveness in policing: The evidence. Washington, DC: National Academies Press. New York Times (1991, April). New York Times/CBS News poll. Pate, A. & Fridell, L. (1993). Police use of force: Official reports, citizen complaints, and legal consequences. Washington, DC: Police Foundation. AFRICAN AMERICAN PERCEPTIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT 265 Perez, D. & Muir, W.K. (1996). Administrative review of alleged police brutality, in W. Geller & H. Toch (Eds.), Police violence (213-233). New Haven: Yale University Press. Pistor, N. (2012a, January 20). FBI sting snared E. St. Louis chief. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, A1. Pistor, N. (2012b, May 1). Bill would set up Metro East police commission. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, A1. St. Louis Post-Dispatch (2003, February 22). A city that doesn’t work. Editorial, 30. Shaw, m. (2004, July 24). e. St. louis officer is accused in bribe case. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, A12. Shaw, M. (2005a, December 22). Former E. St. Louis police chief convicted. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, A1. Shaw, M. (2005b, December 16). Tapes indicate bribery plan by police chief. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, C12. Shaw, M. (2006, March 21). Former police chief heads to prison. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, B10. Sherman, L (1978). Scandal and reform: Controlling police corruption. Berkeley: University of California Press. Skogan, W. (2006). Asymmetry in the impact of encounters with police. Policing and Society, 16, 99-126. Smith, C. (2005, June 17). ESL cop pleads guilty in wire fraud scheme worked with prostitute while on duty. Belleville News-Democrat, B3. Smith, C. (2006a, november 18). back pay, other issues have eSl officers upset. Belleville News-Democrat, B1. Smith, C. (2006b, November 27). ESL police sickout sparks scramble to patrol streets. Belleville News-Democrat, B3. Smith, C. (2007, September 30). belleville police find eSl cop asleep in car. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 1A. Smith, D. (1986). The neighborhood context of police behavior. In A. Reiss and M. Tonry (Eds.), Crime and justice, vol. 8 (313-341). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Strauss, A. (1987). Qualitative analysis for social scientists. New York: Cambridge University Press. Terrill, R. (1988). Police accountability in Philadelphia: Retrospects and prospects. American Journal of Police, 7, 79-99. Terrill, W. & mcCluskey, J. (2002). Citizen complaints and problem officers. Journal of Criminal Justice, 30, 143-155. Theising, A. (2003). East St. Louis made in the U.S A.: The rise and fall of an industrial river town. St. Louis: Virginia. Tyler, T., & Huo, Y. (2002). Trust in the law. New York: Russell Sage. Walker, M. (2011, February 20). Layoffs burden city’s police. St. Louis PostDispatch, B1. 266 WEITZER & BRUNSON Walker, S. (1997). Complaints against the police: A focus group study of citizen perceptions, goals, and expectations. Criminal Justice Review, 22, 207-226. Walker, S. (2005). The new world of police accountability. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Walker, S., Alpert, G., & Kenney, D. (2000). Early warning systems for police: Concept, history, and issues. Police Quarterly, 3, 132-152. Walker, S. & Bumphus, V. (1992). The effectiveness of civilian review: Observations on recent trends and new issues regarding the civilian review of the police. American Journal of Police, 4, 1-26. Walker, S. & Kreisel, B. (1996). Varieties of citizen review: The implications of organizational features of complaint review procedures for accountability of the police. American Journal of Police, 15, 65-88. Watkins, A. & Decker, S. (2007). Patterns of homicide in East St. Louis. Homicide Studies, 11, 30-49. Weitzer, R. (1999). Citizens’ perceptions of police misconduct: Race and neighborhood context. Justice Quarterly, 16, 819-846. Weitzer, R. (2000). Racialized policing: A study of three neighborhoods. Law and Society Review, 34, 129-155. Weitzer, R. (2002). Incidents of police misconduct and public opinion. Journal of Criminal Justice, 30, 397-408. Weitzer, R. & Brunson, R. (2009). Strategic responses to the police among inner-city youth. Sociological Quarterly, 50, 235-256. Weitzer, R. & Tuch, S. (2006). Race and policing in America: Conflict and reform. New York: Cambridge University Press. Wilson, S. & Buckler, K. (2010). The debate over police reform: Examining minority support for citizen oversight and resistance by police unions. American Journal of Criminal Justice, 35, 184-197. AuTHoR BIoGRAPHIES Ronald Weitzer is professor of sociology at George Washington University. He has published extensively on police-minority relations in various countries, and is the author of two books, Policing Under Fire (1995) and Race and Policing in America (2006). Rod k. Brunson is an Associate Professor in the School of Criminal Justice at Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey. His research examines youths’ experiences in neighborhood contexts, with a specific focus on the interactions of race, class, and gender, and their relationship to criminal justice practices. His articles appear in the British Journal of Criminology, Crime & Delinquency, Criminology, Criminology & Public Policy, Justice Quarterly, and the Journal of Quantitative Criminology. JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) “Hidden in Plain Sight”: locating the Men and Women of the 1954 Boston Special Youth Program Richard k. Moule Jr.* Arizona State University Scott H. Decker Arizona State University Abstract The growing prevalence of longitudinal research in the social sciences, coupled with technological advances, provide new opportunities for researchers to more readily find participants from earlier studies. In addition, these advances necessitate the development of new strategies and methodologies for locating and building rapport with respondents. Drawing on previous methods of subject identification and location, this paper examines techniques for locating and interviewing former gang members from the 1954-1957 Special Youth Program in Roxbury, MA. In contrast to most longitudinal studies, (1) more than 50 years have passed since the original study with no contact with respondents in the interim, (2) we build on a study not intended to include long-term follow-ups, and (3) much of the location and identification of participants occurred using digital resources. Implications for harnessing digital technologies and methods of developing relationships with study participants otherwise wary of engaging researchers are discussed. *Corresponding Author Richard K. Moule, Jr., Arizona State University, School of Criminology and Criminal Justice, 411 N. Central Ave., Suite 600, Phoenix AZ 85004 USA, e-mail: rmoulejr@ asu.edu. Author Acknowledgments: This material is based upon work supported by the National Science Foundation under Grant No. SES-1228472. Any opinions, findings, and conclusions or recommendations expressed in this material are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of the national Science Foundation. The authors thank Gary Sweeten for providing useful references to lifecourse research, and to the editor and anonymous reviewers who provided feedback on the manuscript. 268 MOULE, JR & DECKER InTRoduCTIon Criminology has substantially benefitted from the growing prevalence of life course research, for this has provided insights into the causes and consequences of criminal behavior over the lifespan (e.g., Farrington, 1995; Giordano, 2010; Glueck & Glueck, 1950; Soothill, Humpreys, & Francis, 2012; Thornberry & Krohn, 2002; Tracy & Kempf-Leonard, 1996; Wolfgang, Thornberry, & Figlio, 1987). Concurrent with this research, a well established body of literature details the organization of prospective longitudinal examinations of youth and adolescents (e.g. Loeber, Farrington, & Stallings, 2011; Schubert et al., 2004), with studies in which contact with respondents has been maintained for many years (Farrington, 1995; Glueck & Glueck, 1950; Vaillant, 2002). Taken together, this body of literature highlights the importance of studying human development over time. As Kleck, Tark, and Bellows (2006) recently demonstrated, longitudinal research accounts for oneeighth of empirical criminological research. A smaller but equally substantive body of research has emphasized fieldwork with both active and former offenders (Decker & van Winkle, 1996; Densley, 2012; Hagedorn, 1990; Jacobs, 1999; Jacobs & Wright, 2006; Polsky, 1969; Shover, 1983, 1985; Wright, Decker, Redfern, & Smith, 1992). Falling somewhere between each of these methods is the practice of using archival, historical, and other older records to understand phenomena related to both crime and criminal justice (e.g. Bright, Decker, & Burch, 2007; Hughes & Short, 2005; Papachristos & Smith, 2012; Watkins & Moule, 2013). Bosworth (2001) suggested a decade ago that historical, archival, and similar forms of retrospective research fit uneasily into the mainstream criminological discourse.1 Despite the growth of longitudinal research and theoretical frameworks emphasizing this type of research, and perhaps due to this ill fit, little has been written on the process of integrating historical records and long-term retrospective research in criminology (but see Dempster-McClain & Moen, 1998; Laub & Sampson, 2003; Sampson & Laub, 1993), primarily because of the difficulties associated with locating offenders or members of otherwise hidden populations (Biernacki & Waldorf, 1981; Coen, Patrick, & Shern, 1996; Hampson et al., 2001; Hansen, Tobler, & Graham, 1990; Laub & Sampson, 2003; Wright et al., 1992). Indeed, some researchers have described such research as more “craft than science” (e.g. Call, Otto, & Spenner, 1982). Nonetheless, this style of research offers substantive benefits, including lower costs compared to prospective research. Further, such thinking stands in sharp contrast to the perceptions of the Internet and the digital age, where a wealth of information is increasingly accessible online and of great use for research purposes (Borgman, 2007; Featherstone, 2000; Ortiz & Ballon, 2007). Although criminologists have not made a more systematic attempt to integrate the Internet into their academic toolbox, the utility of the web should not be overlooked. HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT 269 To that end, the current paper details the intersection of sample reconstruction, retrospective research, and subject recruitment techniques employed to locate and interview participants from the Boston Special Youth Program (SYP), a 1950s gang intervention program. We provide a “how to” of conducting this style of research, focusing on three specific areas: reconstructing an incomplete dataset using a variety of sources; locating respondents; and conducting interviews with former study participants. In doing so, we note three key improvements over past research. First, in contrast to prospective longitudinal studies and similar past research (Ortiz & Ballon, 2007; Root, Smith, Whelan, Sandler, & Voda, 1994; Sampson & Laub, 1993), we were able to construct a substantial portion of our participant rosters from limited information obtained roughly 60 years ago. Second, given technological advances that have occurred in the past decade, we detail the utility of the Internet in facilitating elements of retrospective research, including participant location. Third, we describe early encounters with subjects and illustrate rapport-building methods used in attempts to overcome respondent concerns about privacy and potential scams. Overall, we demonstrate the feasibility of this style of research among a sample of former delinquents who have been out of contact with researchers for a half-century. As criminology continues to examine crime over the life course, this research provides a potentially useful alternative to traditional prospective longitudinal research practices. We begin by detailing the original project and the steps taken to facilitate the current project. THE BoSTon SPECIAl YouTH PRoGRAM Following the high profile murder of a local Rabbi on New Year’s Eve of 1952, the citizens of Roxbury, MA demanded action (Miller, 1957). News reports indicated that the murder was the result of a mugging that had quickly escalated and involved gang members from a local housing project. Boston’s United Community Services responded by organizing a committee to address the local gang problem. From this committee emerged Walter Miller’s study of juvenile delinquency, the Boston Special Youth Program. The study began in the summer of 1954 to evaluate the effectiveness of a concentrated delinquency control program (Miller, 1957). The program was to be multi-pronged, using detached case workers to reorient gangs away from delinquency, provide social services to the gang members’ families, and give the community the necessary tools to engage in self-help once the study ended (Miller, 1957, 1963). The study received funding from United Community Services and the National Institute of Mental Health; it focused predominantly on the use of outreach workers, documented their interactions with gang members, and consulted the workers to find out more about the gangs with which they would associate (Miller, 1957). Using graduate students from major Boston universities, Miller set out to locate gangs in Roxbury. The research project was based in the area where the Rabbi had been killed and 270 MOULE, JR & DECKER located nearby street corner groups. By engaging community stakeholders and groups of teenagers, seven intense study gangs were identified and given an outreach worker.2 Of these gangs, five were Caucasian (four male, one female) and two were African-American (one male, one female) (Miller, 1973).3 Miller (1962) also compiled data on control groups who did not receive an outreach worker but shared similar demographic features and neighborhoods as the intense groups. Data collection lasted through the spring of 1957 and consisted of four sets of records. First, outreach workers maintained contact cards detailing the time, place, and nature of each interaction between a group member and outreach worker. Second, Miller kept a journal, detailing his interactions and interviews with outreach workers regarding their gangs (Miller, 1957). Third, he also engaged gang members, taking handwritten notes and tape recordings of these interactions and group meetings.4 Finally, secondary data sources were compiled, including gang members’ juvenile criminal histories, aggregate criminal statistics for the neighborhoods in which the gangs resided, as well as census tract data on these neighborhoods. Early examinations of these data were promising, though subsequent analyses revealed the program to have few positive results. Case workers had minimal effect on gang members’ behavior, and engaging the families of members only occurred near the end of the project (Miller, 1957; 1962). There was, however, moderate success in providing the community with the ability to help itself, mainly through increased inter-agency cooperation. More findings from the Special Youth Program were published, but by the 1970s, criminological research shifted away from gangs (Bookin-Weiner & Horowitz, 1983). Miller moved on to direct the National Youth Gang Survey and later helped found the National Youth Gang Center (Klein & Maxson, 2006). Rediscovering Miller and the Special Youth Program After Miller’s death in 2004, his professional papers and effects were given to Hedy Bookin-Weiner, a graduate student when Miller was at Harvard. The second author received these papers from Dr. Bookin-Weiner in 2006. Among this collection, two specific pieces drew immediate scrutiny; there were boxes containing the outreach worker contact cards and the manuscript of a book, City Gangs. This book was Miller’s unpublished monograph about the gangs and gang members of the project (Miller, 1963). When a publisher told him in the 1960s that the book could be published only if the manuscript was shortened considerably, Miller’s response was to add several hundred pages to the manuscript, instead. The publisher subsequently declined the opportunity to publish the book. Between 2006 and 2011, Miller’s works were inventoried, and the manuscript was digitalized (see Miller, 2011). In July of 2011, gang rosters from the study were discovered among the remaining papers.5 Rosters of the intense study groups were very thorough, often including the full name, date of birth, gender, race/ethnicity, gang, home address, parish/church, high school, and father’s name for many of the 231 in- HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT 271 tensive study participants.6 Rosters of the control groups, comprised of 258 members, contained similar information, but were less thorough due to infrequent contact with project workers. Remaining groups were comprised of 43 female auxiliary and young male members of the study groups. Table 1. Characteristics of Gangs Group Group Type Age Group Gender Race # Molls Intense 14-16 F White 11 Jr. Outlaws Intense 14-16 M White 26 Sr. Bandits Intense 16-18 M White 33 Sr. Outlaws Intense 16-18 M White 37 Kings Intense 16-18 M Black 40 Queens Intense 14-18 F Black 39 Jr. Bandits Intense 14-16 M White 45 Bandettes Control 16-18 F White 8 Little Bandettes Control 14-16 F White 10 Emsella Terrace Control 16-18 M White 13 Midget Outlaws Control 12-14 M White 23 Princes Control 14-16 M Black 28 Monarchs Control 18+ M Black 19 Hoods Control 14-16 M White 24 Ladies Control 12-14 F Black 29 Viceroys Control 16-18 M Black 21 Knights Control 14-16 M Black 44 Brigands Control 18+ M White 13 Marauders Control 18+ M White 26 Squires Other Study 12-14 M Black 2 Outlawettes Other Study 14-16 F White 6 Midget Bandits Other Study 12-14 M White 35 In total, 532 study participants were identified from the Miller records. Table 1 provides the demographic characteristics of the sample, including gang, group type, race, gender, and age range from the study. dIFFICulTIES oF RETRoSPECTIVE RESEARCH Past research highlights a number of difficulties in the collection of prospective longitudinal data (Call et al., 1982). Many of these same obstacles are 272 MOULE, JR & DECKER present when trying to reconstruct, locate, and interview study participants using historical data. With respect to the Special Youth Program sample, the youngest participants would be in their late 60s, with many beyond the average life expectancy for their birth cohort. Coupled with the fifty year gap between the study period and our efforts, many pieces of information (1950s addresses, father’s name, school) seemed to be of limited use for locating participants; the neighborhood of Roxbury had undergone many changes since the 1950s–deindustrialization, the closing of schools and churches–and as a result, many participants were unlikely to still reside there. These two points are magnified by the inclusion of minorities and women; such data is a rarity in retrospective criminological research. Indeed, most research typically contains only Caucasian male participants (e.g. Laub & Sampson, 2003; Vaillant, 2002; see also Giordano, 2010). New strategies must be used to account for name changes among female participants because of marriage (Ortiz & Ballon, 2007; Root et al., 1994). Lastly, Miller’s data indicated that some individuals were chronic offenders. For those who continued their criminal career into adulthood, there may be limited incentive for participation. For individuals who did not continue offending, there remain incentives to hide their pasts from friends and loved ones (Farrington, Gallagher, Morley, St. Ledger, & West, 1990). These obstacles were problematic for multiple reasons. Our human subjects review board was equally concerned about subjects’ privacy7, especially divulging SYP participants’ criminal behaviors to spouses and family members, their recent offending behavior, and our ability to acquire participant social security numbers. We addressed these concerns by first noting that we would not reveal the nature of the SYP to family members. Instead, we referred to very generic information–individuals we were contacting had grown up in Roxbury and had participated in a study in the 1950s. Second, when interviewing participants, we did not inquire about recent criminal behavior such as substance abuse. Lastly, in Massachusetts, the deceased do not have privacy rights. This meant opportunities for access to school records. Social security numbers are available online through the Social Security Death Index on both Ancestry.com and Legacy.com (see also Acquisti & Gross, 2009). Our organizing efforts thus focused on three goals, (1) reconstructing the sample by verifying information on program participants, (2) locating living participants and verifying the identity of dead participants, and (3) conducting interviews with SYP participants regarding their experiences in the program, their gang, and growing up in Roxbury. To accomplish these goals, we first reviewed the gang records in our possession, particularly those which contained birth information and began reconstructing the sample using Internet searches. HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT 273 SAMPlE REConSTRuCTIon Past research illustrates the construction of samples from official criminal records (e.g. Blokland & Nieuwbeerta, 2005). In the absence of nationally centralized databases for various personal records such as marriage or criminal offending, fewer in-depth treatments of sample reconstruction exist. Bosworth highlighted a number of reasons why this remains so, including “trails running cold, illegible documents, restricted opening hours [at libraries, archives, and state facilities], cool and even resistant librarians and archivists, incomplete, inconsistent catalogues, and the task of sifting through infrequent, useful documents from the mass” (2001, pp. 434-435), Sampson and Laub (1993) provided one account of sample reconstruction for their original, six year (1987-1993) examination of the Glueck data. Elder, Pavalko, and Clipp (1993) similarly detailed working with and recoding archival data. In contrast to the thorough records of those studies, records from the Special Youth Program were more consistent with Bosworth’s (2001) description of historical data. The Special Youth Program consisted of interactions between participants and outreach workers between 1954 and 1957, with limited followups with two of the Caucasian male gangs conducted in 1962. Because of the poor nature of records on the other groups, we focused our efforts on the 489 intense and control group members. Miller’s gang-based study design provided general parameters for participant characteristics. All gangs were age-graded, with members typically born within a two- or three-year time span. In addition, while Roxbury was racially integrated, the racially divisive nature of Boston during the pre-Civil Rights Era meant the gangs were not integrated. For example, notes from a housing project meeting from the late 1940s indicated residents were unhappy about Negroes moving into the neighborhood. Lastly, gangs were only composed of boys or girls, with auxiliary groups being exclusively female. These general parameters were believed to make verifying subjects’ personal information easier. We began reconstructing the sample in autumn of 2011, conducting public records searches on Internet sites such Ancestry.com, a genealogy website (see Appendix A for a useful list of online resources). Ancestry draws from nationally available indices–locally reported sources, federal public record indices, and the Social Security Death Index. In the spring of 2012, Ancestry. com also provided access to the recently released 1940 Census. Searches on Ancestry were originally conducted using participant name and demographics, specifying Boston as a place of birth, with up to a five-year age range. This range was narrowed for individuals for whom we had more specific information, such as a full birth date, a birth year, or just a general age-range within a gang. Such an approach casts a wide net and may result in a number of individuals being identified. As such, searches were supplemented with official state documents. 274 MOULE, JR & DECKER Prior to the release of the 1940 Census in 2012, birth records were available through the Massachusetts State Archive and the Massachusetts Registry of Vital Records and Statistics. The State Archives house a number of historical records, including birth record rolls. Covering five-year increments, these microfilm rolls indicate the full name, location, and year of all births occurring in the state, as well the volume and page number where official birth records can be obtained. While photographs may be taken of these rolls, records were instead transcribed by hand with pencil and paper to save time. This recorded information was then taken to the Massachusetts Registry of Vital Records and Statistics, where official birth, marriage, and death volumes were available. These volumes were reviewed, recorded by hand using pencil and paper, and compared to gang roster information. Individuals were matched through a combination name, date and place of birth, parents’ names, and home addresses. While most birth records are public information in Massachusetts, some records are restricted, typically for children born out of wedlock, adopted, or when one parent was not named on the birth certificate. When dealing with restricted records, only the year of birth was available. Birth records were also unavailable when individuals were not born in-state (though as we illustrate in Table 2, this does not mean that information on them was entirely unavailable or that these individuals are unable to be located). When birth records were unavailable or inaccessible, birthdates may be triangulated using a number of sources. For example, the 1940 Census data contained the age of participants when forms were filled out, providing a smaller window of possible birth years for individuals born prior to the administration of the Census. Pay websites, such as Intelius.com, often contain limited birth and other personal information. Potential participants were matched on demographic characteristics as well as their addresses from the 1950s. When marriage records can be located, certificates may provide demographic features on which individuals can be matched (race, gender, name, parents’ names and addresses) and the age when the individual got married, which will provide a narrower range for possible birthdates. Marriage records for individuals born out-of-state also identify location of birth, which may be used to acquire more complete birth information. A number of other resources may prove useful when trying to confirm participant identities. For example, we were able to view yearbooks from Roxbury and Boston area high schools that SYP participants attended. Located in the Boston City Archives, these yearbooks provided no specific birth information, but depending on grade and year, we were able to narrow down potential birth years for some individuals. We also received permission from the Massachusetts Executive Office of Public Safety to use their digital Criminal Offender Record Information (CORI) system. This database contains all known adult offenders in Massachusetts. Individual records are accessible by submitting an offender’s name and date of birth into the database. While HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT 275 the database does not make juvenile records accessible, CORI provided another way of verifying birth records in the Miller files. Criminal records for individuals who were over the age of 18 during the course of the program were matched with CORI offending profiles, thus illustrating that the individuals we had identified were the same as those in the original sample. Table 2. Available Birthdates by Gang Status, Race, and Gender (n=489) Intense Group Control Group Black Female 24/39 Black Female 14/29 White Female 10/11 White Female 12/18 Black Male 36/40 Black Male 52/112 White Male 56/99 White Male Total 130/141 200/231 individuals Total 134/258 individuals Table 2 shows the breakdown of available birthdates by gang status, race, and gender, with remaining birthdates to still be found. HIddEn PoPulATIonS oR JuST HIddEn In PlAIn SIGHT? In addition to finding current information on SYP participants, we were interested in communicating with those participants who were still living. This was not an easy task, and prior research highlights the difficulties of locating hidden populations–those individuals whose activities fall outside of the law (Heckathorn, 1997; Watters & Biernacki, 1989). With respect to offenders, these difficulties manifest in three ways that are problematic for both longitudinal and retrospective research. First, offenders’ lives are often chaotic, involving transience, periods of incarceration, and failed social relations. As a consequence, locating these individuals can prove quite challenging. Second, past research has documented that chronic offenders are also the most likely to experience early death; offenders who may be of the most interest to criminologists may also be the least likely to be living (Piquero, Farrington, Shepherd, & Auty, 2011). Third, even if subjects can be located, gaining the trust of current or former offenders can be a difficult and time consuming process (Laub & Sampson, 2003; Wright et al., 1992). Two general methods have typically been used to overcome these obstacles. Snowball sampling techniques have been employed as a way to prospectively identify potential study participants (Biernacki & Waldorf, 1981; Coleman, 1958; Wright et al., 1992). This strategy uses the first responding participants to start referral chains which branch out over time and provide researchers with a degree of credibility when engaging new respondents. Targeted sampling strategies have also been used to find hidden popula- 276 MOULE, JR & DECKER tions (Watters & Biernacki, 1989). This approach draws from snowball and ethnographic sampling methods to provide a systematic sample of a specific population such as drug users. If historical records are drawn from a specific geographic region, the latter approach may prove more fruitful for retrospective research. These challenges coincide with the notion that while most individuals engage in some level of deviance over the life course, few individuals continue to do so beyond adolescence (e.g. Gottfredson & Hirschi, 1990; Moffitt, 1993). The problems of locating a hidden population along with the recognition that ex-offenders undergo a series of cognitive and social changes which color how they view their past indiscretions creates further hurdles in locating former offenders (Ebaugh, 1988; Giordano, Cernkovich, & Rudolph, 2002; Laub & Sampson, 2003; Maruna, 2001). Going straight means having much to lose if friends, colleagues, and family learn of this past (Farrington et al., 1990; Maruna, 2001). Locating former offenders may cause personal issues for the participants; while they may have settled down and thus may be more easily found, they remain cognizant of the consequences surrounding their past. Former offenders then represent something akin to a population hidden in plain sight, for this population is widespread and operates within legitimate institutions and enterprises. loCATInG PARTICIPAnTS Official records formed the foundation for being able to locate former study participants. Marriage records are a necessary starting point for participant location, particularly female study members. Without these records, it is unlikely that researchers will be able to locate female participants, whether they are living or dead. Indeed, prior research suggests that marriage records are the key piece of information for locating female participants since historically, many women change their name or relocate after marriage (Klebanoff, Zemel, Buka, & Zierler, 1998; Ortiz & Ballon, 2007; Root et al., 1994). The same processes for locating birth records were applied to finding marriage records of SYP participants. Given the time period of the original study, we assumed that all marriages would begin shortly after participants turned 18; researchers focused on records covering the period between 1951 and 1972, at which time records were digitized. Marriage rolls in the State Archives were available on microfilm for five-year intervals, with full marriage certificates available at the Registry of Vital Statistics. Restrictions were also placed on marriage records where either spouse had birth restrictions. Prior to 1960, only marriage years and locations were available for restricted records. After 1960, restricted records provided the year and location of the marriage and spouse’s first and last name. Marriage records provided additional information useful for locating participants: occupation HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT 277 and address at the time of marriage. These addresses, especially for individuals still residing on well known streets in Roxbury, reinforced our belief that we had accurately verified the correct people. Likewise, the listing of occupations provided indicators that subjects might have relocated, such as the case with military service. In conducting retrospective research that drew on records from the 1950s, we found a number of the original study participants were deceased. This necessitated research using death records. For participant death records, even those for whom birth information was unavailable, we began with Ancestry.com, which provided access to the Social Security Death Index and the Massachusetts Death Index 1970-2003. First, the Massachusetts Death Index was searched for each participant, based on name and any known birth information. Information provided here included decedent’s full name, death date, death place (town and/or county), birth date, and birth place. The Social Security Death Index provides similar information, as well as social security numbers for those have been deceased more than ten years, and the state where the number was issued. This provided a greater degree of accuracy when searching for individuals without full birth information, because all would be expected to have been issued their social security numbers from Massachusetts. In conjunction with these main sources, we used Legacy.com and the obituary page of the Boston Globe to search for potentially deceased participants or their spouses. Online obituaries are an excellent source of information even if participants are not able to be located. In some instances, we came across the obituaries of parents, siblings, and spouses, all of which provided clues as to whether the individual we were seeking was alive, as well as where they might currently be residing. Death records are also available in the Massachusetts Registry of Vital Statistics, although much of our research there concentrated on birth and marriage records, given the greater prevalence of death information on the web. While searching for information on deceased individuals, we simultaneously searched for information on those participants who were still alive. Preliminary searches were conducted on Google, and while many of our participants’ names are common and ethnic, general Internet searches provided information on respondents with uncommon names, as well as occasional links to participant web pages, including professional sites, and Twitter and Facebook profiles. For example, one notorious delinquent from the SYP was located because his unique nickname was part of his Twitter username. Pictures that he posted were geotagged, and this address was matched to the White Pages. Another individual’s SYP record noted that he had planned to attend a prestigious Ivy League medical school; he was located by combining this information in a Google search. Classmates.com was also used, along with its collection of digital yearbooks. From this, we discovered that one participant played college football in southern California. U.S Public Records Indices from the late ‘80s and early ‘90s were available on Ancestry.com, al- 278 MOULE, JR & DECKER though many of the addresses provided by these indices were out of date. For more up to date contact information, we drew from multiple sources. Intelius.com provided background information on individuals matched by name and age, as well as other personal records, such as relatives’ names, prior addresses, and phone numbers. Phone numbers and addresses were run through Whitepages.com. Phone numbers frequently changed as our participants relocated, so sometimes it was necessary to run multiple numbers or addresses. With few exceptions, the living individuals who have been located have been so through Intelius and Ancestry, while death records were obtained from the aforementioned death indices. Table 3 shows the results of these efforts to date. Table 3: Participants Found living, dead, and unknown across Race, Gender, and Gang Affiliation (n=489) Intense Group Control Group Found- FoundFoundunknown Total living Dead living Foundunknown Total Dead White Male 61 53 27 141 30 33 36 99 Black Male 20 9 11 40 31 38 43 112 White Female 4 3 4 11 5 5 8 18 Black Female 16 5 18 39 6 3 20 29 Total 101 70 60 231 72 79 107 258 ConTACTInG And BuIldInG RAPPoRT WITH SYP PARTICIPAnTS Once longitudinal, secondary data sources are acquired and statistical analyses are conducted, a research project usually comes to a close (but see Giordano et al., 2002; Laub & Sampson, 2003). Such an approach to retrospective research leaves key questions unanswered. What was it about a particular experience that mattered? Why made a given experience more salient than another? Because we were able to reconstruct Miller’s original sample by identifying, locating, and acquiring criminal histories for SYP participants, we were interested in taking the next step, contacting and inter- HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT 279 viewing them. In doing so, we drew on both traditional techniques used to engage participants in longitudinal research and dealt with problems unique to engaging elderly populations. Based on the records we had collected through Spring, 2012, we sent one dozen individuals who were believed to be former participants a one-page recruitment letter as well as a self-addressed stamped envelope and a ten dollar bill. This strategy was previously shown to increase response rates (Biner & Kidd, 1994). Letters described the project and provided contact information for the principal investigator. In some instances, letters were returned unopened, and we were forced to reexamine respondent addresses. In other instances, former participants left the researchers voicemails wishing to know more about the project. Respondents were initially wary, unsure of how we had located them or why we were interested in their lives (see Laub & Sampson, 2003). For men especially, their wives or children were gatekeepers with whom they would discuss participation, and one of our respondents admitted that he would proceed with us only with the blessings of his family. Because a key component of finding former members would be respondents’ willingness to help (Call et al., 1982), these immediate concerns by respondents highlighted the need for meaningful rapport building. For research involving the elderly and other marginalized populations, rapport building is especially critical (Tewksbury & Gagne, 1996; Wright et al., 1992). Therefore, we adopted numerous strategies to build rapport and maximize the cooperation with respondents. First, prior research highlights the fears that the elderly have in regard to fraud and other scams (Johnson, 2003; Sundeen, 1977), and longitudinal research may be incomplete because elderly subjects do not participate based on these fear (Mody et al., 2008). To rectify these concerns and establish relationships with participants, we began by reinforcing our association with our university, an affiliation originally reflected in the recruitment letters. We explained that our records indicated that the individual had participated in a study during the 1950s. Even if the individuals did not remember the project exactly, we asked that they still speak with us. We explained our willingness to meet or speak with participants at a convenient time and place, including over the telephone, and promised confidentiality regarding information they shared. Further, we framed our research as being part of an historical account of Roxbury and of how these people had grown up. Indeed, sharing your story is an appealing prospect for criminals and non-criminals alike (Letkemann, 1973; Wright & Decker, 1994; 1997). In addition to the money enclosed in the recruitment letter, our second strategy invoked the “norms governing the exchange of money and other kinds of favors” (Berk & Adams, 1970: 112). We were asking strangers to cooperate with a study examining their lives, regardless of the quality of their life experiences, so it was necessary that we be forthright and honest in answering questions related to the project. We explained how individuals had 280 MOULE, JR & DECKER been found through phone directories as well as the Internet. For example, one participant was a faculty member at an East Coast university; he had been located through his faculty web page. We also explained why participants were contacted in the first place. While most of the subjects did not initially remember participating in the study, key details emerged when they were asked about topics such as their sports clubs and which outreach workers had assisted in getting equipment. The aforementioned faculty member, an African-American, distinctly remembered his group being given secondhand sports equipment, while the Caucasian gangs were given new equipment. While minute, this detail was substantial enough to be remembered more than 50 years after the fact. Often, participants wished to know what would be done with these interviews, and we explained that they would be incorporated into books, dissertations, and academic articles, but their names or identities would not be divulged. Third, past research highlights the role that word meaning and syntax play in conducting field work (Irwin, 1972; Wright & Bennett, 1990; Wright et al., 1992). We experienced firsthand how one word can inhibit rapport building. Each individual we interviewed was adamant that he/ had not been a member of a gang, but rather part of a social or athletic club as well as a less organized corner or neighborhood group (e.g. Jansyn, 1966; Suttles, 1968; Whyte, 1943). For these individuals, gang evoked the imagery of serious, violent crime and involvement with drugs, neither of which were prevalent in the 1950s. Following the negative feedback we received when mentioning the gang, we immediately began referring to our participants as group members and inquired about the nature of the group. Likewise, some participants were unwilling to discuss certain topics in specific terms. One Caucasian male, for example, did not want to provide information about his wife or the quality of his marriage. In such instances, we did not investigate further, for fear that the participant would refuse to answer other questions or rebuke any future contacts we wished to make. Though the individuals involved in the Boston Special Youth Program were now in their 70s, they were willing to discuss their experiences in the program, their formative years, and their lives in the decades following participation in the project. In doing so, they provided evidence of the breadth and effectiveness of rapport building techniques, as well as vindication regarding the identification and location of research subjects over an extended period of time. dISCuSSIon The advent of the life course perspective has spurred a substantial body of research examining offending over time; a variety of research methods have been employed to understand the experiences of current and former offenders alike. The present study illustrated the broader utility of the In- HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT 281 ternet for criminological research, including locating and conducting followup research, even among study subjects who have been out of the research spotlight for a number of decades. Despite such a powerful tool being at the hands of capable researchers, little has been written on Internet use as a tool for conducting such research (Ortiz & Ballon, 2007). Drawing from previous research on both longitudinal and retrospective studies, our research demonstrates efforts to identify, locate, and build rapport with an elderly population of former gang members over a one-year period. Given the substantial obstacles presented by this line of research, we relied heavily on the Internet to verify identities and locate participants. After working on this for a year, we have acquired birth information for 68.3% of the sample and located 64.2% of the sample. We are in the beginning stages of conducting interviews with more members of the original program and continue to search for and locate information on remaining individuals. From our experiences, three implications for future research emerge. First, the absence of research integrating various information sources and methods of data collection is troubling. To be sure, such research is by no means easy but is necessary to continue pushing the discipline forward. As we have demonstrated, such research is possible. There are many opportunities for conducting retrospective longitudinal research using historical or archival data, and we encourage researchers to look more closely for such opportunities. Papachristos’ recent work with the Chicago Crime Commission data from the 1920s, Ward’s research (2012) using the Memphis Church Records, and the investigations of Bright et al. (2007) with St. Louis Juvenile Court data from the early 1900s are recent, noteworthy examples. In the event that historical studies or data contain participants that may be living, these individuals can be located through various sources, especially with the advent of the Internet, and criminology benefits from their input (Giordano, 2010; Laub & Sampson, 2003). The Internet and the information it contains can be an asset for locating such individuals and supplementing other research methodologies such as referral chains for snowball sampling (Hampson et al., 2001; Laub & Sampson, 2003; Ortiz & Ballon, 2007). As criminology becomes more focused on longitudinal research, the life-course framework, and the process of desistance, the Internet is an increasingly valuable resource that should not be overlooked. Second, prior research has used the Internet, but only to a limited extent (e.g. Ortiz and Ballon, 2007). The Internet is a viable source of several important kinds of information, including addresses and phone numbers, and because much of the information online is drawn from public records, it may be especially useful for locating older individuals, particularly those with substantial community ties. Records of home ownership, a stable mailing address, or engagement in civic functions such as voting or owning a driver’s license all increase the likelihood of someone having an online presence. Younger individuals may not have these established ties, but may be 282 MOULE, JR & DECKER more easily accessible through a growing number of social networking sites such as Facebook or Twitter, or where parental records are available. With the growing use of these websites, their use as sources of information for future research will likely increase, and scholars should be cognizant of this utility. The convenience of the Internet, however, is tempered by its ability to present limited or obsolete information (Eysenbach & Diepgen, 1998). This may especially be the case when trying to locate marginalized populations who move frequently, live with relatives, reside in correctional or other monitoring facilities. Because of this, it is necessary to triangulate information between multiple online and offline sources (see Appendix A for a list of potential sources). Given this caveat, the best manner to use the Internet for follow-up research is likely as a supplement to other data sources. While we were fortunate with the recent release of the 1940 Census, most birth and marriage records do not appear to be online at this time, thus occasionally necessitating travel. We have relied on the Web to match known birth information as closely as possible, since travel between Phoenix and Boston is expensive and time consuming. Focusing on the Internet only as a tool for conducting retrospective research provides an underwhelming account of its potential for social science in general. A growing body of criminological literature details the use of the Internet for other research purposes, such as providing descriptive accounts of numerous antisocial groups online and the recruitment and marketing strategies they employ (e.g. Burris, Smith, & Strahm, 2000; Reid & Chen, 2002; Schafer, 2002; Selepak, 2010; Zhou, Reid, Qin, Chen, & Lai, 2005), qualitative accounts of offenders’ web use (e.g. Holt & Blevins, 2007; Holt, Blevins, & Burkert, 2010; Holt, Blevins, & Kuhns, 2008), and the use of online survey administration for both criminological (e.g. Nobles and Fox, 2013; Wells, Cavanaugh, Bouffard, and Nobles, 2012) and general research (e.g. Edelman, 2012). Recent research similarly details the importance of the Web for criminal justice agencies (Heverin and Zach, 2010; Police Executive Research Forum, 2013); the web will become an increasingly valuable tool for researchers in the years to come (see also Pyrooz, Decker, and Moule, 2013). Third, to the extent that personal information is becoming more commonplace online and locating people using this information is becoming more possible, potential respondents may not be comfortable knowing how little online privacy they have. Using the Internet to locate individuals may necessitate explaining limited digital privacy to them. We were cognizant of this and sought to put study members at ease early on to facilitate the relationship building process. Steps taken in this process included the initiation of reciprocal exchange by including money in our recruitment letter, emphasizing confidentiality of communication, and respecting generational differences in perceptions of gangs and corner groups. Once we explained the project in greater detail, including how subjects were located, participants were more willing to speak with us. Perceptions of Internet privacy may be HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT 283 age-graded. Younger generations may be more comfortable maintaining an online presence and thus being located through the Web (but see Zimmer, 2010). Older individuals, on the other hand, are aware of and are concerned about scams. Indeed, in more than one case, a potential subject referred us to an adult child who screened us to see if we were a legitimate research group. We often provided Miller’s earlier publication as evidence of our legitimacy, as well as a university story about the research. As more individuals are located, both in the context of this and other research projects, privacy is an issue to keep in mind. There are, however, caveats surrounding the nature of this type of retrospective research, particularly regarding both generalizability and research ethics. The circumstances of the data described are by no means typical: the primary was data collected for three years and later acquired purely by chance by the authors; it was collected before the existence of Institutional Review Boards; and the data contained enough personal information to attempt follow-up research. Although the number of respondents and pre-IRB studies suitable for this type of research within criminology are likely limited, we cannot be sure of the extent to which this is so. This limitation notwithstanding, besides the seminal work of Laub and Sampson, the medical literature has its own distinct body of retrospective research, some of which spans generations (e.g. Bargagli, Sperati, Davoli, Forastiere, & Perucci, 2001; Blane, Berney, Smith, Gunnell, & Holland, 1999; Hser, Hoffman, Grella, & Anglin, 2001; Klebanoff, Zemel, Buka, & Zierler, 1998). Beyond retrospective research, the Internet can also be a useful tool for both cross-sectional and prospective longitudinal research, as these examples illustrate. But just as we encourage this manner of research, the ethical considerations of delving into the private pasts of research participants must also be acknowledged. Contemporary, secondary datasets, including the NLSY and Add Health, are ill-suited for the methods described in this paper. Besides containing anonymous personal identifiers, these datasets often include terms of use prohibiting attempted identification of respondents. On the other hand, individuals conducting longitudinal research or cross-sectional research with the potential to become longitudinal research may also find the methods described in this paper useful. This is especially the case if there have been extended time periods between study waves. Contemporary studies should also clearly present the nature and scope of data collection effects, and researchers should work closely with IRBs and study participants to have proper procedures for data collection in place and to make clear if and when those collection efforts will end. These procedures are important in respecting the privacy of study participants as well as offering the ability to refuse future participation. In the end, we encourage researchers to continue expanding their horizons when it comes to conducting research. Different forms and sources of data lend themselves to a variety of applicable methods and theory, and we 284 MOULE, JR & DECKER illustrate the means through which quantitative and qualitative data can be successfully intertwined. Likewise, we suggest that researchers consider the new opportunities presented by evolving technologies, such as the Internet, for conducting research. These technologies are unlikely to fade away, and the sooner they are embraced, the better. Combined approaches leave the field well-positioned to simultaneously revisit its past and confront its future in a productive fashion. EndnoTES 1 Bosworth (2001) provides a useful account of archival research within criminology. She emphasizes speciic periods (i.e. when individuals were incarcerated) and historical eras in her research. While a broader elaboration on the use of historical research practices/archival sources is beyond the scope of the present research project, this is a valuable area of inquiry that warrants further attention. 2 There is no evidence to indicate that any of the groups in the SYP were involved in the murder of the Rabbi. 3 The African-Americans were referred to as “Negroes” in the study documents, consistent with the parlance of the 1950s. 4 Unfortunately, it appears that Miller’s recordings of outreach workers and gang members have been lost. 5 Upon discovery of these rosters, we immediately contacted our Institutional Review Board and worked closely with them to protect subject privacy and the integrity of the research project. 6 Readers will note that Miller (1962) and Miller (2011) identify divergent numbers of intense and control study group members. 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Armed robbers in action. Boston: Northeastern University Press. Zhou, Y., Reid, E., Qin, J., Chen, H., & Lai, G. (2005). US domestic extremist groups on the web: Link and content analysis. IEEE Intelligent Systems, 20, 44-51. Zimmer, M. (2010). “But the data is already public”: On the ethics of research in Facebook. Ethics and Information Technology, 12, 313325. AuTHoR BIoGRAPHIES Richard k. Moule Jr. is a doctoral student in the School of Criminology and Criminal Justice at Arizona State University. He received his BS in Criminology from The College of New Jersey and his MS in Criminology and Criminal Justice from Arizona State University. His research interests include gangs and deviant networks, life course criminology, and the intersection of technology and criminological theory. He has recently co-authored articles appearing in Social Science Research, Youth Violence and Juvenile Justice, and Justice Quarterly. He is currently the archivist for the Walter B. Miller Library, housed in the School of Criminology and Criminal Justice. Scott H. Decker is foundation professor of the School of Criminology and Criminal Justice at Arizona State University. He received his BA in social justice from DePauw University and MA and PhD in criminology from Florida State University. His main research interests are in the areas of gangs, criminal justice policy, and the offender’s perspective. His most recent books include European Street Gangs and Troublesome Youth Groups (Winner of the American Society of Criminology, Division of International Criminology Outstanding Distinguished Book Award, 2006), Drug Smugglers on Drug Smuggling: Lessons from the Inside (2008, CHOICE Academic Press Book of the Year), and Criminology and Public Policy: Putting Theory to Work (2010, with Hugh Barlow). HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT 291 Appendix A. Sources of Information in the Search Process for SYP Participants Type of Source Source Description How Accessed Phone directory Whitepages.com Free Internet search Reverse phone directory Whitepages.com Free Internet search Address/neighborhood search Whitepages.com Free Internet search Voter registration Boston City Voter Roll City of Boston website 1940 Census records Ancestry.com Paid subscription Birth records Mass. State Archives Searched at Archives Birth records MA Registry of Vital Statistics Searched at VS Marriage records Mass. State Archives Searched at Archives Marriage records MA Registry of Vital Statistics Searched at VS School Yearbooks Boston City Archives Searched at BCA School reunions Classmates.com Free Internet search Death records Mass. State Archives Searched at Archives Death records MA Registry of Vital Statistics Searched at VS Death records MA state Death Index on Ancestry.com Paid subscription Death records National Death Index on Ancestry.com Paid subscription Address search Intelius.com Paid subscription Property records Intelius.com Paid subscription Historical Records Massachusetts Historical Society Searched at MHS Local Obituaries Massachusetts newspapers Free Internet search National obituaries Legacy.com Free Internet search Social network site Facebook.com Free Internet membership Social network site Twitter.com Free Internet membership JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) “We Incarcerate to Set Free:” negotiating Punishment and Rehabilitation in Jail Brittnie l. Aiello* Merrimack College Abstract Criminology has documented the decline of rehabilitation in the age of get-tough approaches to crime and punishment. Therapy and punishment, however, are not mutually exclusive. Rehabilitation and traditional punishment have long co-existed in penal facilities. In this article, I examine the role of rehabilitation at Northeast Jail, a county jail in the U.S. that adhered to an ideology of rehabilitation. but northeast Jail was, first and foremost, a penal facility where offenders were confined and punished. While staff and administrators at Northeast Jail routinely invoked a rhetoric of rehabilitation, they adhered to rules and engaged in punitive practices that interfered with the rehabilitative process. Based on 18 months of participant observation, I found that managing the irresolvable tensions between confinement and rehabilitation was part of the job for staff at Northeast Jail. I identify three strategies that staff used to negotiate these tensions: rehabilitation as rhetoric, role-switching, and deferring to punishment. InTRoduCTIon The get-tough trend that has marked the past few decades in U.S. penal policy has resulted in an unprecedented number of prisoners. The dramatic shift toward incarceration as the predominant solution to the nation’s social problems, particularly drug use, contributed to the death of the rehabilitative ideal: the notion that penal measures should focus on reformative efforts, not simply incarceration (Garland, 2001). But the decline of rehabilitation as an organizing principle of the criminal justice system does not mean that rehabilitation has no place in U.S. jails and prisons (Garland, 2001; Moskowitz, 2001). While rehabilitation as a goal of the criminal justice system has fallen out of favor, rehabilitation is alive and well in penal facilities, a *Corresponding Author Brittnie L. Aiello, Merrimack College, Department of Criminology, 315 Turnpike Street, North Andover, MA 01845 USA, e-mail: [email protected] Author Note: This research was supported by National Science Foundation Grant 0718018 awarded to Brittnie L. Aiello. WE INCARCERATE TO SET FREE 293 reality that suggests rehabilitative approaches in the form of therapy and get-tough policies are not mutually exclusive. Programs that seek to reform inmates have grown in conjunction with the war on drugs and the explosion of incarcerated people (Haney, 2010; McCorkel, 2013; Nolan, 1998). Northeast Jail1 is a contemporary facility that combines the rhetoric and ideology of rehabilitation with the practices of traditional punishment. Northeast Jail provides therapeutic treatment to address the needs of inmates with complicated histories of abuse, drug addiction, and social marginality. Yet, the jail looks and operates much like a traditional penal facility, with cells, solitary confinement, and staffing objectives that mandate punishment and security over therapeutic concerns and practices. My research examines some of the contradictions inherent to providing therapy in a place designed to punish, and the ways that staff and administrators negotiate those contradictions. REHABIlITATIon duRInG InCARCERATIon The role of rehabilitation within incarceration has been debated by administrators (Cheliotis, 2006; Cullen, Latessa, Burton Jr, & Lombardo, 1993), politicians, and citizens (Garland, 2001) at various points in the history of U.S. penal institutions. Questions regarding the utility and possibility of combining rehabilitation and criminal justice have puzzled academics as well (Brown, 2009; Cullen & Gendreau, 2001). Rehabilitation as an organizing principle of the criminal justice system, one that treats incarceration as a last resort, fell out of favor most recently in the 1970s, guided in part by a pessimistic view that “nothing works” to reform criminals and reduce crime (Martinson, 1974). Correspondingly, the incarceration rate in the U.S. exploded. Today, more than 2.4 million people are incarcerated in United States, more than any other industrialized nation in the world (Sabol, West, & Cooper, 2009). Despite the shift away from rehabilitation as the primary goal of the criminal justice system, the number of inmates receiving counseling and drug treatment has increased steadily since the 1966 passage of the Narcotic Addict Rehabilitation Act (NARA), which mandated treatment for drug offenders convicted of federal crimes. After NARA, treatment programs became more prevalent in U.S. prisons and jails (Nolan, 1998). Since the 1990’s, rehabilitation programs oriented toward re-entry that cover such topics as “how to find a job, manage budgets, control anger, and parent children” have proliferated (Phelps, 2011, p. 55). Historical and contemporary literature on the role of rehabilitation in prisons and jails demonstrates that rehabilitation and incarceration are fundamentally at odds with each other (Rothman, 1971, 2002), that rehabilitation is used to induce good inmate behavior (Rafter, 1990), but that rehabilitative endeavors are often punitive rather than therapeutic (Haney, 2010; McCorkel, 2013). The limits associated with combining therapy and incar- 294 AIELLO ceration are well-documented in historical accounts of the reform efforts of the late 1800s and early 1900s (Rafter, 1990; Rothman, 2002). By the end of the 19th century, the failures of prisons and asylums were well recognized by researchers. Reformatories and asylums “were rife with corruption and brutality” (Blomberg, 2002, p. x). For well-meaning progressives, this posed a dilemma: beliefs about criminals as people in need of individualized treatment and rehabilitation did not mirror the realities of American prisons (Rothman, 2002). Starting in the 1880s, a social movement emerged to replace the traditional custodial prison with facilities that promoted education, work, and community with the goal of uniting incarceration and rehabilitation. This movement continued well into the 20th century. This movement ultimately failed. At the heart of the failure were its conflicting goals: to protect society and to reform the criminal. Reformists mistakenly believed “that the same person and the same institution could at once guard and help, protect and rehabilitate, maintain custody and deliver treatment” (Rothman, 2002, p. 9). Rothman argued that reformists’ unwillingness to challenge the roots of the system resulted in unrealistic expectations of accomplishing both goals, which ultimately proved fatal to the reformers’ designs and led to the privileging of incapacitation over therapy and rehabilitation. These findings are supported by Rafter’s (1990) account of the women’s reformatory movement. This movement took place slightly earlier, from about 1870 to 1935 (Rafter, 1983). Yet, it followed a similar trajectory as the rehabilitative era that Rothman (2002) described. Rafter argued that the introduction of rehabilitation constituted unique punishment that reached beyond the scope of custodial prisons; she reported that education, religion, and domestic pursuits were used in women’s reformatories in an effort to transform women into dutiful housewives and domestic servants. Access to children and privileges were used to induce good behavior, while indeterminate sentencing encouraged inmates to embody rehabilitation as narrowly defined by reformatory matrons. Rehabilitation broadened and expanded the reach of the criminal justice system. Yet, reformatories also failed. They were costly to run and did not benefit from the inmates’ labor as men’s prisons did (Freedman, 1981). Accounts of more recent therapeutic provisions inside penal facilities also demonstrate the fundamental opposition between punishment and rehabilitation. Richie (1996, p. 7) noted that daily life at Rikers Island is “rigidly controlled and tense,” and that “the correctional system’s goal of custody, confinement, and control takes precedence over delivering services.” Rhodes’ (2004) ethnography of the supermax prison is a powerful illustration of the obstacles to providing mental health care within a facility designed to confine the “worst of the worst;” the researcher presented the paradox wherein mental health workers attempted to provide mental health care to inmates who were confined in conditions seemingly designed to foster mental illness. WE INCARCERATE TO SET FREE 295 Literature on women’s punishment sheds light on rehabilitation and incarceration in large part because of “the considerable rhetoric that has developed around the notion of ‘what works’ for women offenders” (Kruttschnitt, 2010, p. 38). The rate of women’s incarceration has increased by 800% over the past three decades encompassing the War on Drugs. Scholars, activists, and women’s health practitioners have argued that the criminal justice system does not adequately provide for women’s specific mental and physical health needs (Covington, 2007; Bloom, Owen, & Covington, 2003; Covington & Bloom, 2007; Kosak, 2005; Pollock, 1998; Roth, 2004), nor does it adequately support the maintenance of mother-child relationships (Hoffman, Byrd, & Kightlinger, 2011; Women’s Prison Association, 2009). Chesney-Lind and Pollock (1995) referred to the tendency of prisons to neglect women’s needs as “equality with a vengeance,” because policies that treat women like men often result in harsher punishment for women. Bloom, Owen, and Covington (2004) have called for gender-sensitive incarceration, including treatment programs that address women’s histories of physical and sexual abuse, trauma, and substance dependency. In turn, gender scholars have examined rehabilitative incarceration as it pertains to women inmates’ experiences. Several have argued that rehabilitation and therapy can constitute new forms of punishment (Haney, 2010; Hannah-Moffat, 2001; McCorkel, 2004, 2013). For example, the Canadian penal system has been heralded as sensitive to needs of female inmates (Maidment, 2006). But a number of researchers who have written on the Canadian system have reported that rather than address women’s needs, therapeutic incarceration transforms their needs (as perceived by government and prison officials) into social control (Hannah-Moffat & Shaw, 2000; Hannah-Moffat, 2001; Hayman, 2006; Pollack, 2005, 2009). In an interview study of women formerly incarcerated in the Canadian federal prison system, Pollack (2009) concluded that prisons as places of punishment do not facilitate therapy and healing. She argued that while some inmates in her study received treatment for the first time during their incarceration, their experiences spoke more to the lack of services in the wider community than to the quality of counseling on the inside. Furthermore, the nature of therapy during incarceration was coercive. Pollack discovered that inmates were required to participate in programming and, at a minimum, tow the program line in order to benefit from reduced sentences or avoid sanctions. Therapeutic incarceration is not limited to the Canadian context. Haney (2010) and McCorkel (2013) have provided in-depth analyses of the role of therapy in contemporary punishment in the U.S. Both have shown how rehabilitation2 can operate as a form of punishment by providing illustrations of staff-inmate interactions and harsh conditions of confinement. Haney studied two alternative-to-traditional-incarceration programs: one for teen mothers (Alliance) and another for adult mothers (Visions). She contended that the state used therapy as a way to manage inmates’ psychological and 296 AIELLO emotional conduct (Haney, 2010). The model of group therapy employed at Visions included confessionals, whereby inmates were required to reveal all their problems in a group setting. For the women at Visions, the presence of their children only increased opportunities for punishment, because their children’s demeanor and behavior become fodder for critique by staff and fellow inmates. One woman resorted to hiding in the bathroom with her young son in an effort to provide him with some physical and emotional privacy. McCorkel (2013) studied Project Habilitate Women (PHW), a drug-rehabilitation program that comprised its own unit within a women’s prison. Like Haney’s (2010) account of Visions, the inmates in PHW endured harsh therapeutic methods and faced incredible pressure to reveal their innermost thoughts and feelings. In addition to the public confessional, inmates were subjected to encounter sessions where staff members hurled horrendous insults at them. The goal of this therapy was to break down the addict within and to replace her with a healthy, drug-free person. These practices coincide with other findings that different does not necessarily mean less severe when it comes to incarceration (Hannah-Moffat, 2001; Irwin, 1980; McCorkel, 2003; Young, 1994). As Foucault (1977) argued, shifts in penal policy and practice constitute qualitative, but not necessarily quantitative, change. For instance, Western democracies characterize incarceration as a more humane, less barbaric form of punishment than its historical precedent of physical torture, yet incarceration is its own form of torture. While different, confinement is not necessarily more humane than physical torture. Though many scholars focus on the gendered indications of therapeutic punishment models, their findings have implications for the role of therapy during incarceration in more general applications. The Canadian approach (Hannah-Moffat, 2001; Pollack, 2009) and the research of Haney (2010) and McCorkel (2013) suggest that despite a rhetoric and methodology that differs from traditional imprisonment, therapy and rehabilitation can function as mechanisms of punishment and control. In fact, therapy often works alongside traditional forms of punishment like incarceration, isolation, and deprivation (Sykes, 1958) to control inmates as subjects of state power (McKim, 2008). Hannah-Moffat (2001) described rehabilitation as “punishment in disguise” because the practitioners and subjects of rehabilitation may not recognize it as a form of social control. As such, rehabilitation during incarceration may be different from straight custodial confinement, but it does not necessarily constitute a lesser form of punishment or social control. My analysis examines how staff and administrators at Northeast Jail managed the seemingly disparate goals of rehabilitation and punishment. I argue that the contradictions of therapy and punishment were built into the staffing structure and architecture at Northeast Jail, where the goals of traditional punishment and rehabilitation came into conflict on a daily basis. However, as Hannah-Moffat (2001) argued, penal facilities are adaptable institutions; they are good at responding to and incorporating often-competing WE INCARCERATE TO SET FREE 297 ideologies. The everyday work of adapting to this structural contradiction fell to staff members, whose jobs required them to negotiate the challenges of providing therapy and punishment at the same time. I demonstrate how staff used three strategies to negotiate this tension: rehabilitation as rhetoric, role-switching, and deferring to punishment. RESEARCH SETTInG And METHodS Northeast Jail, the site of this study, was built in 1992. It is a relatively small facility, designed to hold 962 inmates. At the time I began fieldwork at the jail in the mid-2000s, it housed approximately 150 women and 1450 men. Its status as a county jail meant that only pre-trial offenders and those sentenced to two-and-a-half years or less were housed there, while those serving longer sentences went to a state prison. The average sentence at Northeast Jail was six months. The secure campus of the jail consisted of four large buildings: three of them for inmate housing and another building that accommodated the medical facilities, gym, programming rooms, and a staff cafeteria. The space between them was shaped like the letter T, and everyone referred to the outside area as “The T.” Female inmates were housed on the top floor of one of three large housing buildings. A dedicated elevator transported staff, volunteers, and inmates whose medical conditions that made it difficult or impossible to climb the four flights of stairs directly to the women’s unit. Within the women’s unit, there were two living units or pods, one for sentenced inmates (who wore green uniforms) and another for those awaiting trial (who wore orange). Exceptions to the separation of pre-trial and sentenced inmates were made when particular inmates had to be separated due to conflict or love affairs. A long hallway connected the two main pods, off of which were offices, the segregation and mental health pods, and a multi-purpose room where therapeutic groups, programs, and staff meetings were held. The entrance to the unit was also in the middle of this hallway. Like many contemporary correctional facilities, the interior was austere, with muted paint colors and clearly stenciled cell numbers on the walls. It had industrial-style stairs and railings, with mostly-metal furniture bolted to the floor. The living space had very few, very small windows in the two outer corners of the main space and one each in the cells. The lights were fluorescent, and the air was stale. Researchers have largely overlooked jails as a research site in favor of prisons (Irwin, 1985; Klofas, 1990; Richie, 1996). This is an unfortunate oversight given the importance and reach of jails in our society. The number of jail inmates has increased steadily over the past two decades (Sturges & Al-Khattar, 2009); thirty times as many people rotate through jails as prisons (Richie, 1996, p. 14). According to Klofas (1990, p. 69), “The jail touches more people’s lives than does any other form of correctional service.” The variety of inmates in jails is also wide-ranging; they include “serious repeat 298 AIELLO offenders, novices in crime, or even naïve traffic violators (Klofas, 1990, p. 69). Jails serve as an entrance point to the penal system and as detention facilities for those awaiting trial (Richie, 1996). Irwin (1985, p. xi) argued that jails are actually more important than prisons because, “When persons are arrested, the most critical decisions about their future freedom are made while they are either in jail or attached to it by a bail bond.” The reach and scope of jails have implications for the study of rehabilitation during confinement as well. Jails house inmates with the same problems seen in prisons. Men and women come to jail with mental illness (Hayes, 2010; Steadman, Osher, Robbins, Case, & Samuels, 2009), drug addiction (Bahr, Harris, Strobell, & Taylor, 2012), histories of abuse and trauma (Green, Miranda, Daroowalla, & Siddique, 2005), and other health problems (Maruschack, 2006). However, due to short sentences and a high turnover rate, “there has been less emphasis on rehabilitation programs in jails than in prisons” (Bahr et al., 2012, p. 3). Whether or not short sentences associated with jails reduce the effectiveness of treatment programs is still up for debate (Bahr et al., 2012; Sung & Richter, 2007; Wilson & Davis, 2006). In short, jails are an important part of the criminal justice system, and research on incarceration should include jail populations (Bahr et al., 2012). Northeast Jail was also a fitting site for a study on rehabilitative incarceration because staff and administrators celebrated and promoted the jail as rehabilitative and different from most other penal facilities. Northeast claimed to have a more holistic approach to incarceration that addressed the problems with drugs, self-esteem, and poor decision making that plagued the men and women who came through its doors. Staff and administrators attributed Northeast Jail’s comparatively rehabilitative approach to the Sheriff, who was a social worker. First elected in 1974, he had run successfully for the office, without opposition, five times since. Renee, a high-level manager in the jail, applauded the Sheriff, saying that Northeast was able to maintain its rehabilitative focus because “When the rest of the country was shifting to more retributive tactics, he made sure that this place did not.” My research involved a participation observation study of Northeast Jail during the mid- to late-2000s. I began participant observation when I entered Northeast Jail as a volunteer in October 2005 and continued observations through May 2007, for a total of approximately 750 hours. I attended nearly all therapeutic groups and classes for women at Northeast Jail, including all parenting classes that took place during the research period. In addition to participant observation in classes, I spent time at the jail volunteering for the Mother/Child Visitation Program, attending staff meetings, assisting staff in family-related activities (planning holiday events, administering phone calls for mothers to arrange transportation for their children, visiting women who gave birth in outside hospitals), and hanging out. I took extensive field notes each time I visited the jail. WE INCARCERATE TO SET FREE 299 This article is based primarily on participant observation, but I also interviewed 83 mothers incarcerated at Northeast Jail as part of a larger study. My interview sample reflects the racial makeup of the women’s unit. My sample included 42% who self-identified as White, 36% Latina, 20% Black, and 1% Asian-American. Interviews were semi-structured and covered such topics as first-time motherhood; women’s drug, relationship, and work histories; relationships with children and caregivers; opinions on jail staff; programming; other inmate women; and plans for the future. All interviews were recorded and transcribed. Initially, data were coded openly. I began coding selectively once I discovered the importance of the paradox between punishment and rehabilitation (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). My role in the jail was unique and ambiguous. Northeast Jail had not admitted a researcher, much less an ethnographer, in anyone’s memory. College and Master’s-level interns frequently worked at the jail, and I was commonly mistaken for an intern by staff and inmates alike. Unit leaders, who embraced the idea of a project on inmates’ motherhood, initially welcomed me, but negotiating one’s status as a researcher in a prison or jail is challenging because the prison is a polarized society (Sykes, 1958) with rigid social roles (Goffman, 1961). Research in penal institutions is difficult because of what Jacobs (1977, p. 216) called “the institutional line:” the stark divide between inmates and staff. One is either on the inmate side or the staff side; you cannot be on both sides. Nor, as Jacobs argued, can you be on no side. In an institution where one group incarcerates another, to be neutral was to be on the side of staff. In order to learn about the inmate social life and order, Jacobs (1977) placed himself firmly on the side of the inmates. My presence in Northeast Jail was ill-defined. At first, staff people who assumed I was on their side of the institutional divide welcomed me. When I did not embrace some staff members’ derogatory statements about inmates or when I was seen laughing and joking with inmates, some staff became irritated with my presence in the facility. This led to considerable anxiety on my part as I sought to preserve access to the site and negotiate uncomfortable situations in the field. 3 I awkwardly tried to walk the line by appealing to individuals, rather than staff or inmates as a group. I was close with one staff member whom the inmates appeared to like and respect. While I had several key informants among the inmates, a few steered clear of me. One declined my request for an interview. THE PARAdoX oF PunISHMEnT VS. REHABIlITATIon I first entered Northeast Jail at a particular political moment that has implications for this study. The Sheriff’s Department, along with several other counties in the area, had recently been granted funding by the state legislature to build a separate women’s facility in nearby Glendale. 4 Ground had broken by the time I began volunteering at Northeast, but the construction of 300 AIELLO a new penal facility during a time when social programs were being cut was met with considerable opposition in the area. There was a social movement to fight the construction of the jail that had a significant presence: activists protested, organized a non-profit coalition, and wrote numerous letters-tothe-editor urging policymakers to invest in drug treatment and social programs rather than incarceration. Bumper stickers reading “stopglendalejail. org”5 adorned many cars in the politically-minded, largely left-leaning community. In the age of get-tough, those who supported the building of the new jail faced a unique problem: incarceration was not a popular solution to social problems in Northeast County and its surroundings. The architecture and use of physical space at Northeast Jail provided few clues that rehabilitation was a primary goal of the facility, but the element of Northeast Jail that most flew in the face of a rehabilitative philosophy was the structure and practice of solitary confinement, which was generally referred to as the hole by inmates and some staff. The hole was the final stage in a graduated series of punishments that involved locking inmates in their cells. The physical space posed particular challenges for staff–it was stark–a single door separated two sets of ten cells. On one side, cells designated for solitary confinement, the hole, faced a small open area with a metal table. On the other side, cells reserved for orientation and inmates with mental health issues were set up in an identical fashion. From an elevated position that looked much like the captain’s cabin on a ship, a single officer controlled movement in and out of both pods, controlled lighting, and opened and closed individual cell doors. The staffing structure of Northeast Jail embodied contradiction as well. The staff was bifurcated into counseling and security staff, but the duties were not necessarily distinct. Counseling staff wore civilian clothing, but had undergone the same police academy training as correctional officers. While plain-clothed counselors were bound by jail rules and had the authority to lock inmates (confine them to their cells within the main living area), only uniformed officers escorted women to the hole, performed strip searches, 6 and conducted the twice-daily count of inmates. All counseling staff were charged with enforcing rules that pertained to security, but security staff were not responsible for counseling or therapeutic programming. In addition to plain-clothed counselors and traditional correctional officers, there were Correctional Caseworkers (CCW), uniformed officers who doubled as counselors. The CCW embodied both the contradiction of providing therapy in jail and an attempt at negotiating that contradiction. FIndInGS And AnAlYSIS The work of promoting a rehabilitative agenda in a facility designed for punishment fell to the staff at Northeast Jail. While some staff took rehabilitation more seriously than others, the fact that this contradiction was built WE INCARCERATE TO SET FREE 301 into the structure of the jail meant that negotiating it was part of the job for everyone. Here, I describe some of the contradictions that staff encountered and examine three strategies that they used to negotiate them: rehabilitation as rhetoric, role switching, and deferring to punishment. Rehabilitation as Rhetoric The rhetoric of rehabilitation was a useful tool that staff and administrators invoked when confronted with aspects of jail life that seem to thwart the goals of therapy. Supporters of the jail, namely Sheriff Jones and his staff, practiced a rhetoric of rehabilitation in the public sphere as they sought to counter public criticisms with claims that the new women’s jail would enable them to provide gender-specific treatment and programming to women in need. Supporters argued that despite the rehabilitative efforts that took place at the current jail, it was not ideal for women because the men monopolized most of the resources. Furthermore, women’s histories of abuse meant that the presence of men threatened the therapeutic process. In the local paper, the superintendent of the new jail suggested that people “Look at it as an opportunity for intervention. This stop along the way can break a cycle of destructive behavior.”7 Upon the opening of the new jail, she argued, “There will be a lot of focus on substance abuse treatment and family work. Our focus will be on re-entry.” Renee, the unit manager, was even quoted as saying, “We incarcerate to set free.” The irony of Renee’s statement is clear. Society incarcerates to incapacitate and punish: to deny freedom, not to grant it. Her statement was indicative of the work that she, the superintendent, and other staff did to ameliorate the contradictions between rehabilitation and incarceration. At the level of public discourse, supporters of the jail engaged in considerable rhetorical work to assuage concerns about the punitive nature of incarceration by assuring the public that rehabilitation was the primary goal. This rhetoric often served to mask the realities of incarceration at Northeast Jail. Inside the jail, the rhetoric of rehabilitation also served to counter the punishing aspects of jail life. Segregation, in particular, posed two major challenges to the rehabilitative ideology: The space and practices of the hole were clearly for punishment, but the mental health/orientation space was identical to the hole. In the hole, inmates were permitted to be outside of their cells for one hour a day, and only while cuffed and shackled. Inmates were permitted to shower three times per week and were served regular meals, but could not receive commissary. Renee asserted that inmates had access to all the rights required by law, but no privileges, including phone calls and visits. While inmates were not entirely isolated in the hole–they could communicate with each other, staff conducted meetings in there, officers were sometimes willing to chat–punishment at Northeast Jail was based on the classic penal model of deprivation and isolation (See Rothman, 2002). Inmates were sent to the hole at a staff person’s request. After a period of 5 302 AIELLO days, the inmate appeared before a disciplinary board to determine if further sentencing was necessary. Sentences lasted up to 30 days. Some offenses, such as gang-related activity, carried a mandatory 30-day sentence. On my first visit to Northeast Jail, Renee took me on a tour that included segregation. As she introduced me to the hole, Renee said little about the hole itself, other than to say that inmates are guaranteed all their legal rights. There is not much one could say to cast the space and practices of the hole as consistent with the goals of therapy and rehabilitation. It was clear that it would be mentally and physically painful to be housed there. As the staff person most committed to the discourse of rehabilitation, Renee did not have a lot of room to maneuver when it came to portraying the hole in a therapeutic light. Instead, Renee shifted the focus away from the conditions of the hole to the offenses that inmates in solitary confinement committed. Renee argued that inmates had to do something very serious, like commit or threaten violence, and that it was usually because of fights that people ended up in the hole. Yet, I regularly witnessed inmates go to the hole for far less: Emily went for yelling at an officer; Sue was sent to the hole for a verbal altercation as well; Evelyn went to the hole for flashing her breasts at an officer; Justine was sent to the hole for being naked in her cell; Jordan served 30 days in the hole for possessing a homemade calendar with a gang symbol on it. When Ramona tried to hang herself in general population, she was sent to the hole. Lucy, who went to the hole pending an investigation of a sexual relationship between herself and an officer, was held there until her transfer to another facility several weeks later. Summer, on the other hand, often wound up in the hole because of her tendency to slap, punch, and spit at other people. Raquel went for trying to beat up Colleen. Thus, the reasons that inmates served time in the hole were varied, and they did include violence. But violence was not required to serve time in the hole; Renee’s casting of inmates who were sent to the hole as perpetrators of serious or violent offenses was simply false. She portrayed inmates in solitary as worse than the average inmates, thus reducing the jail’s culpability for punishment. Adjacent to the hole, the orientation side held inmates who had just arrived at Northeast Jail. These inmates remained quarantined for three days pending the results of a tuberculosis test, or longer if they were detoxing from drugs, as was often the case. A single door separated the two blocks of ten cells each. The orientation space also doubled as a mental health pod, where women who had serious mental health issues could be housed apart from the rest of the inmate population. In addition, women could request time in the mental health pod as a respite, when they needed or wanted time away from the commotion of the general living area. The spaces that the jail used to calm and acclimate inmates–or punish in the harshest way possible– were side-by-side and identical. WE INCARCERATE TO SET FREE 303 On my tour of the jail, Renee told me that she would like to have the orientation, respite, and punishment cells separated, but “the taxpayers” would not allow it. Her claim that taxpayers were responsible for the combination of punishment, orientation, and mental health housing seemed to be a way to explain the obvious similarities between the two spaces. Even though the jail failed in its therapeutic approach in respect to the placement of the two pods, Renee was able maintain her own theoretical commitment to rehabilitation, even as the space and place reserved for providing solace for inmates with arguably the most severe mental health problems in the jail was akin to sending them to the hole. Inmates in the mental health section had greater freedom to walk around, but the recreation areas were equally sparse and tiny. These two rooms were the physical and spatial nexus of therapy and punishment at the jail. Relegation to either space resulted in a painful and isolated one. Olivia was incarcerated for the first time in her forties. She was housed in orientation next to a woman who was going through severe drug withdrawal. She described her first night in jail: One of the girls needed some help, she was screaming, screaming, and screaming, and I left my little thing open so they [the officers] could put the food in, and I’m like, “Hey this girl’s screaming! Help her!” So they go and help her and all of a sudden she was sick or something. Then she asked to borrow a pencil because they gave us a word search, so I gave her a pencil to use. Then later on that night, I hear her crying again and I can hear her making noise and I’m looking at the CO and I’m looking out trying to see out and everything, which you can’t, so I yell to one of the COs, “Just see how she’s doing, just see how she’s doing for me,” And all of a sudden I hear a cage start [the automated, metal door begin to open] him getting out the door and screaming. I guess she was trying to kill herself with the pencil. She was stabbing herself with the pencil. And I am freaking out. I am freaking out. everything’s going through my head, first when she was screaming, and then to think about the pencil I gave her to do the word search and now she’s trying [to kill herself]. There’s blood all over the place. Olivia’s experience was clearly traumatic, perhaps even more so because she was a first-time inmate. However, it speaks to another failure of the jail to provide for inmates’ mental health; those inmates who sought respite were housed alongside incoming inmates, whose suicide risk was quite high. Nearly a quarter of jail suicides nationwide happen in the first 24 hours of incarceration (Hayes, 2010). For an institution that promoted itself as rehabilitative in orientation, this harsh initiation was significant. 304 AIELLO The use of rehabilitative rhetoric and sympathy in the face of suffering allowed individual staff members to distance themselves from the very processes that they participated in as workers in the institution. Another example of brutality took place next door to orientation, in the hole. Sarah and Jamie worked cleaning the mental health and punishment pods. They had to wash all of their clothes, even their sneakers, after they had a particularly tough job cleaning up the urine and feces of one of the inmates in punishment. They said that she was in four-point restraints, pregnant, and naked in a cell. Sarah said, “I couldn’t even look at it.” She [the inmate in constraints] had taken her food and smeared it all over the room, “shit and pissed herself.” The woman had been hitting her head against the wall, so staff put her in the restraints due to liability concerns. She was screaming and cussing everyone out. A staff person said, “As long as she’s on her left side, then she’s okay. She’s probably just really scared.” While this sympathetic observation is likely true–the woman probably was scared–there was no mention of the isolation, the withdrawal, or the pain that she endured as a result of jail practices. While these examples are extreme, the very fact that such violence could and did occur speaks to the disjuncture between the rehabilitative ideology and the actual physical structure of Northeast Jail. The suicide attempt with a pencil and the case of the woman in restraints both involved severe desperation and self-harm, to the horror of fellow inmates. Yet, one took place in punishment and the other in cells reserved for orientation and mental health. Although the two areas ostensibly served different purposes, they were strikingly similar in form and function. Neither area represented the rehabilitative mission of the institution. Renee had explanations at the ready to shift the burden for this failure away from the jail and onto the taxpayer. Or, she worked to shift the responsibility for punishment away from the jail and onto individual inmates. The other staff person was able to maintain a sympathetic perspective on the pregnant inmate’s pain, but did so without challenging the punishing practices that likely caused the inmate’s pain. Neither could fully deny the contradiction between therapy and punishment that was built into the architecture of the jail. However, their use of rehabilitative rhetoric made these contradictions more palatable to them. Role Switching All staff practiced front stage and back stage behavior (Goffman, 1959). Behind closed doors, staff people occasionally voiced frustration, complained, or vented like any workers do when they step away from the public (Ashforth, Kulik, & Tomiuk, 2008). Their roles–the rights, responsibilities, and expectations for behavior–required decorum as they dealt with inmates, fellow staff, and a myriad of bureaucratic obligations in the course of their workday. For Correctional Caseworkers (CCWs), role-switching was an important part of their job, for they were obligated to straddle the divide between therapy and punishment in ways that traditional security and counseling staff were not. As uniformed officers, CCWs visually represented the WE INCARCERATE TO SET FREE 305 authority that kept inmates imprisoned in the jail. At the same time, CCWs were charged with guiding women through the therapeutic services of the jail and providing one-on-one support. Upon entry into Northeast Jail, each woman was assigned a counselor, who might or might not wear a uniform. CCWs were first and foremost, officers. When Glendale Jail was in the planning stages, three CCWs bemoaned what they viewed as liberal policies at both the current jail and the future Glendale Jail. Plans for Glendale Jail included contact visits for inmates, where they could sit with and touch their visitors, instead of behind-the-glass visits, like the ones at Northeast Jail where inmates had to talk on phones and view their visitors through glass windows. Glendale visits would be contact visits because “Women are different,” said one CCW in a mocking tone. Backstage consensus among the CCWs was that contact visits8 were a bad idea and would ultimately be done away with as they had been at Northeast several years earlier, when they had at least ten cases of visitors bringing narcotics into the jail in a single year. Another agreed that Northeast Jail was too liberal and expressed shock and dismay that an inmate had questioned an officer’s orders in “the T” in front of several other people. She predicted that there would be riots at Northeast Jail because of its liberal policies. While such attitudes were not exclusive to uniformed officers, conversations like these emphasized security, authority, and control over the therapeutic benefits of maintaining contact with family and friends during incarceration. Yet, CCWs were important participants in the therapeutic process for inmates. Their dual roles required role switching as they moved between the duties of correctional officer and caseworker and group leader. The crux of the Women’s Unit’s therapeutic agenda was programming in the form of groups and classes taught by counseling staff, outside instructors, and uniformed CCWs. With few exceptions, uniformed security staff were called by their last names, while counseling staff answered to their first names. CCW Smith made this distinction explicit in class one day. At the start of “Changes,” a two-week program of classes that covered topics such as work, parenting, health, victim impact, and drug rehabilitation, she told the inmates in the introductory segment that they still had to call her by her last name in the classroom because she was “security too, so I don’t have that privilege” of going by her first name. Smith had also voiced the opinion that Northeast Jail was too liberal, but in the classroom, she implied that her security role was a burden that stood in the way of more informal interactions between herself and the inmates in her class. In addition to the rules that governed their interactions with inmates, CCWs developed seemingly contradictory personas when negotiating their dual roles in the facility. When uniformed staff taught classes, the disjuncture between their day-to-day behavior and their teaching style was striking. When I first met Smith, her handshake was painfully strong and she did not smile at all. Smith’s usually stern demeanor, which made her alternately 306 AIELLO respected and despised by the inmates, became warm and funny when she taught the class. She made jokes, smiled, and presented a soft side of herself that I had never seen prior to the class. The juxtaposition of Smith’s classroom self with her officer self was stark and required significant identity work on her part. The contradiction between CCW security duties and counseling roles was further exemplified by the behavior of another CCW, Grant. Inmates who were her individual clients reported that she was adept at helping them, getting things done, and approaching problems in a practical and useful way. But Grant was often quite harsh in her demeanor; she yelled a lot and was strict when she governed the pod from the officers’ station, earning her a nickname that played on the word bitch. In a pod meeting to discuss the upcoming Christmas party, Grant warned that next time there was yelling or conflict, “You’re all going on lockdown. Maybe we’ll open the tiers for a couple of hours each day, maybe we won’t open them at all.” She bragged on two occasions that she wanted to be the first to send an inmate named Emily to the hole. (She was not.) Yet, the way she represented herself in the classroom was quite different. I arrived a few minutes late to Grant’s class on mental health, whereupon she greeted me with uncharacteristic warmth. “It’s okay, come on in. We just started.” When I arrived, Grant was working to de-stigmatize “forensics,” the jail’s mental health department. She explained the services available at the jail and assured the inmates that using forensics did not mean that they were crazy. Grant emphasized that all people, not just the incarcerated, can benefit from taking care of their mental health, saying, “I’ve never met someone that couldn’t benefit from having a therapist.” She also told the inmates about the mental health respite, that it was okay if they were feeling overwhelmed and needed a break from the regular pod. But Grant also said that she did not know everything about it, like whether or not inmates could attend classes or have visits while they were in respite, or if they could have commissary. The blurred roles of staff, officers, and CCWs obscured the contradictory nature of providing both therapy and punishment in jail and exposed its inconsistencies. As she talked about the jail, Grant alternately used first- and third-person pronouns to refer to staff and officers. “As an officer, I don’t feel that I’m better than you. Do most officers do that?” “Yes,” the inmates responded. As she distanced herself from her fellow officers, she emphasized the similarities between herself and her inmate students, “I am not an addict. I am not a woman of color, but I’ve had trauma.” Pushing her critique of her fellow officers, Grant said, “Do you think they don’t do drugs, drink, hit their kids? We’re human.” As the class proceeded, Grant used her therapeutic, counselor role to encourage the inmates to obey the jail’s rules, saying, “You have to respect other people without disrespecting yourself because all officers want to do is have a reason to lock you, so don’t give them what they want by getting caught doing something stupid.” WE INCARCERATE TO SET FREE 307 In the classroom, Grant played the role of an understanding counselor who empathized with inmates, so much so that she momentarily jumped the institutional line by accusing her fellow officers of actively seeking out opportunities to inflict punishment on inmates. Ironically, Grant was also the hypothetical officer of whom she spoke, one who was eager to send Emily to solitary confinement if given the opportunity. Here, we can see that work as a CCW requires conformity to contradictory sets of feeling rules (Hochschild, 2003) and identity codes. Neither of Grant’s two roles would have been sustainable in the opposite context: she could not have taught her class comfortably as her harsh officer self, while the job requirements of punishment and control did not lend themselves to the kindness and understanding expected of an instructor-counselor. The jail required all women’s unit staff to complete the same training, enforce the same rules, and often mete out the same punishments. The practice of referring to some staff people as counselors and allowing them to wear civilian clothes did not change the reality of their duties, but it did disguise it in an attempt to privilege their therapeutic role.9 Unlike counselors, who could disassociate from the inherently punitive nature of their jobs as workers in a penal facility, CCWs were forced to openly switch between the security and counseling roles of their job. While such role switching was awkward, it highlighted the interconnection of punishment and therapy at Northeast Jail. Grant, Smith, and other CCWs negotiated this contradiction by alternately expressing allegiance to security and therapy, inmates and officers. Deferring to Punishment The third strategy staff and administrators used to manage the contradiction between punishment and therapy was to uphold punishment for punishment’s sake, even when it contradicted or hindered their therapeutic ideology and role. In some of these instances, staff denied responsibilities for the punishments they enforced by deferring to the authority structure of the jail. In doing so, staff members entered an agentic state, whereby they denied their own authority and instead identified as agents of authority (Milgram, 1974). As a strategy, denying their own power allowed staff to enact punishment while simultaneously distancing themselves from it. In practice, choosing punishment over rehabilitation helped staff avoid some of the messiness associated with managing situations where punishment and therapy collided. Punishment at Northeast Jail was institutionalized, written into the fabric of policies and practices that governed daily life at the jail. This allowed staff to rationalize punishment as “just doing their jobs” even when they were not called upon to do so by an actual authority figure. Deadlocks or locks refer to the practice of locking inmates into their cells within the general living space. Staff sent inmates to the hole for what they deemed to be serious offenses. For less severe rule infractions, they employed deadlock as 308 AIELLO punishment. Sometimes inmates were locked in their own cells for a period of hours. Other times, staff sent them to designated deadlock cells specifically reserved for in-pod punishment. These sentences could last up to three days and carried the loss of an inmate’s current cell and roommate arrangement. These arrangements were taken very seriously in the women’s unit. I observed a number of cases of individual deadlock sentences that spoke to the staff’s responsibility to privilege punishment over utility, fairness, or relationship to the therapeutic process. The practice of sending inmates to deadlock clearly helped to control behavior in the pod. Ellen often landed in deadlock for yelling, disobedience, and failure to lock-in when told. Darcy, who was bipolar, once expressed to me the pity she felt for Ellen. To Darcy, Ellen clearly had a severe case of untreated bipolar disorder. Darcy said she could imagine how horrible it must be for Ellen to be locked in a small space, while the rest of the inmates walked around just outside her door. Indeed, Ellen was always seeking contact with those on the outside when she was locked in. When I suggested to Darcy that she chat with Ellen through her door she said, “I can’t. I don’t want to get locked too.” As a message to other women to follow the rules, deadlock was effective. Darcy described her own punishment in deadlock, the only one she had earned during her incarceration up to that point: Like they put me on a new medication for anxiety because when I first came here, oh my god, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t do anything. Umm, and I fell asleep on that new medication and basically what ended up happening is it knocked me out cold and then we had an inspection the next day. Well I slept right through inspection and they locked me for it. Darcy did not understand how she could have been at fault for her inability to wake up, when the medical team at the jail had put her on the medication that caused her to fall into a deep sleep. Yet, her argument that the medication the jail provided had made her unable to wake up fell on deaf ears. The fact that a therapeutic intervention had contributed to Darcy’s rule infraction, but did not mitigate her punishment, indicated that when therapy and punishment collided, punishment won. This had occurred, despite the fact that both originated from the authority structure of the jail. In Darcy’s case, the therapeutic intervention actually caused her punishment. Evelyn endured a series of punishments immediately prior to her release from Northeast Jail. When jail staff discovered that her girlfriend was physically abusing her, Evelyn was sent to segregation as a protective measure. (Staff argued that the girlfriend could not be punished because Evelyn denied the abuse.) Upon her return to the main living area, Evelyn reportedly flashed her breasts at a correctional officer, prompting her return to segregation, this time as punishment without privileges or programs. Staff specu- WE INCARCERATE TO SET FREE 309 lated that the only reason why Evelyn had committed the offense was to escape her girlfriend’s abuse by returning to the safety of segregation. Yet, she was still sent to the hole. In the weeks before her release, Evelyn returned to the general living area, but had no outside privileges. She said, “They took away my AA [Alcoholics Anonymous] meetings and my visits with my son, the only things that make me want to stay sober.” In addition, Evelyn was put in deadlock the night before her release. Grant stuck her head in the office where I was talking with another counselor. “Evelyn’s going to deadlock,” she said smiling. Evelyn’s immediate relapse into drug abuse following her release did not surprise anyone. According to other inmates, she had arranged for a relative to procure drugs and shooting apparatus before he picked her up from Northeast Jail. Jane, her friend who had been released the week before, accompanied him. Evelyn’s last night in deadlock and the weeks of missed AA meetings and visits with her son may not have caused her relapse. But these therapeutic interventions were not a priority for jail staff, even though they touted such practices as a way to overcome drug addiction and desperation. The therapeutic interventions that might have helped Evelyn were not important enough for the staff to make sure she had access to them. I visited Emily over the course of two consecutive days in the hole. She had, admittedly, mouthed off to an officer. The tiny slot in the punishment cell doors meant that I had to crouch down to communicate with her, but the officer on duty had kindly brought me a chair. It was Friday, commissary day, and the delivery person had given Emily’s order to the officer, since she could not have it, and the company could not take it back. “I got some good stuff, too!” The officer had been surprised by how much chocolate she had ordered and gave Emily a few of the treats even though he was not supposed to. In passing, Emily mentioned that the medication she was taking rendered her unable to urinate, and medical staff had to catheterize her the day before. “Not being able to pee must kill,” I said. Emily agreed, but did not seem to be too uncomfortable or upset. We chatted some more, and I promised to stop in the next day. Emily’s situation had changed dramatically by the time I went to the hole after lunch the next day. She had tears in her eyes and was highly agitated. Her inability to use the bathroom had worsened, and getting treatment was complicated by the fact that Emily was serving a sentence in the hole–any movement of Emily required that an officer escort her, cuffed and shackled, to her destination. James, the correctional officer who often worked in the hole and with whom Emily had an amicable relationship, explained to her, “I can’t take you to medical because the elevator is broken, so don’t get mad at me.” The staff did not think that they could move Emily via the stairs while she was cuffed and shackled. They were probably right; the metal cuffs that link the ankles allow for little more than a slow shuffle, hardly enough movement to navigate the three flights of stairs that led to the Women’s Unit. 310 AIELLO The officer who replaced James at shift change had an idea. He asked Emily what she needed and if it was transportable. “Yes,” she said hopefully, “It’s just a tube.” He agreed to call over to medical and get Emily taken care of. Neither officer mentioned the possibility of removing the cuffs and shackles in order to transport Emily the few hundred feet to the medical building. Such a policy might have made sense if Emily had threatened violence or was at risk for escape, but in this case her punishment was largely ceremonial. Nonetheless, upholding the policy took precedence over medical treatment. The officers on duty the day of Emily’s medical crisis seemed genuinely concerned; they did not want her to endure pain or discomfort. Their efforts, along with the willingness of the officer to share his commissary with her, might be seen as evidence of Northeast Jail’s sympathetic approach to incarceration–at least someone eventually acted on Emily’s behalf to get her treatment. Yet, their rigid adherence to the requirements of punishment superseded any concern for Emily’s mental or physical health. The stipulations of confinement in the hole blocked Emily from receiving the medical treatment she was constitutionally guaranteed as an incarcerated person in the United States. Far from breaking the cycle of destructive behavior in inmates’ lives, the imperative of punishment facilitated it. dISCuSSIon The rehabilitative programming provided by Northeast Jail is not unique. As other scholars have noted, such programming in prisons and jails has grown alongside the expanding incarcerated population fueled by The War on Drugs and get-tough penal policies (Garland, 2001; Haney, 2010; Moskowitz, 2001). Yet, Sheriff Jones and his supporters argued that Northeast Jail was special, a place where troubled women and men could overcome their problems through rehabilitative programming. The power of the rehabilitative ideology at Northeast Jail rested on the jail’s promise to provide inmates with tools to better themselves and refrain from committing crimes in the future. Despite a public image as rehabilitative, Northeast Jail was primarily a penal facility, the purpose of which was to punish and confine. The contradictions between the jail’s rehabilitative rhetoric and the realities of traditional incarceration were built into the structure of the jail. Physically, the facility did not accommodate the mental health needs of the population, as epitomized by the placement and appearance of both the hole and the mental health pod, as well as the experiences of the women housed there. Staff members had to perform contradictory duties: propagating the rehabilitative agenda, teaching groups and classes, in addition to carrying out punishments that were clearly antithetical to rehabilitation. In the face of these contradictions, staff developed strategies to perform their jobs. The rhetoric of rehabilitation masked the jail’s focus on punishment without challenging WE INCARCERATE TO SET FREE 311 the retributive practices that hindered rehabilitation in practice. All staff, but particularly CCWs, engaged in role switching, transforming their selfpresentations and allegiances from rehabilitation to punishment constantly. Staff denied the power structure even as they employed it to present themselves as benevolent and subject to the same confines as inmates. Jail rules enabled staff to enact harsh punishments while laying claim to a preference for rehabilitation. Several scholars have demonstrated that therapy during incarceration functions as an additional form of punishment that staff and administrators can use to exert control over inmates (Haney, 2010; Hannah-Moffat, 2001; McCorkel, 2013). The case of Northeast Jail demonstrates how therapeutic ideals gave way to traditional punishment in a penal setting. This case supports Haney’s (2010) and McCorkel’s (2013) findings that rehabilitation can lead to punishment itself, as in the case of Darcy and her medication. Furthermore, claims of rehabilitation shifted all the onus of bad behavior onto inmates without changing the structure that gave rise to their problems before and during incarceration. The rhetoric of rehabilitation was false and hypocritical; incarceration does not set a person free. This study also adds to our understanding of what rehabilitation means within the context of modern incarceration. At Northeast Jail, rehabilitation referred to programming, but it was also rhetoric, a way of talking about incarceration that suggested its mission was greater than simply warehousing inmates. Thus, as long as staff and administrators expressed an affinity for kinder, gentler processes, the reality of how inmates were treated and punished could be overlooked. By adhering to the rhetoric of rehabilitation, staff and administrators could dismiss or justify extremely harsh and painful practices by blaming others (e.g. the taxpayers, inmates), role switching, or claiming to be just doing their jobs. Indeed, the staff performed their jobs under often-difficult constraints. Their jobs required them to cultivate opposing roles, which alternately helped to foster rehabilitation and required them to conduct themselves in ways that were decidedly anti-rehabilitative. Many staff and administrators cared about the well-being of the inmates in their charge and believed in the mission of rehabilitation through incarceration. At the same time, I observed that some staff seemed to derive satisfaction from administering punishment. In either case, it is important to acknowledge the stress that characterizes working in a jail. Stress and burnout among correctional officers is well-documented (Lambert, Hogan, Cheeseman Dial, Jiang, & Khondaker, 2012; Schaufeli & Peeters, 2000). Such stress is bound to multiply in conjunction with a mandate to espouse rehabilitation while closely adhering to traditional punishment. With such contradiction built into their jobs, staff are in a position of never quite living up to their job requirements. 312 AIELLO Future research should examine the role of therapy in prisons and jails with an eye toward the conflict between traditional punishment and security concerns and the rehabilitation of inmates. If rehabilitation is indeed the goal of penal facilities like Northeast Jail, then policies and retributive procedures must acquiesce to therapeutic concerns, and therapy itself must not be retributive. More research is needed inside facilities because, as I have shown here, the mere existence of rehabilitative programming in prisons and jails is not necessarily evidence that rehabilitation is a priority. EndnoTES 1 Northeast Jail is a pseudonym. In order to protect their identity, names of individuals are also pseudonyms. 2 McCorkel (2013) uses the term habilitation to describe the therapeutic processes that prison staff use to distinguish the prison’s drug program from rehabilitation, which had become politically unpopular by the 1990s, because it was associated with a soft on crime approach to crime and punishment. 3 For a fuller discussion of the challenges I experienced doing this research, see Becker & Aiello 2013. 4 The terms Glendale and Glendale Jail are pseudonyms that refer to the separate women’s jail that was in the planning stages when I conducted this research. 5 The URL is also a pseudonym for the website of the community organization that fought the building of Glendale Jail. 6 On at least one occasion, a counselor performed strip searches in my presence because numerous inmates needed to be stripped, and only one uniformed officer was there to do the work. She explained that she can do the strip search because she is “academy trained,” but she is not required to and prefers not to. 7 I refrain from providing citation information for the three quotes in this paragraph in order to preserve the identity of the facility, staff, and inmates. 8 Of the penal facilities in the three closest counties, Northeast is the only one that does not allow contact visits. State Prisons in the area also allow contact visits. 9 This disguise is not wholly successful, because inmates are aware that their counselors are not bound by the confidentiality rules of therapists on the outside. “There’s no such thing as confidentiality,” according to one inmate. WE INCARCERATE TO SET FREE 313 REFEREnCES Ashforth, B. E., Kulik, C. T., & Tomiuk, M. A. (2008). How service agents manage the person-role interface. Group Organization and Management, 33(1), 5–45. Bahr, S. J., Harris, P. (Lish) E., Strobell, J. H., & Taylor, B. M. (2012). 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AuTHoR BIoGRAPHY Brittnie Aiello is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Criminology at Merrimack College in North Andover, Massachusetts. She received her PhD in Sociology from the University of Massachusetts in 2011. Her research interests examines the intersections of gender, punishment, and family. JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Forced To learn: Community-based Correctional Education Ron Mottern University of Tennessee C. Amelia Davis* University of Tennessee Mary F. Ziegler University of Tennessee Abstract Community-based correctional education has received scant attention in adult literacy research yet mandatory education is a growing part of the legal system and is fueled by research that suggests a link between correctional education and lower rates of recidivism. Growth in alternative to prison programs affects local ABE and GED programs. Adults who attend community-based correctional programs as a condition of their probation or parole face many challenges. The purpose of this existential-phenomenological study was to understand the experience of those adults. Findings describe students’ experiences of being forced to attend a GED program. Opening a space for these stories may help adult educators in community-based programs improve their practice by understanding how students experience the GED program. InTRoduCTIon In 2011, close to 7 million adults in the United States were under the supervision of the adult correctional system; this includes offenders held in the custody of state and federal prisons or local jails and those under the supervision of probation and parole agencies. One in 50 adults is currently on probation or parole in this country (Glaze & Parks, 2012). Approximately 40% of those on probation and parole lack high school credentials (U.S. Department of Education, 2011). Although community-based correctional programs take *Corresponding Author C. Amelia Davis, Georgia Southern University, Department of Curriculum, Foundations, and Reading, P.O. Box 8144, Statesboro, GA 30460 USA, e-mail: adavis@ georgiasouthern.edu 318 MOTTERN ET AL different forms depending on the state, all programs give offenders who are on probation or parole the opportunity to serve their sentences outside of prison under supervision in the local community. For this privilege, they are required to follow the judge’s orders and meet the conditions of correctional supervision by court; one condition may be attending adult basic education (ABE) or General Educational Development (GED) classes (Bahn & Davis, 1998). If offenders violate the conditions of the probation or parole, they face new sanctions and even incarceration. The growing trend for community-based corrections education in the United States is fueled in part by research that suggests a link between GED attainment and lower rates of recidivism among offenders (Anderson, 1995; Brewster & Sharp, 2002; Case, 2006; Gehring, 2000; Gordon & Weldon, 2003; Nuttall, 2003). Although there is a robust body of literature that addresses the experience of incarcerated individuals in educational programs, much less is known about the experiences of individuals who participate in educational programs in community-based corrections (Mageehon, 2003; Moeller, Day, & Rivera, 2004). Incarcerated adults are captive audiences for educational programs, while those who are in community-based corrections programs (e.g., a day reporting center, halfway house, probation, parole) face distractions not faced by those in a correctional facility (Davis, Mottern & Ziegler, 2010). Individuals in community-based corrections live at home, are responsible for working or finding employment, paying bills, and dealing with transportation. At the same time, many are “forced” to attend ABE or GED classes in order to remain out of prison. Although participation in community-based correctional ABE and GED programs is growing, there is no credible data on the educational levels of adult students in these programs (Crayton & Neusteter, n.d), nor is there significant research that addresses the experience of adult students in community correctional settings (Marion, 2002) The problem regarding the lack of research that exists is that this is a growing population in community corrections (Crime and Justice Institute, 2009) and, by extension, correctional education opportunities are increasing (U. S. Department of Education, 2011); this is not being included in literature from the field. Because community corrections are community-based operations, there is no national clearinghouse for research in regard to this population, and data often become effectively invisible if even considered. As an invisible segment of society, the needs and experiences of the population may be overlooked in community corrections programming. Because we believe the needs and experiences of these learners should be addressed, we have begun looking at this population and their experiences. Therefore, the purpose of this study is to understand the experiences of adults who are required to attend GED classes in a community-based correctional education program. Findings may shed light on an area of educational practice and on a group of students who have received very little attention by the research community. FORCED TO LEARN 319 Since there are no outstanding studies on this correctional population, findings may contribute to the field of corrections by providing insight into the lived experiences of program participants and addressing the ongoing debate of the usefulness of mandatory education in community corrections settings. Since budgetary constraints are a constant issue in correctional programming, data on the effectiveness of forced educational participation may prove useful in determining whether scarce monies are wisely spent in this area. THEoRETICAl FRAMEWoRk The orienting framework for this study is existential hermeneutic phenomenology, derived from the work of Heidegger (1962), Husserl (2001), and Merleau-Ponty (2002), because of its focus on understanding the essence of experience. In this study, we define phenomenology as the combination of a philosophy and method, “the philosophical lens of existentialism and the hermeneutic methodology of interpretive phenomenology” (Mottern, 2011, p. 10). The interest of phenomenological research is the lived experience of a particular phenomenon. It assumes that there is an essence or essences to shared experience (Van Manen, 1990) that emphasize the “directional nature of human experience” (Thomas & Pollio, 2002, p. 14) and acknowledge the interconnectedness between the person and the world that results in the person and the world co-constructing one another. Yochelson and Samenow’s (1976) 10-year study of the criminal personality is perhaps the first major work to use phenomenology to study correctional populations. Since then, phenomenology has become an established research method within corrections (Frank, Omstead & Pigg, 2012; Guy, 2005; Nethavhani, 2002; Sayko, 2005; West, 2011; Woods, 2010). MAndAToRY EduCATIon It is important to give context to this research and provide background regarding community-based corrections and community-based correctional education. Drawing from adult education and corrections literature, we have chosen to concentrate on what we consider to be the most salient information related to our research. Mandatory education refers to the legal mandate to attend an educational program including ABE and GED classes. Participants in this study have been referred to GED classes through some aspect of therapeutic jurisprudence (Casey & Rottman, 2000) and the correctional process, either as a court order or as an order of a probation or parole officer. Mandatory education is used synonymously with involuntary education or legally coerced education, terms commonly used in corrections literature. While humanistic tendencies may drive educational programs in facilities not hampered by the requirement to validate programmatic expendi- 320 MOTTERN ET AL tures to oversight boards, the lower recidivism rate of ex-offenders who participated in education programs (Jensen & Reed, 2007; Nuttall, 2003; Roy, 2004; Steurer & Smith, 2003; Zgoba, Haugebrook, & Jenkins, 2008) have fueled the creation of mandatory education policies in state correctional facilities. Studies by Andrews and Bonta (1995, 2001, 2006) and others (Andrews, Bonta & Wormith, 2000; Aos, 1998; Bonta, 1996; Bonta & Andrews, 2007; Folsom & Atkinson, 2007), show that addressing criminogenic needs such as education reduces recidivism. This research has led to the creation of the integrated model of effective intervention in community corrections (Crime and Justice Institute, 2009), as cost-effective evidence-based practices begin to displace less objective measurements of success. It has also been noted that education is seen by community corrections officers as an important aspect of offender re-entry (Gunnison & Helfgott, 2011; Helfgott & Gunnison, 2008; Puloka, 2012). However, while this research represents a new direction of study with community corrections populations, there has been debate surrounding mandatory education programs in prison and court-ordered education imposed with sentencing (Coley & Barton, 2006; Ryan & McCabe, 1994). One group of experts claim that mandatory education increases the desire for more productive citizenship and potential educational attainment while others view mandatory education programs as costing money and resources that many states do not have (Di Vito, 1991) and stand firm on the idea that educational success can only be achieved through voluntary participation (Jenkins, 2002; Ryan & McCabe, 1994). As Mottern (2011) states, “Although the courts can mandate attendance at educational classes, they cannot make students learn” (p. 25). Regardless of the controversy surrounding mandatory education in state correctional facilities, mandating education as a requirement has spread to community-based correctional programs, and these programs are growing. Adult education has long held that adult learners are voluntary participants in the educational process (Knowles, 1973); however, some researchers indicate that mandatory participation in treatment is often more effective than voluntary participation due to the mandatory nature of attendance (Rempel & Destefano, 2001; Siddall & Conway, 1988). Arguments suggesting that mandated attendance is paternalistic and undermines the agency of adult learners do not take into account the research indicating that coerced learners often have positive outcomes (Landenberger & Lipsey, 2005; Mackenzie, 2000; Wilson, Bouffard & Mckenzie, 2005). This calls into question the assumption that adult learning must be voluntary in nature. THE CoRRECTIonAl STudEnT Although correctional education is often considered a subset of adult education, there are stark differences between the two which separates them FORCED TO LEARN 321 as fields of practice. One of these differences is the view of the student. Adult education and adult learning theory tend to view the optimal setting for education as one in which the learner is an initiator and co-facilitator of the learning. Those who practice in correctional education settings are aware that students must work within the constraints of the system. Encouragement for students more often centers around attainment of subject matter proficiency than overturning established correctional definitions of power. The view of the student as one who shares power within the system versus the view of the student as one who must work within the power constraints of the system, often differentiates non-correctional from correctional practice. The correctional view that students within the system are somehow different from students outside the system is justified by the evidence-based research (Crime and Justice Institute, 2009). The literature dealing with correctional clients has been well researched for over 30 years and is known as the what works literature (Chavez & Dawe, 2007; Harper & Chitty, 2005; Hollin, 1999; Kennedy, 2000; MacKenzie, 2000; Sherman et al., 1998; Wilson, Bouffard, & Mackenzie, 2005), and includes evidence-based research. This research indicates that individuals within the correctional system think differently than non-correctional individuals (Andrews et al., 1990; Chavaria, 1997; Gendreau, Little, & Goggin, 1996; Hubbard & Latessa, 2004; Landenberger & Lipsey, 2005), and this thinking may eventually result in behaviors that lead these individuals into the correctional system and on probation or parole. According to the what works literature, these patterns of thinking and behavior do not end at the gate of the correctional facility but are carried into the community classroom. Correctional students are different from non-correctional students in several other ways, some of which may be invisible to educators. Collier and Thomas (2001) stress that correctional students are more linguistically and culturally diverse than students who are not incarcerated. Sohn (2002) indicates that students in correctional institutions tend to have higher levels of emotional and behavioral problems than community norms and often come from disadvantaged socioeconomic backgrounds. This is exemplified in an Australian study (Butler et al., 2006) which indicated the prevalence of mental disorders in a prison sample to be 80%, compared with 31% in a community sample. Studies by Montross and Montross (1997) show that adult incarcerated students place differently on Piaget’s and Kohlberg’s stages of development than students who are not incarcerated. Based on what is known from evidence-based practice (Gornik, 2002; Little, Robinson & Burnette, 1994), it is unlikely that students who have a history of lack of participation in education before becoming a part of the correctional system will suddenly embrace education as a means to turn their lives around, unless it is recognized that the very patterns of thinking that rejected education as a means to success and that placed them within the system are somehow changed. While non-correctional education has 322 MOTTERN ET AL concerned itself with issues such as equity, correctional education has focused on evidence-based research literature and how to apply it in correctional educational settings. lIMITATIonS oF PHEnoMEnoloGICAl RESEARCH Limitations in phenomenological research are significantly different from limitations in positivistic-oriented research. Phenomenology is concerned with discovering the essence of the phenomenon under consideration, in this case, the experience of community corrections students mandated to attend educational classes. Some limitations in phenomenological research, in general, include the lack of communicative skills by the participants (Tordes & Holloway, 2010). Willig (2007) has suggested that language, itself, can be a limitation, for a like reason, i.e., the ability to communicate is essential to the interviewing process. Since it is the pre-reflective Lifeworld of the participant that is being studied, the ability of the participant to effectively communicate that experience is always a matter of concern. Limitations such as these are addressed within the phenomenological method by patiently probing participant responses in an effort to obtain rich, thick description. Consensual understanding is sought by rewording and repeating answers to participants until they agree that what the researcher is stating is what they are trying to convey. METHod As co-researchers, we collaboratively designed the study, collected data, and completed the data analysis, drawing on our professional experiences as both correctional and non-correctional ABE and GED practitioners. Existential phenomenology has grown as a qualitative research method (Creswell, 2007; Merriam, 2009), and we chose to use a particular method of analysis developed by Thomas and Pollio (2002) which draws from the work of Merleau-Ponty (2002) and is solidly based on a philosophical foundation which Gadamer (1976) says is often lacking when phenomenology is used strictly as a method and not as an orienting framework for research. Phenomenology presents itself as suitable for this study because of its history of use with correctional populations and because the lived experience of mandatory education participants is sought as a basis for possible fiscal policy determinations regarding educational programming. The Thomas and Pollio (2002) model is in use weekly throughout the year by the Existential Hermeneutic Phenomenological Research Group (referred to here as the “research group”) composed of faculty and students in a university in the southeast who form a hermeneutic circle to collaboratively discover themes in qualitative interviews that speak to the essence of the particular phenomenon being studied. Figure 1 illustrates the basic steps of the model which include: (a) conducting and transcribing interviews, (b) FORCED TO LEARN 323 analyzing data for thematic units, and (c) developing a thematic structure. The thematic structure depicts the essence of the experience and consists of figural themes that are different aspects of the experience that stand out against a background or ground that makes the themes visible. Phenomenological methods such as the one used in this study allow the researcher to analyze the data in a way that seeks to describe the meaning of a particular experience rather than to generate a theory. In existential phenomenology, the essence of the experience is considered to be co-created from figure and ground (Thomas & Pollio, 2002). That is, experience is contextualized making the experience figure and the context of the experience, ground (Thomas & Pollio, 2002). Four major existential grounds (time, body, world, and others) serve as the backdrop from which figures are developed. All experiences are grounded in the world, but what stands out in that experience is a figure based upon individual perception. By capturing the figure/ ground relationship in existential phenomenology, we can begin to understand the meaning of a particular experience. In order to begin understanding the experience of adults required to attend ABE or GED classes as a condition of their probation or parole and to illuminate the experience of a population that hither to has been invisible, we chose the following research question to guide this study: How do adults experience a coerced GED program? We acknowledge that this question may seem especially broad; however, the method of phenomenology that we chose for this study stresses the use of broad questions in order to capture whatever aspects of the particular experience the participant wishes to share. And the question, while broad, deals with the specific population of community corrections clients. In addition, because no previous research had addressed this population, it was expected that this question would give insight into more specific phenomena and generate questions for future research including students’ prior experiences with traditional schooling, realtionships with teachers, both as adults and non-adults, etc. Participants Participants included nine adult students, eight males and one female who were attending a community-based GED program for individuals serving community corrections sentences–specifically, probation and parole. The program was administered by the local sheriff’s office and funded by the state Board of Probation and Parole. The participants were required by the conditions of their probation or parole to attend GED classes. No non-correctional students were allowed to attend this program. Institutional Review Board approval was obtained before recruiting participants, participation in this study was voluntary, and participants did not receive any compensation for participating in the study. Participants were recruited using fliers in the building where educational classes were conducted and through snowball sampling with students who participated. Because the adults enrolled in the 324 MOTTERN ET AL local program were either native English speakers or proficient in English, the fliers were posted in English. Interested participants were instructed to contact the lead researcher, who worked at the facility. Self as Focus Choose Topic ↓ Perform Bracketing Interview Participants as Focus ↓ Interview Participants ↓ Transcribe Interviews ↓ ↓ Read for Meaning Units ↑ Read for Sense of Whole ↓ ↓ ↑ Text as Focus (Hermeneutic Analysis Part-toWhole Dialectic) Cluster Initial Thematic Meaning ↓ ↓ Develop Thematic Structure ↓ Present Structure to Research Group Report Findings to Participants ↓ Prepare Final Report All (Most) Analysese Are Done Within Context of Reseach Group Participant as Focus Research Community as Focus Figure 1. Summary of Steps in Conducting an ExistentialPhenomenological Study Informed consent was collected prior to the interviews. Participants ranged in age from 23 to 38; five identified as Black and four identified as White. We refer to the participants as students because they were actively attending a GED class. Data Collection Data for this study included interview data collected through phenomenological interviews with participants and demographic information collected prior to each interview. In a phenomenological study, the interviewer FORCED TO LEARN 325 is the primary interview tool, and the participant is the authority on the experience being described. The interviewer should only be responsive to the participant’s descriptions “as they unfold in the texture of the conversation” (Thomas & Pollio, 2002, p. 25). Because of this, questions cannot be asked without the specific subject first being introduced by the participant. Phenomenological research, which deals with the life world of the individual, is quite different from a free flowing interview where the interviewer’s curiosity may direct the flow of the conversation. Since participants’ experiences in the pre-reflective Lifeworld are the subject of phenomenological research, participant recall is not an issue in phenomenology. Similarly, pre- and postinterviewing is not a part of the phenomenological method, because the prereflective experience is what is being sought. Bracketing. Prior to interviewing participants, each researcher was interviewed regarding his own experiences with mandatory ABE or GED programs. This practice is commonly referred to as bracketing (Hatch, 2002; Moran, 2000; Polkinghorne, 1989; Pollio, et al. 1997; Thomas & Pollio, 2002) and is a process in which the researcher acknowledges any a priori theory, assumptions, beliefs, interests, or bias regarding the phenomena at hand (Davis, Mottern and Ziegler, 2010). During our bracketing interviews, we described our experience with mandatory GED programs and any presuppositions they may have had regarding such programs or program participants. This process required us to be transparent regarding our biases and assumptions, making us mindful to avoid asking leading questions during the interviews or to impose unquestioned beliefs on interpretation of the data. The phenomenological interview. In a phenomenological interview, questions are not asked about anything participants did not previously introduce into the interview (Kvale, 1983). This relationship is critical to the interview process because the researcher has the responsibility to probe and seek detail while allowing the participant to set the flow of dialogue. To best capture the students’ descriptions of their experiences in the GED program, we conducted unstructured interviews using the prompt, “What is your experience in a coerced GED program?” Use of the word, coerced, was taken from the correctional literature (Baird & Frankel, 2001; Day, Tucker & Howells, 2004; Farabee, Prendergast & Anglin, 1998; Klag, O’Callaghan & Creed, 2005; Parhar, Wormith, Derkzen & Beauregard, 2008) and deemed to be less confusing for participants than court-mandated, and less charged than forced. It was thought that there may have been confusion over using the term court-mandated because participation in the GED program may not have been in their court judgment but was required by their community corrections officer as a condition of their probation. Since phenomenology seeks participants’ lived experience, prompting them with questions that reflect their experience was deemed more important than using politically correct phrasing. Probing questions were left open-ended to encourage elaboration from the participant (Merriam, 2009). 326 MOTTERN ET AL Each of the nine participants participated in one individual interview that was held at the facility where the GED program was conducted. The average length of the interviews was 35 minutes. All interviews were digitally recorded and transcribed by the researchers. All identifying data were removed and participants were assigned pseudonyms. The transcribed, edited, and revised interviews served as the sanitized data set for analysis. Because the particular phenomenological method used suggests that the essence of an experience can be gleaned from relatively few participants, the data from the nine interviews were sufficient to achieve data saturation. While there is no consensus in phenomenological research on what constitutes data saturation, Thomas and Pollio (2002) identify saturation as occurring when already identified themes are being repeated, and no new themes are emerging from the data. Saturation occurred with seven participants and, using the n+2 rubric, two additional interviews were conducted to see if new themes emerged. No new themes appeared in the data. While high participant numbers (n) are characteristic of quantitative studies and other types of qualitative research, phenomenological theory makes it clear that when phenomenological methodology is followed, i.e., bracketing, description of the phenomenon being studied (which includes the use of free imaginative variation), description of the discovered eidae (essences), these eidae may be described from a population of one (Giorgi, 2007; Solomon, 1972). In other types of research, high numbers of participants are thought to extend generalizability; however, phenomenological research is inherently generalizable (Husserl, 1901/2000; Giorgi, 1997; Giorgi, 2008). Thomas and Pollio (2002) describe generalizability in existential hermeneutic phenomenology (the guiding model of this research): The case for what might be called phenomenological generalizability is different [from that used in quantitative methods]. Here, “proof” does not depend solely on purity of method but also upon the reader of the research report. In this case, when and if a description rings true, each specific reader who derives insight from the results of a phenomenological study may be thought to extend its generalizability. Unlike other research methods where the researcher establishes generalizability on the basis of statistical and experimental procedures, phenomenological research is “validated” by its readers. (p. 42) This generalizability extends, also, to race and gender of the participants. Phenomenology describes eidae, which transcend the personal details of the participants. While further research with individuals of different genders and races may extend the generalizability of the study, such extension has nothing to do with race or gender, but with expansion of different themes FORCED TO LEARN 327 within the Lifeworld. The only criteri for inclusion in a phenomenological study is experience of the phenomenon under investigation. This study is not unique in using low numbers in phenomenological research since, as previously explained, phenomenological research is different from other types of research in how it approaches generalizability (the intrinsic “n” concern). Peer-reviewed publications that embrace phenomenological theory and methodology do not tend to have an issue with low participant numbers. George and Thomas (2010) used 8 participants in their research, and Speraw (2009) used a single participant in her study. Other peer-reviewed, phenomenological studies have used less that 12 participants (Davis, 2005; Gearity & Murray, 2011; Gibbons, Woodside, Hannon, Sweeny & Davison, 2011; Secrest, Iorio & Martz, 2005). Data Analysis A phenomenological-hermeneutical approach was taken to analyze the data. This was consistent with the underlying phenomenological theory and methodology used to examine the lived experience of the participants. Initial analysis began during transcription of the interviews. We presented two selected transcripts to the research group for feedback. Twelve to fifteen members of the research group analyzed these selected transcripts. We, the researchers, continued to analyze the two transcripts shared with the group as well as the remaining seven transcripts. The transcripts were placed in a file sharing program where we could collaboratively review, code, and comment on the data. Since we approached the data from differing educational perspectives, data analysis was a process of negotiation. First, in vivo and descriptive codes were used (Saldaña, 2009), then potential themes were color-coded. In vivo codes were derived directly from the language used by the participants in the course of interviews (Saldaña, 2009; Strauss, 1987). A descriptive code is a short word or phrase that summarizes the topic of the data passage (Saldaña, 2009). These methods of coding allowed us to look at nested themes and visually distinguish thematic similarities and differences. After viewing and reviewing the color-coded data, a list of figural themes was presented to the research group. Figural themes were noted and discussed by the group, ensuring each theme was supported by quotes from participant transcripts. Considering experience to be a figure/ground phenomena, we identified the ground and developed a thematic structure from the figural themes identified. The thematic structure, presented in Figure 2, was presented to the research group for analysis, interpretation, and feedback. 328 MOTTERN ET AL Experience in a Coerced GED Program: Thematic Structure Constraint (Body) “It’s like a prison without bars.” Here = Here in the program Now = my experience at this moment Education Axis – connects coerced with learning Time “We are all like babies.” Benefits “I think it will affect my life real, real, good.” Here and Now Awakening “It’s not just jail talk” “You ain’t got nothing else to do but the right thing…” Temporal Axis Learning Alone and Together (Others) “”Everybody learns different.” Ground: Prior Experiences in School (world) Figure 2. Experience in Coerced GEd Program: Thematic Structure FIndInGS Drawing upon the collaborative interpretations of the research group’s hermeneutic circle, one major ground and four figural themes emerged from the data. The ground of the experience of participating in a mandatory GED program was the participants’ prior experiences in school. It was from this ground that the essence of the experience was captured with four figural themes that emerged: (a) “It’s like a prison without bars,” (b) Learning alone and together: “Everybody learns different,” (c) “I think it will affect my life real good,” and (d) “It’s not just jail talk.” These themes are dynamic and illustrate how participants’ experiences evolved. We chose to represent the figural themes using the students’ own words to describe their experiences. “It’s like a prison without bars.” All students experienced some amount of coercion related to attending the GED program. These experiences ranged from student insight that they needed some coercion, “you gotta push me to do things” (Bob) to the experience of being forced to do something against their will, “I don’t believe it should be forced on me” (Greg). Students had insight into their need for external control and, at the same time, showed resentment because of the control. The experience of constraint took three forms. First, the experience was described as a form of punishment. When asked to describe his experience in the program, one participant responded by simply stating, “I hate it” (Greg). Another expressed his experience as a form of punishment by saying, “There ain’t nothing I can do about it. They know I don’t want to be here to do FORCED TO LEARN 329 it” (Chuck). That notion of being punished by education was echoed by Greg when he said, “I don’t feel like it should be forced on me. I just don’t believe it should. I’m 36 years old. I ain’t no kid.” From their perspective, education was punishment that was imposed by an outside authority against their will. Although there was a certain amount of resentment at being forced to attend classes, the experience of punishment was strongest when the students first began attending their GED classes. Over time, the experience of being coerced changed and was viewed more positively. Students’ experiences changed as they shifted from education as a form of punishment to education as a freely made choice. Some admitted that they might not have been able to make the choice to attend classes on their own. As Bob remarked, “I just needed a little push. I’m glad I’m doing it on my own but I couldn’t really do it on my own. I had to do it the other way. I had to get locked up.” Similarly, Henry declared, “It’s something I didn’t want to do but after being here so long doing it, I can see my benefits from doing it.” No participant liked the idea of being pushed to engage in an educational activity, yet most students reluctantly admitted that education, particularly earning a GED, was valuable and something they wanted to have. For example, Abby said, “Coming over here, since I’ve been on probation, has really helped me a whole lot because if I wasn’t over here I probably would still not be getting my GED.” The change from viewing education as punishment to reward also occurred because of achievement. “It made me feel messed up at first but whenever I took the first test and passed it, the first moment that I found out that I passed it, that was something that really, really meant a lot to me. I felt it in my heart” (Eric). Students who said they were resistant at first described how their resistance lessened over time as they interacted with others. In this type of research, the meaning of time is determined by the participants rather than by some objective measure. “Everybody learns different.” Students related their experiences with the GED program to their experiences in prior schooling. Data illustrate that the students’ perceptions of learning were based on traditional instructional pedagogy, “It’s different than I thought it was going to be. I thought there was going to be a teacher standing up, like back in school, like on a chalkboard” (Bob). Another man said, “It’s more one-on-one [than regular school]. It helps you more” (Eric). There was an awareness of one’s preference for a particular instructional style. “It is complicated for me to like, learn certain things. Everybody’s thinking process ain’t the same [and] some teachers teach one-way but everybody doesn’t learn the same way. Everybody learns different is basically what I’m saying “(Chuck). Most of the students identified the GED classroom as different from what they expected because they were asked to work independently. This experi- 330 MOTTERN ET AL ence was seen on both positive and negative ways. For example, Bob believed working alone was an effective way for him to learn. “You’ll learn faster if you do it yourself. They’ve got the tools and you’ve got to use it, if you want to help yourself. They ain’t babysitting you down there, I know that.” In contrast, others did not see the benefits of working independently. “There ain’t nobody helping you do nothing. You just get back there in a room by yourself. It’s hard to teach yourself if you don’t know how” (Greg). This experience of having to teach yourself was a common interpretation of the way the GED classroom was structured. “I don’t know how to do what I need to know how to do and I don’t really have nobody around to help me learn how to do what I need to know how to do to get the GED. There’s not much teaching involved in it and I think it is kind of hard the way it is set up” (Fred). At times, a student had to ask others for help. “And then sometimes a teacher puts it up there and if you don’t get it right then, you don’t get it. You better hope you can get with somebody that knew it or whatever” (Doug). Students expected a more traditional classroom where less independent work took place. GED classrooms are usually structured differently than a traditional high school classroom with less group instruction and more time for independent work. Students had to get used to this type of structure. “I think it will affect my life real, real, good.” Students saw that attending the GED class would affect their lives positively. The way their educational experience would affect their lives was experienced in different ways that focused on the present and the future and included maturity, personal achievement, children, and jobs. Maturity was identified as the outcome of attending GED classes. “I still could be out in the streets, using, you know, doing whatever but this program has helped me to mature a lot” (Abby). This internal sense of growing maturity supported the ability to learn. “I can actually focus now and actually learn like how I want to. When I was young I didn’t see that but now I do...now that I’m grown, I be seeing stuff that I really need” (Chuck). Henry talks about not caring about education because he had never thought about it, versus the first time I came to now, I think I grew up more. I think it made me realize some things that I never really thought about versus being out there in the streets and just not really caring and thinking you can just do this and get by or do that and get by. You know, when all else fails, you ain’t got nothing else to do but the right thing.(Henry) Along with maturity came a sense of personal achievement for students. Some described this new sense of achievement and acknowledgment of how far they had come, “I’m accomplishing something with what I’m doing and that feels good” (Doug). Education, even when it is forced, is something that most participants saw as valuable. “It’s giving me the opportunity to go back FORCED TO LEARN 331 and get something that I want, my education” (Chuck). Finishing high school or earning a GED has positive implications. “I wasn’t able to finish high school so this is my little sense of finishing high school. It means a lot because now I am actually in a position to actually better myself” (Eric). Those students who had children saw a GED as beneficial because it demonstrated the importance of education. “I wanna do it for myself too and I wanna do it for my children too because I push my kids to do good in school. Getting my GED shows them that education is important” (Adam). Several students with children expressed the hope that their children would learn from them. “I mean I will be able to show my kids I can be a better person, that I am going back to school will make them want to try more in school” (Eric). Henry echoed the importance of demonstrating the value of education. “It’s important for me to be a role model for them [his children].” Another future benefit of earning a GED was the belief that it increased employment opportunity. “I gotta have the GED to get the kind of job I want. You know, most jobs require you to have an education” (Chuck). The idea that better employment is connected to obtaining the GED was pervasive among the participants. “I am actually in a position to actually better myself without being stuck at this dead-end job or that dead-end job. [I’ll] be able to look for a better job…and to go for the jobs that you have to have your high school diploma” (Eric). Even beyond “better jobs” was the idea that one could learn a trade. “I’ve been in the streets all my life and what I’ve always wanted to be was an electrician and just to learn new stuff and have a better environment...I can with my GED” (Bob). Employment with benefits implied stability. “I’ve got a family now and I’m getting my kids back and the GED is going to help me find stability in my job. I need stability and benefits in my job now. It ain’t like I’m by myself anymore” (Adam). The participants’ expectations regarding the benefits of a GED are common among adults who return to school (King, 2002; Tyler, 2003). It is not clear whether the participants considered the benefits of a GED before being sanctioned to mandatory education or whether the benefits of a GED is a new understanding that occurred as they attended classes. “It’s not just jail talk.” Students’ experiences in the mandatory GED program indicated that their understanding of education shifted from seeing education as a burden to seeing education as a form of release. “Jail talk” is used to describe what one needs to say in order to avoid trouble while incarcerated. For example, I may tell you I like school, but if that is jail talk, it means I am just saying what I think you want to hear. When students stated that they saw real value in learning and it was not just jail talk, they were saying that they were being honest about their change in perspective on the value of education, generally, and their participation in the GED program, specifically. They described a type of awakening where they came to understand their prior school experi- 332 MOTTERN ET AL ences and the impact of those experiences, “I reckon that probably I am more embarrassed [now] because of where I didn’t learn nothing when I was going to school” (Greg). The idea of not learning while one was in school was a common theme. “[I am learning] a lot of things that I had forgot in school. It’s helped me to go back to some things really that I never did see when I was going to school” (Abby). Either “things” were learned in school and forgotten or they were never learned because of a wide variety of reasons. “A lot of stuff I didn’t learn while in school, I get the chance to learn it [now] and it’s a great accomplishment for me” (Doug). Although most students took responsibility for not learning in school, Bob realized that school played a role in his failure. “To me, I think the teachers just moved me up to get me out of the way, you know what I’m saying. Because I was skipping school and I was just doing everything I wasn’t supposed to do. That’s why I didn’t learn nothing” (Bob). Finally, Eric and Henry describe coming to the realization about how difficult it is to succeed in the world without an education. I’ve always heard people say, Do good in school because you are going to need it later. But I didn’t really look at it that way. I didn’t feel like I needed it that way until actually getting out in the main world and seeing how hard it really is with no education or no trade or nothing up under your belt. (Eric) Because the participants are in the GED program due to having a criminal record, they have an increased awareness of the consequences of their actions. Most of us didn’t really want to go to school. Most of us turned to the streets and, you know, instead of going to school we was in the streets. You know, you’re out there making money – four or five hundred dollars a night– two or three thousand dollars a week. What do you need school for? Then, after you get in trouble for doing what you’re doing, you think about it. It’s either straighten up and fly right or go to the penitentiary. (Henry) Even those who said that being a mandatory GED class as a less than a positive experience talked about how their experience was more than just jail talk because they had come to a new understanding of themselves and education. The themes show that the experience of being in a mandatory GED program has an evolving nature. It begins as resentment and resistance and evolves over time into the potential of a positive experience that some participants say they would now freely choose because they see the benefit of education and experience a sense of achievement. FORCED TO LEARN 333 dISCuSSIon Findings from this study address a research gap in community-based correctional education. Neither the correctional literature not the adult education literature has focused on adults in community-based corrections who are forced to attend GED classes. Forcing adults to learn is almost the antithesis of adult education principles such as voluntary participation (Houle, 1961; Knowles, 1970). Yet mandatory education is growing as part of the legal system’s post-incarceration requirements, and this growth is affecting local ABE and GED programs. Since very little is known about community-based correctional education from the students’ point of views, the purpose of this study was to understand the experience of adults who are required to attend ABE or GED classes as a condition of their probation or parole. The findings describe their experience. In existential phenomenological research, experience is seen against a ground or background. The ground of the experience was the participants’ prior experiences in school. Each theme describes an aspect of the experience and stands out against this background. The first theme, “it’s like a prison without bars,” was seeing education as a constraint to freedom. Next was “everyone learns different,” which meant adjusting to the different structural and instructional demands of a GED class compared to a more traditional high school environment. “I think it will affect my life real, real good” noted the potential benefits that the experience of attending a GED in the present, in terms of their maturity and in the future in terms of their opportunity for advancement. Finally, “it’s not just jail talk” signified an awakening about their lack of education and the potential consequences of not following the mandate of the court. Findings from the study challenge Jenkins (2002) and Ryan and McCabe (1994) who contend that educational success is only achieved through voluntary participation. Other research shows that coerced learners often have positive outcomes (Landenberger & Lipsey, 2005; Mackenzie, 2000; Wilson, Bouffard & Mckenzie, 2005). Participants in this research were legally forced to attend classes, and although they resisted this coercion at first, most eventually saw the benefits of their educational experience, as evidenced by the themes “I think it will affect my life real, real good” and “It’s not just jail talk.” The findings support DiVito’s (1991) contention that education increases the desire for more productive citizenship. As the literature suggests (Crime and Justice Institute, 2009; Dowden & Andrews, 2000), the experience described by the participants indicates that they definitely have a desire to be more productive citizens because they want to be qualified for stable jobs and to be role models for their children. While students saw benefits from engaging in educational studies and earning their GEDs, they recognized that they were not able to make the decision to attend education classes on their own. While being coerced was seen as negative at first, this changed over time. The self-knowledge that “you gotta push me” showed that not everyone volunteers to do what they know is in 334 MOTTERN ET AL their best interest. This need for a push is consistent with Flowers (2000) who demonstrated that a motivating factor for continued participation comes from being mandated by the courts. This is a challenge to many GED programs that are structured to provide individualized instruction for selfdirected learners. Educators who expect students to be self-directed when they enter a GED program may be frustrated (Warner, 2007). This frustration may be exacerbated by students’ expectations of how learning should take place since their understanding is primarily based on prior experiences they had in school, and for many, these experiences were negative. Against the ground of prior experience of school, the notion “they ain’t babysitting you down here” revealed that students’ conceptions of learning are based in typical pedagogical traditions. Because prior learning context plays a major role in the expectations of the GED classroom (Belzer, 2004), a violation of expectations can occur that creates a negative learning experience for some of the students. Community-based correctional education programs make it possible for offenders to serve their sentences outside of a prison environment. The ultimate goal of most of these programs is to reduce recidivism by providing the services that help individuals find and keep a job and live productively in the community (Stohr, Walsh, & Hemmens, 2008). What contrasts the experience of adults in community-based correctional education with their counterparts who are incarcerated is that those in the community must fit their educational activities into their other adult responsibilities. According to the U.S. Department of Education (2011), “Students’ lack of motivation and competing demands seem to be the most common and pressing challenges these programs face” (p. 21). Although findings from this study show that students in community-based correctional programs undergo a change in thinking while engaged in the program, the question of lack of motivation remains an area where more research is needed. IMPlICATIonS FoR CoRRECTIonAl EduCATIon Findings from this study have theoretical implications as well as practical implications for instructional practice and policy. Theoretical implications include the value of coercion in correctional adult education and what working with community corrections students tells us about andragogy and self-directed learning –the “pillars of adult learning theory” (Merriam, 2001). While adult education theory views adult learners as coming to the classroom as volunteers, this research indicates that forced attendance (i.e., extrinsic motivation) in adult education with court-mandated learners is not only often effective but is also appreciated at some level by the learners. Persistence literature (Comings, Parrella & Soricone, 1999; McGivney, 2004) states that education is a self-directed experience, and adult educators should find ways to help learners persist in their educational goals. Our research suggests that goals other than educational attainment, e.g., avoidance of negative consequences for failure to attend educational classes, may FORCED TO LEARN 335 also be effective in helping some adult students persist in education. This is consistent with other drug-treatment literature (Rempel & Destefano, 2001; Siddall & Conway, 1988) that has found court-mandated treatment to be effective. While the participants did not identify a specific turning point(Abbot, 1997) or epiphany (Denzin, 1989) in their view of education, they did mention familial obligations as influencing their perception of education. This is similar to findings by Laub and Sampson (1993) that adult social bonds to the work force and marriage may bring about changes in criminal behavior. Findings in the current research suggest that perceptions about education change and a kind of turning point does occur in students’ attitudes about being mandated to attend educational classes. Students do see the benefits of formal studies. With regard to instruction, the findings are particularly relevant for the instructors and programs providing educational services through community-based correctional education programs. In planning mandatory education programs for adult learners in community corrections programs, understanding how students experience coercion has the potential to benefit the planning process because programs and classes can be designed to lessen resistance and increase enthusiasm. Students who are mandated to attend GED classes may be different from students who volunteer to continue their education because volunteers have the freedom to choose whether or not to remain in the program; coerced students do not have the same freedom. They begin by seeing education as punishment. While participants may be openly resistant to attending classes, they may simultaneously want to achieve educationally, particularly with reference to earning their GED, because of the hope that the credential will increase their opportunities. Students may have preconceptions about what the experience of a GED class will be like, and these preconceptions might negatively influence their ability to participate effectively. Non-traditional education is an unfamiliar experience for many students. Like most adult basic educators, instructors and program planners in community corrections programs mandatory education programs need to take into account past educational experiences along with the uniqueness and diversity of this particular population when planning instruction. It is possible that students might benefit from an orientation to self-directed learning. This may be particularly true for students who are mandated to attend class and are mixed in with students who volunteer to attend class. At the program level, professional development for instructors may help them address the unique needs of these learners. “Currently, most community-based correctional education programs do not provide specific training related to serving individuals under community supervision” (U. S. Department of Education, 2011, p. 25). This is particularly important because adult students in these programs face many challenges and have diverse learning needs compared to students in voluntary programs. 336 MOTTERN ET AL On a policy level, the data findings are alarming–1 in 45 adults are in a community-based correctional program. Those who view mandatory education programs as being too costly for states (Di Vito, 1991) are shortsighted. Although education is not a panacea, research shows that there is a link between participation in educational programs and a lower recidivism rate (Jensen & Reed, 2007; Nutall, 2003; Roy, 2004; Steurer & Smith, 2003; Zgoba, Haugebrook, & Jenkins, 2008). Unfortunately, research has been conducted primarily with those who attended educational programs while they were incarcerated. “Yet, little is known about the effects of those same services offered in the community to those on parole or probation” (U.S. Department of Education, 2011, p. 27). This study provides a small glimpse into the experience of adult students in mandatory education programs and highlights the need for further research. What data are needed to convince policy makers of the viability of community-based correctional education programs? What are the outcomes of participants after they have completed their sentences? These and other questions are critical for addressing this growing area of adult education. Though our study was not designed to compare students in different settings, we see it as a springboard for future research comparing mandatory and voluntary adult basic education programs. Limitations of the Study Discussing the limitations of the study requires a confident understanding of phenomenological methodology. A common misinterpretation of phenomenological research is that a larger or more varied sample will lead to more reliable findings (Lester, 1999). While we acknowledge that nine participants might be considered a limited sample, this is not the case in phenomenological research, since it is not designed to produce a statistically reliable sample that reflects the population, but rather to generalize the essence of experience attending GED classes in a community-based correctional education program. We also acknowledge that it might have been beneficial to have interviewed participants more than once to probe more deeply into their experience, however, individuals who are volunteering and who may be pressured for time may be unable or unwilling to contribute more than an hour to an interview and compromise is required on the part of the researchers to use the time with the participant to probe deeply into their experiences. Indeed, obtaining even a single interview was often futile. Several individuals who indicated their willingness to participate in the study did not arrive for the scheduled interviews, even though the meetings were scheduled at their convenience. They did not contact the researchers after failing to attend their appointments and did not indicate the reasons for their absence. This particular study is also limited by the absence of a more complete demographic profile for the participants. While this information is unrelated to the phenomenon under investigation, it is a loss of data, data that could be FORCED TO LEARN 337 used to relate this phenomenological study to other qualitative and quantitative studies. ConCluSIon Adults who attend community-based correctional programs as a condition of their parole or probation face many challenges and are an important population to include in adult basic education literature. Findings from our research describe the experience of being forced to attend a GED program. This study illuminates the students’ experiences of being pushed and suggests that they value the idea of being productive citizens and eventually admit that education can play a role in achieving this goal. 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Amelia Davis, at the time of the research was with the Department of Educational Psychology and Counseling at the University of Tennessee; she is now with the Department of Curriculum, Foundations, and Reading, Georgia Southern University. Mary F. Ziegler, teaches in the Department of Educational Psychology and Counseling at the University of Tennessee. JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Motivation to Reduce Risk Behaviors While in Prison: Qualitative Analysis of Interviews with Current and Formerly Incarcerated Women Neetu Abad* Centers for Disease Control and Prevention Monique Carry Centers for Disease Control and Prevention Jeffrey H. Herbst Centers for Disease Control and Prevention Catherine I. Fogel University of North Carolina Abstract Prison is an environment in which programs can be implemented to change harmful behaviors among high-risk populations. Incarcerated women experience high rates of HIV and other sexually transmitted diseases (STDs), yet little research has examined women’s motivation to reduce risky behaviors during incarceration. In-depth individual interviews were conducted with former and current women prisoners in two North Carolina correctional facilities and analyzed to identify barriers and facilitators of behavior change while in prison. Analyses revealed key motivators of behavior change: Viewing prison as a place to recover from past trauma, removing oneself from negative social networks, gaining access to needed mental and physical health services, and engaging in self-care and self-reflection. barriers to behavior *Corresponding Author Neetu Abad, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 1600 Clifton Road NE, Mailstop E-37, Atlanta, GA 30333 USA, e-mail: [email protected] Note: This study was funded by CDC Cooperative Agreement number 5UR6P000670 to the School of Nursing, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, North Carolina. The findings and conclusions in this paper are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent the views of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. We would like to acknowledge Sharon Parker, Anna Sheyette, and A. Neveel from University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill as well as Deborah Gelaude and Amy Fasula from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention for their contributions to this project. MOTIVATION TO REDUCE RISK BEHAVIORS WHILE IN PRISON 347 change include fear of recidivism, stigma of being in prison, and return to undesirable social networks post-release. Moreover, women noted that the provision of mental health services, educational enhancement and housing assistance could help them reduce engagement in high-risk behaviors after their incarceration. These findings can be incorporated into HIV/STD risk reduction interventions to facilitate positive behavior change among incarcerated women prisoners. Prison itself is a tremendous education in the need for patience and perseverance. It is above all a test of one’s commitment. —Nelson Mandela, 1995 Women represent a fast growing prison population in the United States (Beck & Harrison, 2006; Carlson, Shafer, & Duffee, 2010; Staton, Leukefeld, & Webster, 2003). Incarceration rates among women have increased steadily over the past two decades, with the largest increase reported among women from underserved and marginalized communities in the South (Carlson et al., 2010). In 2005, women accounted for 7% of all inmates in state and federal prisons, and from 1995 to 2005, the annual rate of growth in the number of female inmates averaged 4.7% compared to 3.0% among males (Baletka & Shearer, 2005; Beck & Harrison, 2006). Rates of recidivism are also high among female inmates. According to the online Prisoner Recidivism Analysis Tool, nearly 60% of all female inmates were rearrested for a new crime within three years of their release, and 24% were rearrested within six months of release (Bureau of Justice, 2011). Despite the punitive aspects of incarceration, prison can be viewed as an environment in which programs can be implemented to reduce harmful behaviors and enhance positive coping strategies among women (Bradley & Davino, 2002; Leukefeld et al., 2012). Some incarcerated women view prison as a more safe and secure environment than familial and neighborhood environments on the outside (Bradley & Davino, 2002). Therefore, it may be possible that incarcerated women can engage in self-reflection and healing during their prison stay, particularly if the facility offers services to aid in their recovery and rehabilitation (Leukefeld et al., 2012). In our study, a qualitative analysis framework is used to identify selfreported motivators to change risk behaviors, barriers to recovery, and perceived risk of recidivism among current and former women prisoners in two southern correctional facilities. 348 ABAD ET AL RISk FACToRS lEAdInG To InCARCERATIon oF WoMEn Several studies indicate that incarcerated women in the US experience a greater number of risk factors, including heightened HIV/STD risk, substance abuse, and childhood and adult abuse. In 2002, incarcerated women were 15 times as likely as women in the general US population to be infected with HIV (DeGroot & Uvin, 2005), and from 2007-2008, a greater percentage of female inmates across the US were HIV-positive, compared to male inmates (1.9% vs. 1.5%, respectively) (Maruschak & Beavers, 2009). Among adult correctional inmates and juvenile detainees, adult women in 2006 had higher positivity rates of Syphilis (7.5% vs. 2.3%) and Chlamydia (6.3% vs. 5.4%) than adult men (Hammett & Drachman-Jones, 2006). Risk factors associated with high rates of HIV and other STDs include a history of engaging in commercial sex work, having multiple concurrent partners, exchanging sex for drugs, and being exposed to physical, emotional and sexual abuse during childhood and adulthood (DeGroot & Maddow, 2006; Fogel & Belyea, 1999; Hammett & Drachman-Jones, 2006; Hogben & St. Lawrence, 2000; McClelland, Teplin, Abram, & Jacobs, 2002). There is evidence suggesting that drug and alcohol abuse are factors associated with rising incarceration and recidivism rates among women (Carlson et al., 2010). In 2006, over 200,000 adult women were arrested for drug abuse violations, representing a 23% increase from 2002 (Women’s Prison Association, 2011). Previous studies report that four out of five incarcerated women were under the influence of drugs or alcohol prior to their arrest (Brewer-Smyth, Wolbert-Burgess, & Shulta, 2004), and 70 to 80% of incarcerated women report struggling with substance abuse issues prior to their incarceration (Karberg & James, 2002). Lifetime psychosocial stressors such as childhood and adult sexual abuse, social marginalization and poverty have been linked to increases in substance abuse and rates of incarceration and recidivism among women (United States Department of Justice, 1997). Exposure to a constellation of risk factors or a “nexus of risk” can lead women to use substances as a coping mechanism (O’Leary, 2001), which in turn can influence behaviors resulting in initial and repeat incarcerations (Bradley & Davino, 2002). Prior research on the lives of incarcerated women commonly uncover episodes of violence and abuse starting at a young age and continuing through adulthood (Asberg & Renk, 2012; Bradley & Davino, 2002; Walsh, Gonsalves, Scalora, King, & Hardyman, 2012); between one-half to two-thirds of female inmates had experienced childhood sexual abuse (Asberg & Renk, 2012), and one in five female inmates reported some sort of physical or sexual abuse at the time of their arrest (Beck, Harrison, Berzofsky, Caspar, & Krebs, 2010). In a recent study of 168 incarcerated women interviewed in a Midwestern correctional facility, over 75% reported at least one form of sexual, physical or emotional abuse during childhood, 9% reported at least one instance of sexual coer- MOTIVATION TO REDUCE RISK BEHAVIORS WHILE IN PRISON 349 cion, and 22% reported experiencing a forced sexual encounter during their current incarceration (Walsh et al., 2012). Cumulative effects of stressors such as substance abuse, exposure to childhood and adult trauma, and poverty on health and well-being are evidenced in the range of problems commonly reported by women at the time of their incarceration (Staton et al., 2003). These problems include alcohol and drug addiction, STDs, and mental health diagnoses such as depression, anxiety, and posttraumatic stress disorder. According to one study, only onequarter of women who needed mental health services while in jail actually received services, and a mere 13% received substance abuse treatment despite a persuasive need (Teplin, Abram, & McClelland, 1997). In addition, assistance with post-release housing, vocational training, and general health care are frequently not provided to women during or after their incarceration (Carlson et al., 2010). PRoJECT PoWER: An AdAPTATIon oF PRoJECT SAFE Our research was part of the Adopting and Demonstrating the Adaptation of Prevention Techniques (ADAPT-2) project to systematically adapt and test the efficacy of evidence-based HIV behavioral interventions for populations at greatest risk for HIV (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 2007). In-depth semi-structured interviews were conducted with current and former female inmates to adapt an evidence-based HIV behavioral prevention intervention, Sexual Awareness for Everyone (SAFE) (Shain, Piper, & Holden, 2004), for use with incarcerated women, resulting in Providing Opportunities for Women’s Empowerment, Risk-Reduction & Relationships (POWER) (Fasula et al., 2013). Many of the life stressors experienced by incarcerated women and identified in the literature were referenced by women in these interviews. Issues such as substance abuse, childhood and adult abuse, mental illness, and the need for services emerged as themes that both inspired incarcerated women to engage in behavior change, and served as barriers to their rehabilitation and increased risk of recidivism. METHod Participants A total of 53 women (25 current prisoners and 28 former prisoners) participated in in-depth interviews between September 2008 and June 2009. The results reported in this paper are based on interviews with 17 women (8 former prisoners and 9 current prisoners) who participated in the formative research. These interviews were selected for analysis because the women spontaneously discussed their views on prison as an environment to motivate a reduction in risk behaviors. The remaining 36 women did not mention views on incarceration during their interview. 350 ABAD ET AL Current prisoners included women incarcerated at the North Carolina Correctional Institute for Women (NCCIW) and the Fountain Correctional Center for Women (FCCW). Former prisoners included women who had been recently incarcerated but were residents of metropolitan and rural jurisdictions in North Carolina. A random sampling strategy was used to select current prisoners. Women were eligible for the study if they were aged 18 or older, HIV-negative, and had prior sexual activity with a man. An additional criterion for current prisoners was a sentence length of 12 months or less, so these women could more readily remember sexual activity prior to incarceration and project experiences post-release. Women who were intoxicated or under the influence of drugs (former prisoners), exhibited an inability to focus or understand explanations, were unable to speak English, or had symptoms of acute psychosis as determined by North Carolina Department of Corrections (NCDOC) mental health or social work staff were excluded. Current prisoners were recruited from the (NCCIW), the state’s primary processing facility and largest women’s state prison, which housed over 1100 inmates. Women were also recruited at the minimum security (FCCW), which housed over 500 women. Research staff compiled a list of women with sentences of 12 months or less who had no more than 6 months remaining on their sentence and were currently housed at NCCIW or FCCW. The sentencing data and current addresses were obtained from the NCDOC database. Current women prisoners were randomly selected to participate in the study. A trained female research assistant approached the women, explained the study to each potential participant, and asked if she was willing to participate. If a woman met all study criteria, informed consent was obtained by a trained research assistant. Network sampling was used to recruit former women prisoners by using word of mouth referrals to access socially marginalized and hard-toreach populations (Burns & Grove, 2001). Research staff also contacted former prisoners who had participated in previous studies conducted by the principal investigator. In addition, women who enrolled in the study were asked if they had acquaintances who might be interested in the study. If a woman indicated interest, she was enrolled following the process used for current prisoners. After providing informed consent, the current prisoners were individually interviewed in a private room in the correctional facility. Women received a small snack for their participation because study staff were not permitted to provide monetary or other tangible reimbursements according to NCDOC regulations. After their release from prison, women were mailed a cosmetics case containing condoms, lubricant, and body lotion as a token of appreciation for their participation. MOTIVATION TO REDUCE RISK BEHAVIORS WHILE IN PRISON 351 The Institutional Review Boards of the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill and the CDC approved the study protocol. NCDOC also reviewed and approved the study protocol. Data Collection Trained research assistants conducted semi-structured qualitative interviews lasting 60 to 120 minutes that were digitally audio-recorded. Demographic data consisted of age, education, race/ethnicity, incarceration status (i.e., misdemeanor vs. felony), and previous/current work status. The individual interview included 12 questions with probes and was designed to elicit information related to STD/HIV knowledge, male-female relationships, sexual risk behaviors, perceptions of personal risk, motivations to reduce risk, factors that facilitate/prevent use of sexual risk reduction practices, attitudes toward safer sex practices, resumption of sexual activity after release, conditions of life, lifestyle and daily living concerns, personal intimate relationships prior to incarceration, and sources of social support. An example of questions include: “What do you think would/has put you in harm’s way?” and probes such as “What part of this, if anything, do you think is due to …being a woman, where you live, having been in prison?” Another example is: “When do you protect yourself and when don’t you?” and probes such as “With what types of partners would you have to protect yourself?” A final question elicited women’s views regarding what they thought we should teach women about STIs/HIV prevention. Questions about women’s feelings about their incarceration were not explicitly asked during the interviews. Instead, discussion of their time in prison emerged organically within conversations regarding their views on a wide range of HIV/STD-relevant topics, including perceived personal and community-level risk, availability of treatment and services, and attitudes towards risk behaviors in general. Data Analysis Audio-recorded interviews were transcribed verbatim, independently reviewed for transcription accuracy, and then uploaded into NVivo 8.0 qualitative analysis software (QSR International, 2012). Once uploaded, the transcripts were reviewed and segmented for coding and iteratively coded by a team of trained coders using established coding protocols (Bernard, 2006). Using a grounded-theory approach, codes reflected the major themes and patterns in the data and included specific beliefs, attitudes, opinions and values of the participants (Strauss & Corbin, 1990). Coding consisted of two phases: (1) initial coding during which meaning units (words, lines, segments, and incidents) were identified and coded, and (2) focused coding during which the initial codes that seemed the most useful were identified and entered into a codebook (Miles & Huberman, 1994). As new data were gathered, codes were revised and the data recoded as 352 ABAD ET AL needed. The codebook underwent multiple iterations until it satisfactorily reflected the themes present in the data (Miles & Huberman, 1994). Coders independently coded identical text segments with the same codebook. The coded text was compared for reliability between two coders and problem codes were identified. NVivo 8.0 reliability functions were used to calculate the percent agreement on use of the codes, and Cohen’s kappa coefficient was computed for inter-coder reliability. This information was used to modify the codebook and identify weaknesses in the coding scheme, including codes that had been assigned to text segments differently, unclear code definitions, or unintentionally overlapping or redundant codes. An overall kappa of 0.81 was achieved, indicating good reliability between coders (Fleiss, 1981; Landis & Koch, 1977). Disagreements were resolved by consensus discussion by the coders and other members of the research team. Findings were reported as: Themes and patterns in the coded data; illustrative participant quotes for each theme to assist in interpretation; and frequency tables for the themes and patterns for each interview item and any global themes that occur across items. Findings were organized by question topics following the interview instrument protocols. RESulTS Table 1 compares key demographic characteristics of the subsample of 17 women who spontaneously offered views on their incarceration with data from the 36 women who did not offer such views. The groups did not significantly differ on any demographic criteria, including race/ethnicity (x2 (1, N=53) = 2.710, p=.10). Both groups averaged 33 years of age and had a high school education, and the majority in both groups were white and committed a felony that led to their incarceration. About one-quarter of women in both groups reported having a full-time job prior to incarceration. The qualitative analysis of interviews with the 17 women who spontaneously offered views on their incarceration identified two main themes: (1) prison can be an opportunity for behavior and life change, and (2) barriers to rehabilitation and risk of recidivism. Next, we expanded on each of these themes and sub-themes with representative quotations from participants. For each quotation, we indicate current prisoners as [C] and former prisoners as [F]. MOTIVATION TO REDUCE RISK BEHAVIORS WHILE IN PRISON 353 Table 1: demographic Characteristics of Women Prisoners, north Carolina, 2009 Women offering views on incarceration (n=17) Women not offering views on incarceration (n=36) 33.5 33.6 (Range: 19-43) (Range: 18-54) 12.1 (2.02) 11.93 (2.21) Black 24% 47% White 76% 53% Current prisoner 47% 47% Former prisoner 53% 53% Felony 76% 77% Misdemeanor 24% 23% 24% 23% Characteristic Age (mean) Education (years) Race/Ethnicity (%)* Incarceration Status (%) Reason for Incarceration (%) Work Status (% full time) *A chi-square test revealed no racial/ethnic differences between groups: (x2 (1, N=53)= 2.710, p=.10). Main Theme 1: Prison as an Opportunity for Behavior and Life Change Time for reflection. The majority of the women who spoke of their feelings toward incarceration and their time in prison were mothers who identified challenges they experienced trying to financially support themselves and their children. Women reported that prison afforded them a break or an opportunity to reflect on their life, and many indicated they could only support their children with the assistance of male partners and family members. As one woman stated: “This is a break, it’s a period where I can just concentrate on me ‘cause for one thing, that’s something I’ve never done all my life. It’s always been about somebody else” [C]. Being both financially and emotionally dependent on these relationships, women often had to defer decision-making to male partners and family members and were torn between the interests and needs of their children, partners, and family members. Women also indicated that prison was a place where they could be removed from this role strain and place their own needs first. As expressed by one woman: 354 ABAD ET AL Those are some of the things that helped me while I was incarcerated you know as far as change is concerned, being specific and drilling down and catering to my needs. You know I don’t really want to think about nobody else right now but me. This is my one time I get to be selfish. It’s all about me [f]. Slightly less than half of the women indicated they had an opportunity while in prison to reflect on issues such as sexual abuse, addiction, mental health, and illiteracy. Safe haven and removal from poor social and sexual networks. Several women viewed prison as a safe haven that temporarily removed them from undesirable and sometimes violent relationships, and risky environments. One woman shared: Because [prison] took me away from a domestic violence situation, it allowed me to clear my head, it kept me safe, it allowed me to build some relationships with some people as far as friendships, and to see how the other world lives because I ain’t never been snotty or thought I was better; I never thought I’d be in prison [F]. For these women, this view of prison as a safe haven included being sheltered from a network of peers, who like themselves, were often involved in a cycle of sex trade and substance use. As one woman described: being in prison, if anything it makes you stop and think, ‘Hey, this is not for me’…you have to get away from those people. There’s a section in [prison] that’s just as bad as on the street. There was this girl who was getting out and they were picking her up with an ounce of crack…There’s people that care, there’s people that don’t care, and then you got people that’s never getting out so they really don’t care but they ain’t never gonna get out anyway so they’re kinda different. So you’ve got different categories of people. I just kept to myself. I just kept to myself [F]. In addition, women often turned to sex trade for money when they perceived a lack of viable employment opportunities. Back home and on the streets, drugs and alcohol were commonly used as a coping mechanism while turning tricks which eventually led to addiction. Beyond sex trade and drug addiction, it was common for women’s social networks to include men and women involved in criminal activity such as robbery, drug dealing and theft. Women caught in this cycle saw little opportunity to break away from these harmful social networks. Place to love oneself. Some women expressed that prison became a place where they were able to rediscover love for themselves. As stated by one woman: MOTIVATION TO REDUCE RISK BEHAVIORS WHILE IN PRISON 355 I was saying earlier, you know people come to prison they thinking all negative. I think about the pros in it you know. This is a time for me to heal, you know. It really is a healing experience for me” [C]. For these women, feelings of self-love and worth were achieved by reading or attending religious or spiritual services at the prison. Other women reported that their ability to focus on self-love was the result of being alone for the first time in their lives. Yeah I mean you’re not on the streets, you’re not in a home, you have none of your family here. It’s time. When you come to prison, you did something wrong to get here. It’s time to work on yourself. Realize who you are and what you want [C]. Resource for unmet needs. Many women believed that prison provided them with resources they did not have outside of prison. Women often shared histories of sexual abuse, addiction, and mental health issues, and prison was the first place where they had ever received any form of counseling service. There’s a lot of people [in here] that have major traumatic events, sexual abuse, physical abuse, mental abuse, everything that happened when they were little. So I think that [to receive] some type of outreach program, prison probably the best way to come [C]. Women who were placed into programs for basic sexual health information, including STD and pregnancy prevention, reported that prison provided them with skills and educational opportunities (e.g., GED and trade courses) that could benefit them at the time of their release. Some women stated that having the option to take job-related courses made them more optimistic about their opportunities to gain sustainable employment post-release. You can go to school and get your geD, go to school and finish college, go out there and use the trainings that you got in here. The clothes, house, the kitchen, the paint crew, the road squad–go out there and use that as your training to get a job on the outside [C]. This woman’s experience in a mandated drug course inspired reflection that led her to acknowledge her struggle with addiction: I learned a lot of stuff in prison; I learned to appreciate a lot of stuff in prison but I learned that prison life is not the life for me. But as far as learning about sexually transmitted diseases, HIV, drugs that’s probably when I was an addict, honest to god, and it was not the first time, it was the second time that I went and they wanted me to go realized it was God’s will because I had never admitted that I was an addict until then [F]. 356 ABAD ET AL New start. Several women reported that prison provided them an opportunity for a new start in their lives. They expressed that events which led to their incarceration were a low-point and prison offered them an opportunity to wipe the slate clean and start over. These women also referred to their time in prison as a chance to regroup and prepare themselves for better lives after release. At least one woman planned to use her time in prison to develop plans to move away from her previous neighborhood, find a job, reconnect with her children, and start over. The advice given by this woman was: Find a different neighborhood. I mean move to a different town. Just start your life over again. Prison is basically a new life. I mean, they get you ready, they get you cleaned up and they give you a job to give you that incentive to go out there and find a real job in the world to make your own money, to have your own family and your own life and not to go out there and screw it up, but I mean with you being in the situation, you go out there in the same place with the same people to do the same thing just to end up right back here. Don’t do that to yourself [C]. Main Theme 2: Barriers to Rehabilitation and Risks of Recidivism Resources after prison. Several former inmates noted a lack of resources available to them post-release in their community. Women discussed cuts to government programs that impeded their ability to access services in their communities, particularly services related to mental health and trauma counseling. As revealed by one woman: Well, I started counseling and had to stop because the government’s cut funding and it would require me to pay for most of my services with my income and I can’t. And I need counseling ‘cause I was abused as a child and then I was in several relationships where I was severely abused [F]. This lack of services posed significant barriers to their recovery and rehabilitation, as expressed by a former prisoner: I was like wait a minute I thought prison was supposed to rehabilitate; I’m wanting to be rehabilitated. The way I’m thinking right now, I’m going right back to that life when I leave here, I don’t want to do that. Rehabilitate me [F]. Temptation of previous lifestyles. Women discussed the possibility of being tempted to return to previous harmful lifestyles post-release, including substance abuse and participation in risky sexual behavior. One woman shared: “People don’t have nowhere to go so they’re going to go out in the streets again ‘cause 85% of these girls are going right back to where they MOTIVATION TO REDUCE RISK BEHAVIORS WHILE IN PRISON 357 come from” [C]. One major reason for this concern involved their former social networks in which substance use and other risky behaviors were prevalent. Women reported that a lack of support from their families also contributed to overall feelings of social isolation, particularly when a participant’s family was unsupportive of changes she had attempted to make in prison. One woman recounted her story of feeling unsupported by family upon her release: Okay I’m changed now. Everything’s all better now. My family should just come with open arms. And that’s not the case... And then you have the other side of things where some people are going back to family who are doing things that are illegal you know and that’s a big influence ‘cause where else do you go, but back home to your family? ‘Cause that’s people’s comfort zone [F]. Stigma. Several women cited the stigma of being in prison as a barrier to rehabilitation. Women expressed a fear that they would be judged negatively by their family, peers, community, and potential employers when they were eventually released, despite having enhanced their skills while in prison: Even if you try to open that door to take a change to start over, someone always shuts it because you’ve already got all those bad things and negative things against you. If the person is willing to change and shows a commitment to change, then someone needs to give them that chance and that’s the main problem a lot of people don’t get that chance so they end up going back to what they know and next thing you know they have a disease or they’re dead [F]. Prison-related stigma was particularly common among formerly incarcerated women who discussed their experiences searching for employment post-release. As one woman expressed: When you have a prison record, you can’t get a good job. If you do, you have to lie about it. You know what I’m saying you pretty much have to lie about it you know and who wants to say on your résumé, “Oh I used to be a prostitute,” you know what I’m saying? I’ve been a prostitute; I’ve been to prison… those are the ones that are going to get the door shut in their face the quickest so they’re just stuck in this never ending cycle of going going going so I think that society needs to at least not be so judgmental of people that are trying to change [F]. Many former inmates discussed stereotypes that members of the community held about them due to their being incarcerated, and how it hindered their ability to take the steps necessary to establish a new life. 358 ABAD ET AL dISCuSSIon The findings of this study demonstrate that prison was viewed by some current and former incarcerated women as a place where they could marshal internal and external resources to engage in behavior change to assist in their rehabilitation and recovery. Women reported that prison offered them time for reflection, a place to love oneself, a safe haven, resources for unmet needs, and a chance for a new start. However, despite the optimism reported by some women, others acknowledged that the temptation of previous harmful lifestyles, prison-related stigma, and not getting needed structural services post-release present significant barriers to sustained risk behavior change and post-incarceration rehabilitation. Our research builds upon previous research which has shown that some incarcerated women view prison as a more safe and secure environment than familial and neighborhood environments on the outside (Bradley & Davino, 2002; Henriques & Jones-Brown, 2000). The finding in Bradley and Davino’s (2002) study that prison can be viewed as a place of safety needs to be considered within the context of severe and significant interpersonal violence that often pervades these women’s familial and social relationships. The women in our study echoed the need for a safe haven to remove them from undesirable and sometimes violent relationships and environments, as well as a place to love themselves, obtain needed services, and make a new life for themselves. Based on these views, prison can be a viable environment to implement programs aiming to reduce harmful behaviors and enhance positive coping strategies among women (Bradley & Davino, 2002; Leukefeld et al., 2012). Our research also documents incarcerated women’s motivation to enhance their psychological well-being by reducing substance use and sexually risky behaviors. There were no questions on the interview guide that directly asked or probed women on their experiences while in prison or their motivation for behavior change as a result of their incarceration. Despite this, our analysis shows that about one-third of the overall sample of current and former women prisoners spontaneously stated that prison can serve as a motivator for positive behavior change. Though not captured in the original interview guide, the unplanned recurrence of this theme suggests that these ideas may be important to some incarcerated women. Qualitative researchers specializing in grounded theory analysis posit that words and themes that occur frequently are often seen as being salient in the minds of respondents (Strauss, 1992; Strauss & Quinn, 1997). Participants who did not mention the aforementioned perspectives toward incarceration may have different opinions about prison as a place or institution for motivating or changing risky behavior. Although there were no significant demographic differences, it is noted that fewer black women spontaneously discussed their incarceration. It is possible that black incar- MOTIVATION TO REDUCE RISK BEHAVIORS WHILE IN PRISON 359 cerated women might have less positive views of prison than white women. Future research could further probe diverse populations of incarcerated women on their perceptions of prison as a motivator of behavior change. There are a number of limitations to this study. With regard to the generalizability of the study findings, we recruited current and former women prisoners who were HIV-negative and serving (served) less than a 12-month sentence. This was done because the principal purpose of the formative research was to adapt an evidence-based behavioral HIV prevention intervention (Project SAFE) for a new population, incarcerated women. Both the original and the adapted interventions focused on primary prevention of HIV and other STDs. By excluding HIV positive women and those serving longer sentences, we may have missed different perspectives on why these women engaged in risky behavior and how their prison experience could impact future behaviors. The current and former women prisoners in our sample were incarcerated in correctional facilities in North Carolina. It is possible that many of the themes identified in the interviews may only pertain to the lives of incarcerated women in North Carolina and may not be generalizable to women prisoners in other jurisdictions. Lastly, former prisoners who participated in this study were recruited from earlier studies or referred from other projects led by the principal investigator. While their responses might not be representative of the incarcerated female population at large, their identification of facilitators and barriers to behavior change consistent with current prisoners suggests candor in their views during the interviews. Each of these limitations could be addressed in future research studies. ConCluSIon Our study corroborates prior research in which some incarcerated women viewed their time in prison as a safe haven (Bradley & Davino, 2002). Aspects of incarceration that can provide motivation for behavior change despite the stress and hardship associated with prison are detailed. Interventionists and policy makers interested in facilitating positive behavior change and rehabilitation of women prisoners can use formative research to identify women’s intrinsic motivations for behavior change and provide services that can best promote and sustain recovery during incarceration and post-release. Such programs can facilitate a successful transition into stable and healthy lives post-release by recognizing that incarceration can be a unique time for women to identify various stressors impacting their lives and reflect on how they can address and overcome them. The findings of this study also suggest that incarcerated women may benefit from programs that attend to their unmet needs. Our participants particularly advocated for education and job training to combat post-release incarceration stigma, housing assistance to help them stabilize their lives post-release, and mental health services to help them recover from prior trauma. These areas 360 ABAD ET AL have been previously documented as not being adequately addressed in the justice system (Carlson et al., 2010; Teplin et al., 1997). Longitudinal studies are needed to assess whether the development and implementation of risk-reduction prevention programs that capitalize on incarcerated women’s motivation to change behavior can be tailored to address gender-specific stressors, reduce rates of recidivism, and enhance health outcomes by addressing HIV/STD risk, substance abuse, and mental health. Studies such as these can facilitate a better understanding of the lives of incarcerated women over time and inform the provision of the most effective prevention services for this vulnerable population. REFEREnCES Asberg, K., & Renk, K. (2012). Substance use coping as a mediator of the relationship between trauma symptoms and substance use consequences among incarcerated females with childhood sexual abuse histories. Substance Use & Misuse, 47, 799-808. Baletka, D. M., & Shearer, R. A. (2005). Assessing program needs of female offenders who abuse substances. In B. Sims (Ed.), Correctional clients: Practical Implications for Institutional and Community Settings (pp. 227-242). New York: Routledge. Beck, A., & Harrison, P. (2006). Prison and jail inmates at mid-year 2005. Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics. Retrieved July 28, 2012 from http://bjs.ojp.usdoj.gov/ content/pub/pdf/pjim05.pdf Beck, A., Harrison, P. M., Berzofsky, M., Caspar, R., & Krebs, C. (2010). Sexual victimization in prisons and jails reported by inmates, 200809. Washington, DC: US Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics. Bernard, H. R. (2006). Research methods in anthropology: Qualitative and qualitative approaches (4th ed). Oxford, UK: Altamira Press. Bradley, R. G., & Davino, K. M. (2002). Women’s perceptions of the prison environment: When prison is “the safest place I’ve ever been.” Psychology of Women Quarterly, 26, 351-359. Brewer-Smyth, L., Wolbert-Burgess, A., & Shulta, J. (2004). Physical and sexual abuse, salivary cortisol, and neurologic correlates of violent criminal behavior in female prison inmates. Biological Psychiatry, 55, 21-31. Bureau of Justice. (2011). Prisoner recidivism analysis tool. Retrieved July 28, 2012 from http://www.bjs.gov/index. cfm?ty=pbdetail&iid=2392. Burns, N., & Grove, S.K. (2001). The Practice of Nursing Research (4th ed.). Philadelphia, PA: W.B. Saunders Company. Carlson, B. E., Shafer, M., & Duffee, D. (2010). Traumatic histories and stressful life events of incarcerated parents II: Gender and ethnic MOTIVATION TO REDUCE RISK BEHAVIORS WHILE IN PRISON 361 differences in substance abuse and service needs. The Prison Journal, 90, 494-515. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2007). Adopting and demonstrating the Adaptation of Prevention Techniques for persons at highest risk of acquiring or transmitting human immunodeficiency virus (ADAPT 2). Atlanta, GA: Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. DeGroot, A. S., & Maddow, R. (2006). HIV/AIDS infection among incarcerated women. In R. L. Braithwaite, K. J. Arriola & C. Newkirk (Eds.), Health Issues among Incarcerated Women. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. DeGroot, A. S., & Uvin, S. C. (2005). HIV infection among women in prison: Considerations for care. Infectious Diseases in Corrections Report, 8(5-6), 1-4. Fasula, A., Fogel, C., Gelaude, D., Carry, M., Gaiter, J., & Parker, S. (2013). Adapative an evidence-based HIV/STI prevention intervention for incarcerated women. AIDS Education and Prevention, 25, 203-215. Fleiss, J. L. (1981). Statistical methods for rates and proportions (2nd ed). New York: John Wiley. Fogel, C. I., & Belyea, M. J. (1999). The lives of incarcerated women: violence, substance abuse and risk for HIV. Journal of the Assocation of Nurses in AIDS Care, 10, 66-77. Hammett, T. H., & Drachman-Jones, A. (2006). HIV/AIDS, sexually transmitted diseases and incarceration among women: National and southern perspectives. Sexually Transmitted Diseases, 33 (Suppl)(7), S17-22. Henriques, Z. W., & Jones-Brown, D. D. (2000). Prisons as “safe havens” for African American women. In M.W. Markowitz &D. D. Jones-Brown (Eds.), The system in black and white: Exploring the connections between race, crime, and justice (pp. 267–273). Westport, CT: Praeger. Hogben, M., & St. Lawrence, J. (2000). HIV/STD risk reduction interventions in prison settings. Journal of Women’s Health & Gender, 9(6), 587-592. Karberg, J. C., & James, D. J. (2002). Substance dependence, abuse, and treatment of jail inmates. Washington, DC: US Department of Justice. Landis, J. R., & Koch, G. (1977). The measurement of observer agreement for categorical data. Biometrics, 33, 159-174. Leukefeld, C., Havens, J., Tindall, M. S., Oser, C. B., Mooney, J., Hall, M. T., & Knudsen, H. K. (2012). Risky relationships: Targeting HIV prevention for women offenders. AIDS Education and Prevention, 24, 339-349. Mandela, N. (1995). Long walk to freedom. Boston: Back Bay Books. Maruschak, L. M., & Beavers, R. (2009). Bureau statistics bulletin: HIV in prisons, 2007-08. Washington, DC: uS Department of Justice, office 362 ABAD ET AL of Justice Programs, Bureau of Justice Statistics. Retrieved July 26, 2012 from http://bjs.ojp.usdoj.gov/content/pub/pdf/hivp08.pdf. McClelland, G. M., Teplin, L. A., Abram, K. M., & Jacobs, N. (2002). HIV and AIDS risk behaviors among female jail detainees: implications for public health policy. Am J Public Health, 92(5), 818-825. Miles, M. B., & Huberman, A. M. (1994). Qualitative data analysis: an expanded sourcebook (2nd ed). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. O’Leary, A. (2001). Substance use and HIV: Disentangling the nexus of risk. Journal of Substance Abuse, 13, 1-3. QSR International. (2012). NVivo Version 8.0. Doncaster, Victoria, Australia: QSR International Pty Ltd. Shain, R., Piper, J., & Holden, A. (2004). Prevention of gonorrhea and chlamydia through behavioral intervention: Results of a twoyear controlled randomized trial in minority women. Sexually Transmitted Diseases, 31, 401-408. Staton, M., Leukefeld, C., & Webster, J. M. (2003). Substance use, health, and mental health: Problems and service utilization among incarcerated women. International Journal of Offender Therapy and Comparative Criminology, 47(2), 224-239. Strauss, C. (Ed.). (1992). What makes Tony run? Schemas as motive reconsideration Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Strauss, A., & Corbin, J. (1990). Basics of qualitative research: Grounded theory procedures and techniques. Newbury Park, CA: Sage Publications, Inc. Strauss, C., & Quinn, N. (1997). A cognitive theory of cultural meaning. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Teplin, L., Abram, K., & McClelland, G. (1997). Mentally disordered women in jail: who receives services? Am J Public Health, 87(4), 604-609. United States Department of Justice. (1997). Survey of inmates in state and federal correctional facilities. Washington, DC: United States Department of Justice. Walsh, L., Gonsalves, V. M., Scalora, M. J., King, S., & Hardyman, P. L. (2012). Child maltreatment among female inmates reporting inmate on inmate sexual victimization in prison: The mediating role of emotion dysregulation. Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 27, 492-512. Women’s Prison Association. (2011). The punitiveness report-hard hit: The growth in imprisonment of women, 1977-2004. Retrieved February 28, 2013 from http://www.wpaonline.org/institute/hardhit/index. htm. AuTHoR BIoGRAPHIES Neetu Abad received her Ph.D. in Social Psychology from the University of Missouri in 2011. Dr. Abad’s work focuses on empowerment, psychological well-being, and psychological predictors of risky sexual behavior among MOTIVATION TO REDUCE RISK BEHAVIORS WHILE IN PRISON 363 underserved communities, particularly women and girls of color. Dr. Abad currently works as a Behavioral Scientist in the Division of STD Prevention at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) in Atlanta, Georgia, NCHHSTP. Jeffrey H. Herbst obtained his Ph.D. in Health Psychology from the University of Maryland Graduate School in 1996. Dr. Herbst was employed at the National Institute on Aging (NIA) in Baltimore, Maryland from 1987 to 2002 where he conducted basic and applied research on individual differences in personality processes and traits. In 2002, Dr. Herbst transferred to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) in Atlanta, Georgia. Dr. Herbst currently serves as Leader of the Operational Research Team in the Prevention Research Branch, Division of HIV/AIDS Prevention, NCHHSTP. The Team’s mission is to conduct operational research to improve the efficiency, effectiveness, and sustainability of HIV prevention program activities. Monique G. Carry obtained her Ph.D. in Sociology from Emory University in 2010. Dr. Carry’s work uses both qualitative and quantitative methods to examine social and behavioral aspects of sexual risk and behavior in high risk communities. Dr. Carry currently works as a Behavioral Scientist at Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) in Atlanta, Georgia on the Operational Research Team in the Prevention Research Branch, Division of HIV/AIDS Prevention, NCHHSTP. Catherine I. Fogel obtained her Ph.D. in Sociology from the North Carolina State University in 1988. Dr Fogel has been employed by the University of North Carolina-CH since 1968 as nursing faculty where she has taught women’s health nursing. Dr Fogel’s clinical practice included caring for pregnant women and incarcerated women. Dr Fogel has conducted research studies to document the health problems of incarcerated women, identify women prisoners’ STD/HIV risk factors and the problems of incarcerated women who are mothers. More recently Dr Fogel has conducted federally funded studies to test an intervention to improve parenting skills of women prisoners, and STD/HIV risk reduction interventions for incarcerated women. JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Book Review: Miriam Boeri, Women on Ice: Methamphetamine Use among Suburban Women Rutgers university Press, 2013; 231 pp., ISBn: 978-0-8135-5459-4 Reviewed by: Karen McElrath, Fayetteville State University Some readers fail to read the preface to a book, eager to step inside the chapters. I began with the preface to Women on Ice and then returned to it after I had read the book in its entirety. The preface provides the reader with a brief but important snapshot of Miriam Boeri as an author and one whose family, like so many others, has experienced addiction. These life events shaped her interest in studying people who experience problems with psychoactive drug use. Moreover, authors who share this kind of “private trouble” help to de-stigmatize drug addiction (see also, the self-disclosure by neuroscientist and author, Carl Hart). This book consists of eight chapters filled with interesting vignettes that portray the experiences of a heterogeneous sample of women who reside in surburbia. In Chapter 1, we are introduced to Maggie, Mia, and Dee, whose experiences with methamphetamine are similar in some ways, yet with very different outcomes linked to social capital and drug trajectories. The contemporary history of methamphetamine is presented with brief introductory descriptions of Crystal Meth, Crank, and Ice. Boeri notes that methamphetamine epidemics have been linked to particular subcultures; suburban women have largely been neglected in the previous research. This introductory chapter also includes a discussion of prior research findings as they relate to gender and methamphetamine as well as to gender and structural violence. The methodology is described in Chapter 2, with additional detail (e.g., analytical strategy) provided in Appendix A. The writing style in this chapter is generally devoid of heavy methodological jargon and will appeal to lay readers, students, as well as academic scholars. The ethnographic work was guided by intense recruitment strategies that resulted in a sample of women (N=65) who were quite diverse in terms of age and social class. Fifty-eight of these suburban women were white non-Hispanic. We learn at one point that dealers were White and the 7 other respondents (African-American, Latina, and Native American) were initiated into methamphetamine by Whites. In Chapter 3 (The Gendered Drug Career), Boeir discusses her typology of the phases of drug use. Drawing from life course, social control, and self- BOOK REVIEW 365 control perspectives, the typology includes nine stages: 1. controlled occasional user; 2. weekend warrior; 3. habitué; 4. marginal user; 5. problem addict; 6. dealer/runner; 7. hustler/sex worker; 8. junkie; and 9. relapsing addict/junkie. She notes that the addict label was used by respondents and was not the term that she preferred. Consistent with life course theory, there are “transitions and turning points at every phase of the drug career” (p. 50). With its focus on gender, this work and the detail in Appendix B adds greatly to the literature on drug careers. Boeri describes another organizing pattern by situating respondents into three categories: 1) suburban youth culture, 2) suburban working and middle class, and 3) suburban poor. The implications of women’s social class and age are powerful and are comprehensively illustrated in several vignettes. Readers will empathize in particular with the suburban poor who “remained outside the radar of the social services” and resided in places described as “suburban enclaves of poverty” (p. 23). Gendered lives are the focus of Chapter 4. Boeri emphasizes the importance of social capital and how it influences transitioning from conventional to unconventional roles. We learn how methamphetamine use affected family relations and women’s personal health. Boeri explores the meaning of motherhood and the loss of this conventional role as the mechanisms of social control shape the women’s lives. We learn about the despair among the women, and some of the narratives and vignettes are difficult to read. In this chapter and elsewhere in the book, we learn about the males in the women’s lives; a few males are helpful, others are exploitive, controlling, and bail out when problems arise. Chapters 5 and 6 address gendered risks that pertain to health and violence. Using a series of vignettes, Boeri illustrates respondents’ adverse health conditions (e.g., kidney damage, gall bladder disease, extensive tooth decay, depression, bipolar illness). Some respondents moved from methamphetamine to pain pills and methadone or had combined these substances, consistent with simultaneous polydrug use described in studies of other types of drug use. Readers from some European countries might be surprised to learn that a large number of clients in the US are required to pay for daily methadone doses (in this instance, $12 per day), which reflects the dominant ideology of drug treatment in the US. The research on violence and crime shows the continuation of violence that sometimes commenced during childhood. This finding has been documented in several other studies of women who use drugs, including research conducted in other cultures and with women whose drugs of choice are other than methamphetamine. Chapter 7 focuses on treatment, recovery and relapse to which Boeri refers to as a revolving door. Here, we are presented with the devastating implications of the War on Drugs. Boeri notes that food stamps are unavailable to those with a felony drug conviction (but not other felony convictions). How can it be that a democratic society restricts access to basic human needs–food and shelter–based on individuals’ connections to psychoactive 366 BOOK REVIEW substances? Boeri describes women’s experiences with drug courts and notes that some respondents perceived that they had benefitted from these interventions. Advocates of the drug court model might capitalize on these findings. Boeri suggests that “social recovery” (as opposed to abstinence) should be the first goal on the slow road to recovery. Social recovery includes the “skills, resources and networks needed that enhance people’s ability to live in society without resorting to problematic alcohol or drug use” (p. 157). The final chapter addresses policy implications, and rich narratives portray women transitioning from the security of private residences to the vulnerability associated with homelessness. Boeri offers six interesting proposals for change: 1. harm reduction (e.g., mobile services to reach the suburban poor); 2. social recovery (she uses vignettes to illustrate how social recovery might be accomplished); 3. treatment on demand; 4. housing first that advocates low threshold and high tolerance housing (she incorporates work on surveillance and social control mechanisms that regulate and monitor “social deviants”); 5. restorative and transformative justice; and 6. female initiated programs. Throughout the book, I observed that women’s behaviors were often influenced by structural barriers and institutionalized stigma whereby the drug user label was nearly impossible to shake, even when women demonstrated progress toward recovery. It was as if the system resisted the very notion of recovery and the challenges faced by people in recovery. The structural barriers that reduced the likelihood of recovery included the limited availability of drug treatment and the irony that jails and prisons provided the best opportunity for treatment for most of the respondents. Twelve-step programs were used because they were economically viable and anonymous—so important to many of these women who wished to avoid the stigma of the public gaze. Hospital emergency rooms were used in hopes of availing of detox programs, hardly a treatment option, although an important step in the treatment process. Structural barriers included the high threshold entrance criteria for accommodation in homeless shelters (where identification cards are hot commodities) as well as the drug testing that has made its ugly way into homeless shelters and used as a tool of exclusion. I pondered the contradiction between exclusionary practices in places referred to as shelters and wondered why private health insurance provided funds for such limited time in drug treatment, regulations that are inconsistent with what the scientific evidence has found in terms of the benefits of long stays in treatment. To me, Women on Ice is a damning indictment of the US system and how it responds to people experiencing problems with drug use. Research textbooks generally warn us to remain objective. Ethnography makes this impossible when researchers are confronted with human despair. Boeri takes a side, an empathetic one, and it is refreshing to see how she does it, as she steps out of the research role in an attempt to address the void in social services. Boeri treats respondents to meals, assists them in locating BOOK REVIEW 367 employment and accommodation, provides the warm coats, and drives respondents to appointments. Her commitment to the respondents has been guided by not only the ethnographic pursuit but because she cared. In one section, Boeri describes how she and two staff members phoned more than 20 services in an attempt to find accommodation for one woman respondent: “The evidence we collected that week supported what the women had told us: They [services] never call back” (p. 160). I have minor quibbles with the material in this book. First, the theoretical emphasis on social roles is fascinating, but I would have preferred more exploration into the structural barriers that contribute to changes across roles and trajectories. To me, respondents’ narratives provide glaring evidence of institutionalized stigma that seems to reinforce a drug user identity. Boeri is very critical of these social control mechanisms but does not really link the damages in the collective. Still, researchers have different views of the social world and the data that is produced from it. Second, Boeri notes that mixed-method strategies “are relatively new” (p. 187). I agree that mixed-method strategies have gained momentum; however, I am reminded of W. E. B. Du Bois’ mixed-method approach in his urban study that he conducted over 100 years ago and was reviewed recently in this journal. In summary, Women on Ice contributes to our understanding of women and drug use. It highlights both the social construction of the meth panic and the despair that methamphetamine use can create. It notes the importance of social class and age among women whose trajectories are altered. The book is well worth the read. REFEREnCES Hart, C. (2013). High price: A neuroscientist’s journey of self-discovery that challenges everything you know about drugs and society. New York, NY: Harper. JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Book Review: Barrett, C.J., Courting Kids: Inside an Experimental Youth Court. new York university Press, 2013; 212 pp.; ISBn: 978-0-8147-0945-0 Reviewed by: Avi Brisman, Eastern Kentucky University, USA In the late 1980s and early 1990s, the United States witnessed a small increase in youth violence, particularly a rise in gun violence among young African-American urban males. This spike in gun violence was localized and primarily linked to turmoil surrounding the introduction of crack cocaine into many cities around the country—metropolitan areas that were already experiencing crushing economic pressures, unemployment, and decaying neighborhoods. There was no evidence of an overall nationwide surge in “youth crime” or “juvenile crime”—terms that became conflated with serious “youth violence,” which, in turn, became code for “dangerous young black or brown men.” Despite this reality, a racialized moral panic took hold, focusing on an emerging generation of young “superpredators.” In response to the perceived threat of hyperviolence perpetrated by poor, young, urban African-American and Hispanic males, states changed their laws, allowing more youths to be tried as adults in criminal courts (often for nonviolent crimes, such as drug and property offenses), thereby denying these young people the rehabilitation-centered treatments typically provided within the setting of juvenile courts. This punitive “transfer” or “waiver” legislation—so-called because it historically involved the transfer or waiver of young defendants from the jurisdiction of a juvenile court system to that of a criminal court—“flourished in a time of misconception about the amount and percentage of crime attributable to young people,” Barrett explains, “compounded by mounting fear of the urban nonwhite male teenager, all set within a larger trend of retributive justice policy and resulting mass-incarceration movement” (p. 11). “Across the 1990s,” she continues, “changes to transfer laws substantially rewrote legal and social policy in regard to youth, which in turn has altered the legal, social, and criminological discourse on appropriate or inappropriate responses to youth violence, juvenile delinquency, the degree of culpability among the young, and their perceived amenability to treatment” (pp. 11-12). These policy changes that were introduced in the 1990s and that have served to routinize the criminal prosecution of youth are still prevalent across the country, and have created a unique category of defendant in criminal courtrooms—what Barrett, an assistant professor in the Department of Sociology at John Jay College of Crimi- BOOK REVIEW 369 nal Justice, City University of New York, refers to as the “adult-juvenile”—an individual “under the age of 18 caught in a legal limbo: legally labeled within the justice system as an adult for the purposes of criminal prosecution, yet still defined as a minor in all other legal and social settings” (p. 12). This criminal prosecution of adolescents has produced a range of challenges for judges, defense attorneys, prosecutors, and other criminal-court actors, who must “filter” transfer laws—alter or adjust their case processing to reconcile the inherent contradictions of prosecuting youths as if they were adults. Courting Kids: Inside an Experimental Youth Court is Barrett’s ethnographic account of how the Manhattan Youth Part, a courtroom in New York City set aside for criminal cases involving youths who are required by law to be prosecuted as adults, sought to filter New York’s transfer laws. It is a moving tale of how court actors, led by Judge Michael Corriero (who presided over the Manhattan Youth Part from its creation in 1992 to his retirement in 2007), struggled to “hold young defendants, nearly all of them black and/or Hispanic males between the ages of 14 and 18, accountable for their alleged crimes while acknowledging their adolescence and attempting to divert them away from the full force of the adult sentences they were facing” (p. 2). But it is more than that. Because, as Barrett asserts, “[o]ne cannot, should not, research, theorize, or write about judicial processes in U.S. courts without researching, theorizing, and writing about race” (pp. 17-18), Courting Kids is also an indictment of racial disparities in the system of criminal (in)justice in the United States. Courting Kids: Inside an Experimental Youth Court is divided into six chapters, along with an introduction and a conclusion. In the introduction, “An Experiment in Youth Justice,” Barrett provides an overview of and background on the Manhattan Youth Part’s creative efforts to provide legal alternatives within the statutory constraints of retributive law, for AfricanAmerican and Hispanic youths from poor urban communities facing felony charges and possible incarceration. Barrett clearly and succinctly describes juvenile justice prior to the 1990s, the superpredator moral panic that led to the criminalization of youth and “transfer law boom” in 1990s, the impact of transfer laws on case processing, and her methods for conducting research on the Manhattan Youth Part. Chapter One, “Calendar Days in the Youth Part,” builds on the introduction to further explain the history of New York’s criminal prosecution of youth and the genesis of the Manhattan Youth Part, and provides a description of a typical “calendar day” in the courtroom of the Manhattan Youth Part. Barrett’s exquisite detail of the sounds, space, and rhythms of the courtroom transports us to the floor of the building in downtown Manhattan, where the court is located, enabling us to more fully appreciate the mundanity and drama of case processing, while heightening our awareness of the racial and gender dynamics of the court. 370 BOOK REVIEW Chapter Two, “Creating the ‘Juvenile offender,’” offers a history of new York state law related to youthful offending, beginning with the 1978 Juvenile Offender Law—the first in the country to allow criminal prosecution of youth under age 16 without juvenile court oversight—which set an early precedent for the routine prosecution of youths as adults. Barrett concludes Chapter Two with an examination of data on indictments in New York City from the mid-1980s to the mid-2000s, highlighting the demographic trends among youths prosecuted as adults in the city. With this historical and demographic backdrop, Barrett demonstrates, in Chapters Three, Four, and Five, the many challenges that she witnessed in the day-to-day case processing of young defendants and the innovative strategies that the court employed in response to them. Chapter Three, “Rehabilitation, Youth Part Style,” shows how the court used intentional delay and calculated judicial discretion in concert with alternative-to-incarceration programs to enable a young defendant to “earn back his juvenile status”—to receive a sentence as a “Youthful Offender,” which, provided the youth stayed out of trouble and did not violate the terms of his probation over a set period of time, would enable his criminal records to be sealed, thereby removing the stigma of “felon” and the requirement to declare his felonious transgressions on job applications and elsewhere. Chapter Four, “Individualized Justice in a Criminal Court,” is the most ethnographically rich part of the book. Here, Barrett reveals her talents as a qualitative researcher, using courtroom narratives to demonstrate how the culture and day-to-day practices of the Manhattan Youth Part reconceptualized the original parens patriae philosophy of juvenile courts with their emphasis on individualized justice, child-saving strategies, and rehabilitative goals. We feel that we get to know the young people passing through the court—no small feat given that Barrett did not interview any of the youth defendants. She concludes the chapter with a comparison of her findings with those of Aaron Kupchik, whose Judging Juveniles: Prosecuting Adolescents in Adult and Juvenile Courts, in tandem with Courting Kids, furthers our understanding of how criminal courts grapple with the realities of trying youths as adults. Chapter Five, “Managing Contradictions,” focuses on the contradictions between the legal and social status of the “kids”—the common descriptor Barrett intentionally employs to humanize and reflect the reality of courtinvolved youth. Here, Barrett highlights the fundamental irrationality of the adult prosecution of adolescents, providing a springboard for her critical discussion, in Chapter Six, “Judging the Court, Judging Transfer,” of the criminal prosecution of youth (in general), the Manhattan Youth Part practices (in particular), and what the future might hold for legal responses to adolescent transgression and the practice of prosecuting youths as adults. BOOK REVIEW 371 Barrett concludes, in “Kids Will Be Kids,” with a discussion of how the experiment in justice undertaken by the Manhattan Youth Part provides a model for responding to serious adolescent lawbreakers—a model that holds kids accountable for their actions, allows for a consideration of the reality of their youthful (and frequently troubled) lives, and brings a measure of empathy and humanity to the practice of rehabilitative justice in an era of retribution. In sum, Courting Kids: Inside an Experimental Youth Court is an insightful account of the proper (and improper) legal responses to youth offenders, about the (un)tenability of prosecuting kids as adults, and about the ongoing criminalization of youth. While Barrett could have written a rallying cry for reform—and while anyone who has kids, knows kids, or was once a kid will at times be saddened and at others enraged by what is revealed in the book— her restraint, combined with careful analysis and cogent critique, renders Courting Kids an invaluable tool in sorting out how to balance the idea that some kids should be punished harshly for committing serious crimes with the notion that adolescents are different from adults and therefore worthy of sentencing alternatives and attempts at rehabilitation. JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Book Review: Jamie J. Fader, Falling Back: Incarceration and Transitions to Adulthood among Urban Youth Rutgers university Press, 2013; 256 pp.; ISBn: 9780813560748 Reviewed by: Kallee Spooner, Sam Houston State University, USA In her first book, Jamie J. Fader presents an account of a group of young black males attempting to “fall back,” or stay out of trouble, as they return from a juvenile residential corrections facility to their communities in Philadelphia. Prior to the study, Fader spent six years evaluating delinquency programs for the city of Philadelphia and over a year working at a communitybased aftercare program that assisted youth returning to the city from reform schools. Fader gained access and insight to the structure and processes of the juvenile court system, which facilitated her research. This book contributes to the fields of sociology and criminal justice, particularly on the topic of minority youth involved in the juvenile justice system. In a longitudinal ethnographic study between 2004-2007, Fader conducted intensive participant observation and interviews with 15 young men of color who were adjudicated delinquent for drug offenses, sent to the pseudonymous “Mountain Ridge Academy,” and returned to their communities. At the reform school, Fader attended a training session for staff members and interviewed the study participants. For approximately three years after their release from the residential facility, Fader maintained close relationships with the young men, checked criminal records, and spoke with probation officers and reintegration workers. The participants were given tape-recorders for weekly responses to questions that they could answer when and where they felt comfortable, thus eliminating interviewer bias. By establishing strong relationships and trust with the subjects Fader was provided with information that would be unattainable through other methods. The findings of her research are not generalizable to other times or places, but that was not the purpose of the study. The objective was to provide a detailed account of the unique worldviews and experiences of young black men who were simultaneously transitioning from adolescence to adulthood and from incarceration to their communities. This book is suitable for scholars or students interested in qualitative ethnographic research methods, race, corrections, or community reentry. Fader’s in-depth exploration of the inner-city criminogenic environment and minority culture presents the underrepresented view of the people who are BOOK REVIEW 373 most affected by mass incarceration and correctional policy. Criminal justice practitioners and policy makers should read this book as well. The text elucidates the largely undocumented effects of residential programs on young black males, information which is valuable for constructing corrections and reentry programs and for crafting legislation. The readability of this text makes it accessible to general audiences; it is not bogged down with technical jargon. The chapters are well organized and flow logically. Fader begins with an introduction of the research design and methods. The study is put into context with a discussion of the social and cultural climate of endemic poverty, violence, and racial segregation in Philadelphia. Then, the reader is introduced to the study participants and their life histories. The next chapter presents the philosophy and procedures of Mountain Ridge Academy from the perspectives of the staff and residents. With a thorough understanding of the people and place to be studied, the book transitions to the focal substance of the piece: reentry. Fader details the obstacles that young black men face when returning home to Philadelphia; there are threats to masculinity, gender dynamics come into play, lack of services and meaningful employment are hurdles to be faced, fatherhood puts added pressure on them, and they must defend themselves from attacks on their cultural identity in the face of racial, class, and criminal stigmas. After a lucid discussion of the problems with reentry, Fader proposes alternatives that balance public safety with the needs of vulnerable youth. Fader identifies factors associated with desistance as a combination of individual personality, social bonds, stakes in conformity, and masculine gender role expectations. Since Mountain Ridge Academy only addressed reform of character, it failed to effectively decrease the risk of reoffending. The staff at Mountain Ridge measured success as staying out of jail and living long enough to attend the annual graduation ceremony held after release. This outcome indicator ignores the detrimental effects that incarceration and cumulative social disadvantage have on the young men and their families. Fader’s findings demonstrate that an effective correctional program must address the sociocultural impediments that minority communities confront. Throughout the book, Fader eloquently alludes to the structural disadvantage that young black men and their families encounter with the criminal justice system, employment, poverty, violence, guns, education, failing schools, mass incarceration, residential segregation, and discrimination. With all of the complex social maladies that urban black youth face, Fader does an exceptional job getting the point across in a well-articulated manner. In sum, this prominent text contributes to the dearth of literature focused on youth reentry from residential facilities and is an excellent example of a longitudinal ethnographic study. JQCJC Volume 1 Book Review: number 2 (oCTober 2013) Ronald Weitzer, Legalizing Prostitution: From Illicit Vice to Lawful Business new York university Press, new York, nY, 2012; 284 pp.; ISBn: 978-0-8147-9464-7 Reviewed by: Tammy Castle, James Madison University, USA Dr. Ronald Weitzer is considered an expert on the sex industry, having studied prostitution for over a decade. In his latest book, Legalizing Prostitution: From Illicit Vice to Lawful Business, Weitzer provides a comprehensive examination of the myriad dimensions of sex work by drawing on both past research and his own ethnographic field work. Not only does he shatter prostitution myths by using empirical data, but also offers an alternative paradigm for understanding sex work that is theoretically grounded. In addition, he casts a critical eye on prostitution policies in the United States and proposes a “best practices” approach to legalized prostitution, one that encourages harm reduction through standards and regulation. The book is logically organized into three parts. In Part I, Weitzer introduces the topic of sex work by outlining various aspects of the sex industry and discussing research findings on prostitution. In Chapter 1, he provides a definition of sex work as “the exchange of sexual services for material compensation as well as the selling of erotic performances or products,” and notes that the sex industry includes “workers, managers, owners, marketers, agencies, clubs, and trade associations involved in sexual commerce, both legal and illegal varieties” (p. 3). Although the sex industry is lucrative in Western countries, engaging in sex work continues to be stigmatized, and workers are marginalized. Prostitution remains taboo among the public and controversial among scholars, as opposing paradigms compete for dominance. The author identifies these paradigms as empowerment and oppression, while offering a third alternative to understanding prostitution. Under the empowerment paradigm, prostitution is viewed as one type of service work that not only provides an income but also may serve to empower sex workers, due to having more control over one’s body and working conditions. On the other hand, supporters of the oppression paradigm contend that sex work “perpetuates inequality both symbolically and instrumentally” through the objectification and commodification of women’s bodies (p. 10). Furthermore, anti-prostitution activists maintain that sex work should BOOK REVIEW 375 be eliminated because “exploitation, subjugation, and violence are intrinsic to and ineradicable from sex work–transcending historical time period, national context, and type of sexual commerce” (p. 11). Weitzer argues that both paradigms fail to acknowledge the nuances of sex work, as well as the research findings that contradict their claims (e.g. counter-evidence that prostitutes enter the profession as adults and have low rates of childhood sexual abuse/victimization). For that reason, the author offers an alternative model for understanding prostitution. The polymorphous paradigm is “sensitive to complexities and to the structural conditions shaping sex work along a continuum of agency and subordination” (p. 16). The author’s proposed paradigm is a modified version of Symanski’s (1981) typology of prostitution: the exploitation of sex workers and the impact of the sex industry on the community varies among the different types of sex work. Along the continuum, street prostitution is characterized by high exploitation and an adverse impact on the community, due to the accompanying social problems which include drug use and crime. Weitzer asserts that the prostitution myths perpetuated by anti-prostitution activists, politicians, and the media highlight this type of sex work. Chapter 2 is devoted to debunking these myths using data gathered from around the world on the differences between street and indoor prostitution. In Part II of the book, Weitzer presents the prostitution policies in the United States, noting that similar to other crimes, the trend has become more repressive and punitive. In public opinion polls, the majority of Americans do not support the legalization of prostitution and in jurisdictions where ballot initiatives have been introduced to decriminalize sex work, all have failed to pass. While acknowledging that public opinion matters, Weitzer also highlights his concerns with blanket criminalization. For that reason, he proposes a two-track policy based on a British model where the vast resources spent on closing indoor sex work operations (as long as they are consensual) should be diverted to reducing street prostitution. However, rather than adopt a strictly punitive approach, the focus should be on protecting sex workers from violent victimization and providing them with services and the support necessary to leave prostitution. In the final chapter of Part II, the author examines legal prostitution systems in Nevada and other countries, highlighting some of the challenges each jurisdiction faced after legalizing prostitution. The last part of the book is devoted to case studies of three major cities in northern Europe with red-light districts (RLD): Antwerp, Belgium; Frankfurt, Germany; and Amsterdam, Netherlands. Weitzer defined an RLD as “an area where sexually oriented businesses are clustered and publicly visible and does not include areas where prostitution is confined to street-level transactions” (p. 106). In this section, Weitzer presents the findings from his extensive field work combined with data from other sources, including newspaper articles, surveys, and client postings on Internet discussion 376 BOOK REVIEW boards. He observed transactions in all locations and interviewed key players in the sex industry. This data is supplemented with photos of the RLD in each city, as well as rich descriptions of the surrounding geographical area and sexual landscape. Weitzer concludes the book by proposing standards for legalizing prostitution based on the idea that “consensual adult prostitution be officially recognized as work and that participants be accorded the rights and protections available to those involved in other occupations” (p. 207). These standards involve issues concerning five areas: visibility, eligibility, health, safety, and rights. The suggestions offered were gleaned from the “best practices” of the legal prostitutions systems, and focus on protecting both sex workers and the surrounding community from the impact of the industry. In summary, Weitzer provides an in-depth examination of legalized prostitution systems, while also proposing a new paradigm for understanding sex work. Students in the areas of both criminal justice and sociology would benefit from reading this book, because it highlights problems with how we conceptualize sex work and how that impacts criminal justice policies. The book may not be without controversy, however, since Weitzer is critical of anti-prostitution activists who push their agenda by offering sensationalized images of prostitution and highlighting the worst cases. In spite of this, he makes a strong case that the liberalization of prostitution is desirable and possible at the local level in the United States. REFEREnCES Symanski, R. (1981). The immoral landscape. Toronto, Canada: Buttersworth. JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Book Review: Stephanie C. kane, Where Rivers Meet the Sea: The Political Ecology of Water Temple university Press, 2012; 228 pp.; ISBn:978-1-4399-0931-7 Reviewed by: Ashley K. Farmer, University of Delaware, USA Where Rivers Meet the Sea aims to explore how human beings have somehow created an environment that threatens the life-sustaining water systems that are such a natural, and perhaps taken for granted, part of their communities. Exploring rich cultural and historical contexts within two strikingly different South American neighborhoods, Stephanie C. Kane delves into how communities situated along bodies of water interact with and affect the human-water relationship. She pays particular attention to how culture, art, and race are intertwined with politics, crime, and governance. Dr. Kane’s experience as an ethnographer and her fieldwork in Panama, Veracruz, Amsterdam, and Hamburg make her well qualified for this endeavor. Her fluency in Spanish, evident in her written work, results in straightforward and relatable communication in the places she visits. Kane’s suitability for pursuit of this project and her commitment to cultural and justice issues is evidenced by prior work such as The Phantom Gringo Boat: Shamanic Discourse and Development in Panama (1994). The book is divided into two parts. The first section focuses on Kane’s fieldwork in Salvador da Bahia, Brazil, where she meets Antonio Conceição Reis, activist and founder of Nativo de Itapuã, a project focused on the preservation of Lake Abaeté. Kane sees the devastating pollution and heavily trafficked tourist areas. She learns the history of how laundresses used Lake Abaeté to wash clothes, and people used to collect drinking water. Citizens believe the waters of Abaeté have receded over the years, due to the development of local industries and hotels that draw from the lake aquifer and contribute to the sewage, retreat of vegetation, and shallow wells. Studies from government officials deny this. Aside from businesses, the community faces other obstacles in respect to illegal well digging and drainage infrastructure. The regional history of racial tensions and religious beliefs come to a head during the Carnaval festivals, showcasing the significance of these coastal sites, even though there is little regard to caring for them. The fight for environmental justice culminates in the assassination of activist Antonio Conceição Reis, who was the staunch lone defender of the waters. Among suspicions that police were responsible for his murder, the populace does 378 BOOK REVIEW not correlate the abundance of water with the importance of how to save it, and practices that cause pollution in this marginalized society have become the norm. In Part Two, Kane travels to Buenos Aires, Argentina, in the Plate River Basin, where two of the dirtiest rivers in the world converge. In stark contrast to Salvador, many in this community are politically active. One of the recurrent demonstrations occurs on World Water Day, when concerned citizens chant, “We are water. We are moving water” (p. 109). A man tells his fellow neighbors, “[I]f we don’t take care of water today, we will be accomplices responsible for everything that our children will see in the generations to come” (p. 111). Even though there are a considerable number of concerned citizens, politics and governance reign supreme amid aspects of crime and power. The military and the governmental elites are in control and do not favor such participatory action, while also denying communities the means with which to achieve goals of clean water and sewage infrastructure. Neighbors and lawyers attempt to work together while tensions result from disparate opinions on how to best proceed in defending the waters. Urban development has crippled river life, and demonstrations in support of clean water are a nuisance to some. Although the section ends on a down note, with the citizens losing a court case based on judges’ jurisdictional claims and displacement of responsibility, the lingering impact is one of hopeful resistance. Throughout her fieldwork, Kane depicts vivid and lasting images complete with photographs and maps that further enable the readers to immerse themselves by visualizing the neighborhoods and waterways. In places where water is in abundance, she effectively presents the argument that we are not apart from nature and that the environment is very much influenced by our culture. An impressive aspect of this book is the role history plays in these narratives, and this is something Kane highlights exceptionally well. None of these communities began evolving crucial human-water relationships overnight; these were relationships built over many years. What captures the reader’s attention are the personal narratives of people Kane meets along the way, from Antonio, to the laundress Dona Pitu, to the security guard present at a demonstration in Buenos Aires. The struggles and annoyances perceived by the people living in the port cities are presented clearly. Kane also takes care to explain her journey so that those interested in ethnographic methods may gain great insight into her role as participant observer. While Kane acknowledges the importance of history, culture, environment, law, politics, race, crime, and justice as each impacts the communities she writes about, only some of these concepts are fleshed out within the text. Some of the sections seem disjointed, jumping from narrative to historical analysis. Presumably this is to follow the chronological order of when Kane encountered stories and issues in the field, but this format interrupts the flow of the chapter. In the introduction, one of the stated goals is to highlight aspects of crime and law and the institutions and frameworks they create. BOOK REVIEW 379 While there are descriptions of environmental degradation, illegal dumping, well excavations, and corporate developments that ignore the existing laws on the books, these concepts as they relate to crime are only explained superficially. The reader is left to make assumptions about the full extent of criminal activity, and how aware citizens are of this activity even being criminal. It is questionable if this secondary goal is met. Furthermore, Kane briefly concludes that environmental laws need to be enforced and those who are responsible for contaminating, polluting, and otherwise disregarding water should be held accountable. This is undoubtedly true, but the reader is left wanting to know more. How can politically oppressed individuals spread awareness of the laws in places with corrupt governments, especially when they might not be aware themselves? While these are certainly complex issues that could be addressed holistically in another forum, the statement that these laws should be enforced as a start to address the problems seems too simplistic, without recommendations for what individuals can do on a smaller scale to help. Despite these criticisms, the reader comes to recognize and appreciate that because of the vast complexity and intricacies of environmental justice and the culture of water, there is no simple way to address the problems. These challenges are shaped by a history of racial and class oppression, religious beliefs, laws fully ignored by citizens and corporations alike, politics and governance by the elite, and numerous other influences. Therefore, the book would be better suited for more advanced students or those with at least a cursory understanding of the issues in this book, as they will be better equipped to appreciate the difficulties of how the human-water relationship is developed and broken down. Policymakers, researchers, and environmentalists will also find this book beneficial, because they already have a vested interest in environmental justice issues. The reader cannot help but walk away with a sense of concern, not only for the cities outlined here, but for all cities along waterways that have become polluted or struggle for access to clean water. JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Book Review: John Irwin, Lifers: Seeking Redemption in Prison Routledge, 2009; 140 pp.; ISBn: 978-0415801980 Reviewed by: Brian P. Schaefer, University of Louisville, USA The late John Irwin had a distinguished career researching the realities of American prisons and the associated cultures and norms that develop within these institutions. His legacy of research challenged widely held beliefs about the nature of imprisonment and reentry and introduced us to new frameworks to understand the prison industry. Along with famous works such as The Felon (1970), The Jail (1985), and The Warehouse Prison (2004), Irwin was instrumental in introducing Convict Criminology to academe, giving a voice to those who experienced the pains of imprisonment. In his final book, Lifers: Seeking Redemption Prison (2009), Irwin once again explores the challenges of prison, examining the complexities of individuals sentenced to life in prison. Irwin attempts to challenge the myths associated with these individuals and to humanize the criminal other. He uses in-depth interviews to take the reader through the lives of 17 individuals who are serving a life sentence for homicide or second-degree homicide in San Quentin Prison in California. The depth of Irwin’s argument is found in chapters 2 through 5. In chapters 2 and 3, Irwin discusses the backgrounds of each offender, noting that many of the crimes were a result of immature decisions, emotions, or poor life circumstances that culminated in an act of homicide or second degree homicide and, in a few stances, likely wrongful convictions. In each instance, the lifers were sentenced to life in prison and faced decades in prison, but with the possibility of being released on parole. In Chapter 4, Irwin discusses how the lifers awaken and recognize that what they did was wrong and come to the realization that they need to improve their lives. It is at this point that the lifers begin to take advantage of rehabilitation programs such as educational and vocational training. Following the awakening, the lifers seek atonement (Chapter 5). The lifers pass through multiple stages of atonement working through their shortcomings and then attempt to acquire a pro-social orientation. The final stage of atonement involves making preparation to carry out this orientation to earn parole and be released from prison. These four chapters instill the thought processes and emotions that the lifers have experienced and their desire to change their lives; there is an emphasis on the fact that even so-called “evil” people can turn their lives BOOK REVIEW 381 around and, in doing so, challenge the dominant discourses of the American criminal justice system. The humanization of lifers is an important contribution, but the most important component of Irwin’s argument is shown by taking this analysis and placing it in the wider context of social conflicts, including the politics of prison reform and the difficulties of reentry. Irwin notes that states are facing increased budgetary constraints due to the high number of prisoners, long sentence lengths, and the high medical costs of elder prisoners. As prisoners are released, additional complication arise, because many of these individuals are not provided with any assistance in obtaining basic necessities such as housing, work, or transportation. For lifers, this is particularly troubling, for they have spent decades in prison and have watched society pass them by. Without support, it makes it difficult for lifers or any of the thousands of prisoners returning to society each year to turn their lives around. It is through raising the issue of reentry that Irwin makes one of his most important points: that prisoners and ex-prisoners should have a voice in in the reentry discussion. Irwin recognizes that prisoners and ex-prisoners, having experienced the difficulties of reentry, have a unique set of insights and knowledge that can assist in developing better policy. Additional research should continue Irwin’s work by examining the challenges prisoners face when returning to society, as well as how prisoners change their lives around while inside the prison walls. Irwin’s study is a good start to this project, but the small samples size and the narrow population–lifers convicted of murder and residing in one prison–is not representative of prisoners in the United States. Additional research is needed that asks prisoners who a wide-range of sentences and convictions to explain the challenges of prison and reentry. While this research is being conducted, researchers should remain reflexive in the challenges they face when researching prison populations to inform the discipline of techniques needed to overcome barriers often associated with prison research (Jewkes, 2012). Notwithstanding the limitations and the need for future research, Irwin eloquently captures the complexities of prisoners sentenced to life. These 17 individuals shared common upbringings that often consisted of difficult life circumstances or bad choices driven by heightened emotions. Despite the seriousness of the crimes committed by these individuals, Irwin shows how even violent offenders can be transformed through their years spent in prison and develop the desire to improve their lives. Irwin confronts the myth that murderers are evil people who need to be locked up forever and, instead, shows that these long-prison sentences are inhumane; the lack of reentry programs are harming society. In his final book, Irwin successfully contests notions about prisons and challenges the reader to think differently about prisoners, therefore his book would be a valuable source for undergraduate courses or a supplement to graduate seminars on prison. In true Convict Criminological fashion, Irwin is able to teach the reader about prison 382 BOOK REVIEW using the perspectives and insights of prisoners to expose the contradictions in the American prison system. REFEREnCES Irwin, J. (1970). The felon. Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press. Irwin, J. (1985). The jail: Managing the underclass in american society. Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press. Irwin, J., & Owen, B. (2004). The warehouse prison: Disposal of the new dangerous class. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Jewkes, Y. (2012). Autoethnoraphy and emotion as intellectual resources: Doing prison research differently. Qualitative Inquiry, 18, 63-75. JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Book reviews typically focus on new noteworthy books based on topics relevant to the particular journal. For JQCJC, this means qualitative studies and research methods books focusing on qualitative methodologies. Once a book has passed its expiration date—typically one to three years after publication—the book is no longer considered fresh and worth reviewing. Over time, however, some books which should not be forgotten or neglected are overlooked. Here at JQCJC, we believe that it is worth revisiting these works and evaluating their contributions (or potential contributions) to the discipline. With that goal in mind, most issues of JQCJC will include a historical book review of a noteworthy but underappreciated work with the intent to make the old relevant once again. Hopefully, these reviews will encourage scholars to sift through the academic waste bin, as Jeff Ferrell might say, to find works which have been discarded or overlooked, but still have much to offer Criminal Justice and Criminology. Kevin F. Steinmetz Book Review Editor JQCJC Volume 1 number 2 (oCTober 2013) Historical Book Review: Eugene debs, Walls & Bars: Prisons & Prison Life in the “Land of the Free” ker Publishing Company, 1927/2000; 248 pp.; ISBn: 088286-248-0 Reviewed by: Edward L.W. Green, Kansas State University, USA FoR PRESIdEnT – ConVICT no. 9653 This piece reviews a largely overlooked account of prison experience written by Eugene V. Debs, concerning observations of prisons around the turn of the 20th century in the US. The book Walls and Bars: Prisons & Prison Life in the “Land of the Free” contributes many insights consistent with contemporary knowledge for criminology and criminal justice. It is not, however, without notable limitations. The subject-position of this account is clearly political and biased in a Protestant brand of morality and humanism. Debs expresses himself substantively throughout the book between the polemics of the sacred and the profane, although not in those words specifically. The theoretical paradigm of the sacred and the profane underpins many sociological contributions of this historical era, most notably Durkheim. Although this work is historical, there are many statements that stand consistent with contemporary academic thought. As such, Debs’ work contributes a substantial historical and situated perspective to the Criminal Justice and Criminological body of knowledge. Eugene Debs (1855-1926) is well known as a labor organizer. His popularity grew throughout the early twentieth century, and Debs was even nominated for President of the United States five times. Importantly, Debs was also a Federal inmate. He had been incarcerated because of his public protest of the United States’ involvement in World War I. His only book, published posthumously, was entitled Walls and Bars: Prisons & Prison Life in the “Land of the Free.” This book chronicles a first-hand account of prison stints from just before the turn of the century to his eventual pardon of 1921 by President Harding. Debs’ longest term in prison was two and a half years, which prompted him to write this book. His thesis is clear in the introduction provided below: While still an inmate of the United States Penitentiary at Atlanta, Georgia, the suggestion was made to me by interested publishers that upon my release I write a series of articles describing my prison experience. The suggestion, coming from BOOK REVIEW 385 various sources, appealed to me for the reason that I saw in it an opportunity to give the general public certain information in regard to the prison, based upon my personal observation and experience, that I hoped might result in some beneficial changes in the management of prisons and in the treatment of their inmates. (Debs, 1927/2000, p. 18) What can criminology and criminal justice garner from visiting this early participant-observation of US prisons early in the twentieth century? Loic Wacquant (2002) once asked where to find prison ethnographic research during an age of mass incarceration. Where is it? The call for ethnographic research in this area continues more recently with a special issue of Criminal Justice Matters concerning what prison ethnographic work contributes to the body of knowledge (Drake & Earle, 2013). One contributing article in that issue by Yvonne Jewkes (2013) calls for an “ethnography of confinement” pertaining to the growing prison systems around the world. The article ends with a hopeful claim that this ethnographic dearth seems to be narrowing as emergent research is published across several areas of prison research. Examining the past for such empirical based records, such as that provided by Debs, however, would contribute a wider breadth and historical depth to our base of knowledge. While there may be limitations to Debs’ theoretical lens, he was clearly a cogent, consistent, and deep thinker of topics that pertain to our fields of study in Sociology, Criminology and Criminal Justice Studies. These first chapters of Wall & Bars introduce the macro trends on prisons during Debs’ time. Chapter 1 is entitled, “The Relation of Society to the Convict,” and concerns reflexive stories concerning the overwhelming poverty of prisoners encountered by the author. Perhaps most significantly, Debs (1927) contributes an early argument against deterrence stating, “The ancient idea was the more cruel the punishment the more certain the reformation” (p. 32). The scholar completes this inquisition of deterrence with a rather Foucauldian notion, arguing, “We now know that brutality begets brutality, and we know that through the centuries there has been a steady modification of discipline and method in the treatment of prisoners” (Debs, 1927, p. 32). This thought and thesis continues through the following chapter, “The Prison as an Incubator of Crime.” Chapter Two presents a strong observation that we have come to consider “stigma.” This chapter considers the social conditions, the class of those policed, and finally the social “branding” that being a convict bears. This resonates with two venerable theoretical positions. Describing Labeling Theory, Howard Becker reminds the reader that it is not the cells or categories we use to denote certain behaviors, but their interrelations with surrounding factors (1973, p. 180). Debs (1927) states, “That record will follow them through every avenue and lane of life and will serve to convict them in advance of any charge that any malevolent person might subsequently bring 386 BOOK REVIEW against them” (p. 43). It would be almost half of a century, however, before Ervine Goffman (1963) would establish Debs’ second theoretical position in his book entitled Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity. Debs’ first-hand accounts are deeply reflexive, contributing insights into inter-personal and community identity within prisons. Debs articulates how he was treated by the fellow inmates and experienced environmental conditions through a largely silenced and invisible population, historically. Chapters Three through Six concern the situations that led to Debs becoming Convict no. 9653, his experiences with the inmates, his illness while in prison, and stories of solitude in the absence of visitors; he shared the isolation imposed on many fellow inmates. Yvonne Jewkes argues that ethnography allows the researcher to write herself into the narrative (2013). This auto-ethnographic perspective, as Jewkes notes, “provides a benchmark for others trying to process their experiences about the research they undertake” (2013, p. 15). Debs’ account allows us as scholars to peer through his first-order analysis. The following example exercises the use of personal reflexivity to humanize the numbers of the incarcerated pertaining to getting to know the general population of the penitentiary: These men were convicted felons, outcasts from society, pariahs, and yet in their ministrations to me and to each other in their unselfish desire to give rather than to receive, and in their eagerness to serve rather than be served, they set an example that might well be followed by some people who never saw the inside of prison walls. (Debs, 1927, p. 71) Chapter Five includes an account of Debs getting sick after a particularly hot summer in 1919. He accounts losing 25 pounds due to the conditions and quality of food served to him while incarcerated (Debs, 1927). While Debs’ heart condition led to his hospital stay and the recording of events he encountered while there, the reader is treated to a more profound realization concerning drug addiction and incarceration. While hospitalized, Debs (1927) observed people going through withdrawal and argues: They are sick people who require special treatment, and not vicious ones to be sent to the torture chamber of a prison, and it is nothing less than a reproach to society and a disgrace to our civilization that this malady is branded as a crime instead of being ministered to as an affliction, which it most assuredly is. (p. 85) This observation of a more medical approach to corrections would not be revisited for more than thirty years. Chapter Seven concerns the period when Debs was nominated for president. The famous campaign pin reads “For President- Convict No. 9653.” Eu- BOOK REVIEW 387 gene Debs was a political prisoner for voicing his opinion. This resonated with many who had been influenced by Debs’ organizing efforts through labor unions. Having been nominated four times previously, in 1900, 1904, 1908 and 1912, his nomination as a political prison in 1920 made sense. Debs (1927) cites an editorial reading, “Debs started for the White House, but he only got as far as the federal prison” (p. 100). While this narrative elucidates conditions of prisons, the account also tells us something about political dissent during the years of the First World War in the US. While many critical accounts of corrections and prisons define issues and contextualize mechanisms, often times these arguments seem bereft of any proposals for how to make policy better. Debs, however, offers his recommendations for change both politically and via alternative prison policy initiatives. Chapter Ten concerns conditions that he himself has witnessed from a more phenomenological position, but argues critically against the general conditions of prisons. Debs speaks out not only against minority over-representation, but more fundamentally, against the tendency of class over representation. In Chapter Eleven, “Poverty Populates the Prison,” Debs recognizes the need for empirical prison research. The author argues, “It is unfortunate that hitherto no scientific and comprehensive method has been devised of ascertaining and setting forth clearly to just what extent poverty is directly and indirectly responsible for crime” (Debs, 1927, p. 143). With the extensive expansion of the criminal justice/industrial complex, this “call to action” is perhaps finally possible. Debs argues in Chapter Twelve that the point that society creates the criminal; genetics does not create the criminal. However, with the punitive turn in crime policies that is so familiar since perhaps the Crime Omnibus Act, as Simon argues in “Governing Through Crime,” politically promulgated legislations are hardly unique to late-modern trends. Debs (1927) proclaims: And what is the usual remedy proposed for combatting crime which steadily increases in spite of the church, the school and the country club? Adopt more drastic laws! Increase the police force! Pronounce longer sentences! Inflict severer punishment on the evil doers, etc., etc.,–all of which simply indicates the puerile understanding we have of this social phenomenon known as crime. (p. 154) In Chapter Thirteen, “How I Would Manage the Prison,” Debs calls for a more efficient and cost-effective social justice and control philosophy–one of human dignity. This human-centric position denotes an early call for restorative justice rather than punitivity. Debs conducts a crude analysis of political economy and crime. The organizer observes, “Capitalism needs and must have the prison to protect itself from the criminals it has created” (Debs, 1927, p. 174). Debs theorizes, “The evolution of the prison has kept pace with the evolution of society and the ex- 388 BOOK REVIEW ploitation upon which society is based” (Debs, 1927, p. 175). This sets up following chapters, culminating in Chapter Sixteen, “Socialism and the Prison,” which signals the final section of Debs’ intellectual contribution and moves to the overt political positioning of a candidate. Yet, again, Debs predates Foucault’s treatment of the evolution of prisons in modernity. Debs (1927) states, “It required five hundred years to travel from the inquisition to the injunction” (p. 197). Even while Debs was finishing his only book, he called for future studies among prisoners from their perspectives. Sociology has, in fact, developed this since Debs’ time. Chapters Seventeen through Nineteen concludes Debs’ only published book. These chapters include his release from prison, Debs’ own look into contemporary studies, and his conclusions pertaining to the waste of those lives spent unproductively incarcerated. However, Debs makes yet another important observation for future studies pertaining to prison. He argues that scientists attuned to humanist and social perspectives should not only research prisons and prisoners, but also effect the policies regarding criminal law itself. Given this perspective, we should recall a suggestion from Ron Akers (1992) in the early nineties. Akers argued to maintain a sociological center to criminology. Although Debs’ account/analysis predates many meaningful debates concerning an ethnographic approach, his insights, articulation, and observations on multiple levels of analysis are meaningful and salient today. Akers (1992) argues: Sociology does not dominate criminology as it once did. Similarly while it remains important to sociology, it is not as near the center of sociology as it once was. Nonetheless, in term I used earlier, sociology remains the intellectual center of gravity in criminology. (p. 9) I argue that this perspective has been slipping in the following two decades since Dr. Akers’ observation. Criminology and Criminal Justice have continued to specialize further away from its sociological center. Historical contributions like that of Debs, however, could offer perspective and breadth that have withered as more specialized, yet relatively ahistorical, contributions have been made. Historical accounts allow a context for this political era to be considered to previous, albeit less prolific, epochs of politically promulgated crime legislations. For example, Debs suggested a relationship between wealth and ownership and prison populations almost a century ago. It is certainly true that wealth has increased alongside prison populations over the previous three decades. One contribution of historical accounts related to Criminal Justice and Criminology is a return to the sociological center that gave birth to our growing disciplines. Ferrell (1998) proposes, “[E]xperiential immersion on the part of field researchers can begin to unravel the lived meanings of both crime and crimi- BOOK REVIEW 389 nal justice” (p. 20). This methodological approach contributes a theoretical depth to Justice Studies of all spectrums which can lead to situated narratives and understanding of the past to know what was similar and different from contemporary prison experiences. More specifically, this historical ethnographic perspective gets back to primary theoretical assumptions that gave birth to criminological studies. While the field has become more specialized, methodological procedure has become more prescribed. Throughout Walls & Bars, Debs refers to such topics prior to the language that theorists currently use to describe these concepts. For example, the author suggests themes such as institutionalization, the fiscal burden of a growing criminal justice system, and arguably, perhaps most insightfully, the intersection of crime, prisons and inequality. Revisiting the historical contributions of the intelligent, insightful and socially cogent can only help expand the history and currency of Criminology and Criminal Justice. REFEREnCES Akers, R. L. (1992). Linking sociology and its specialties: The case of criminology. Social Forces, 71(1), 1-16. Becker, H. S. (1963/1973). Outsiders: Studies in the sociology of deviance. New York, NY: The Free Press. Debs, E. V. (1927/2000) Wall & bars: Prisons & prison life in the “land of the free.” Chicago, IL: Charles H. Ker Publishing Company. Drake, D. H. & Earle, R. (2013). On the inside: Prison ethnography around the globe. Criminal Justice Matters, 91(1), 12-13. Ferrell, J., & Hamm, M. S. (eds.) (1998). Ethnography at the edge: Crime, deviance and field research. Boston, MA Northeastern University Press. Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. New York, NY: Vintage Books. Goffman, E. (1963). Stigma: Notes on the management of spoiled identity. New York, NY: Simon & Schuster Inc. Jewkes, Y. (2013). What has prison ethnography to offer in an age of mass incarcerations? Criminal Justice Matters, 91(1), 14-15. Wacquant, L. (2002). The curious eclipse of prison ethnography in the age of mass incarceration. Ethnography, 3(4), 371-397. The Southwestern Association of Criminal Justice (SWACJ) Is Proud to Sponsor The Journal of Qualitative Criminal Justice and Criminology (JQCJC) “The Southwestern Association of Criminal Justice is proud to sponsor the Journal of Qualitative Criminal Justice & . Criminology. It is our intent to make the journal the primary journal of qualitative research for both disciplines, and that it will be recognized as a leading journal in the field. This is . our commitment.” Members Executive Board 2013  TWITTER. COM/ T _ Q_ R The Qualitative Report 5th Annual Conference Facebook.com/TheQualitativeReport WHERE THE WORLD COMES TO LEARN QUALITATIVE RESEARCH Opening Plenary Address Johnny Saldaña Johnny Saldaña is the Evelyn Smith Professor of Theatre in the School of Theatre and Film at Arizona State University. He is the author of Drama of Color: Improvisation with Multiethnic Folklore (Heinemann, 1995); Longitudinal Qualitative Research: Analyzing Change Through Time (AltaMira Press, 2003); Ethnodrama: An Anthology of Reality Theatre (AltaMira Press, 2005); The Coding Manual for Qualitative Researchers (Sage Publications, 2009; second edition, 2013); Fundamentals of Qualitative Research (Oxford University Press, 2011); Ethnotheatre: Research from Page to Stage (Left Coast Press, 2011), and the third edition of the late Matthew B. Miles & A. Michael Huberman's Qualitative Data Analysis (Sage Publications, 2013). Saldaña has received outstanding book awards from the National Communication Association's Ethnography Division, the American Alliance for Theatre & Education, and the American Educational Research Association's Qualitative Research Special Interest Group. Closing Plenary Address Sam Ladner Sam Ladner is a sociologist specializing in the social aspects of technological change. Primarily an ethnographer, Sam has published in peer-reviewed journals such as Time & Society and The Canadian Journal of Communication. While serving as Postdoctoral Fellow at Ryerson University's School of Information Technology Management, she founded and ran her own ethnography research firm, Copernicus Consulting. With Copernicus, Sam consulted corporations on digital and industrial product design, organizational change, and consumer culture. In 2012, she joined Microsoft to research the future of productivity. Her book Practical Ethnography: A Guide to Doing Ethnography in The Private Sector (http:// practicalethnography.com) will be published in 2013 by Left Coast Press. She holds a PhD in Sociology from York University and lives in Seattle with her husband and Featured Technology Dedoose WWW.NOVA.EDU/SSSS/QR [email protected] In a series of presentations on Saturday, we will feature Dedoose, a collaborative, multiplatform, and intuitive web based software application that allows users to analyze qualitative and mixed methods research data securely online. Users conducting surveys and interviews in market research, psychology research, social science research, ethnographic research, anthropology research and much more use Dedoose to organize and analyze their text, video, and audio data. Dedoose users can work collaboratively with teams all over the world anytime, from anywhere, and all in real-time from any Internet enabled device (including any Mac or tablet). Starting with a general overview session, conference attendees will gain insights into Dedoose's unique, cloud-based applications for analyzing research data. Next, participants will have hands-on opportunities to practice beginner and advanced Dedoose skills via two interactive workshops. 2014 Special Issue CALL FOR PAPERS Drugs, Crime, & Goldstein’s Tripartite Framework CRIMINAL JUSTICE REVIEW Editor: cjr.sagepub.com Published in Association with Georgia State University, College of Health and Human Sciences www.cjgsu.net/journals.asp Dean Dabney Georgia State University Criminal Justice Review (CJR) ) invites submissions for a special issue, “Drugs, Crime, & Goldstein’s Tripartite Framework,” to be guest edited by Dr. Scott Jacques. Almost 30 years ago, Paul Goldstein published a seminal article in which he suggests an elegant and powerful idea, namely that drugs and violence are related in three ways that he termed the psychopharmacological, economic compulsive, and systemic models. Since its debut, this idea has served as a spring board and organizing framework for hundreds if not thousands of studies into the link between drugs and violence and, more broadly, crime. The purpose of this special issue is to review and synthesize what has been learned thus far about the drugs violence/crime models, and also to carve out original and fruitful paths for further inquiry. Consideration will be given to papers that accomplish one or both of those goals. Submissions will be peer reviewed. Manuscripts should not exceed 30 pages double spaced excluding tables, figures, and references. An abstract of approximately 200 words and a biographical sketch must accompany the manuscript. Submissions must arrive no later than December 15, 2013. Authors must send two electronic copies of the manuscript, one full version (with cover page containing the author’s name, title, institutional contact information; acknowledgments; grant numbers; and the date, location, and conference at which the manuscript may have been presented), and one blind copy (minus all identifying information) to Dr. Jacques at [email protected]. Manuscripts should be in MS Word and adhere to the formatting style of the Publication Manual of the American Psychological Association (5th ed.) and CJR formatting guidelines. SUBMIT YOUR MANUSCRIPT ONLINE via SAGE Track at http://mc.manuscriptcentral.com/cjr Sam Houston State University F O E G E L E L C O I C T S U J L A IN M I R C SHSU.EDU/CRIMINALJUSTICE Ph.D. in Criminal Justice Master of Arts in Criminal Justice and Criminology Master of Science in CJ Leadership and Management Online Master of Science in Criminal Justice Online W Master of Science in Victim Services Management Online E N Master of Science in Forensic Science • Master of Science in Security Studies EXPAND YOUR OPPORTUNITIES WITH A GRADUATE DEGREE @ SHSU! Our Graduate Students: • Work with faculty who are nationally recognized leaders in criminal justice and criminological research • Engage in grant supported, applied research through Institutes within our Criminal Justice Center Master of Arts and Ph.D. Students are Financially Supported (on a competitive basis) Through: • Research assistantships, • Scholarships to match tuition costs, • Travel funding to academic conferences, • Summer research fellowships Doctoral Students can Develop Teaching Experience as Independent Classroom Instructors For more information, contact Doris Pratt at 936.294.3637 or [email protected].