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CHAPTER 1
In Medias Res
THE LIVES WE MEANT TO LIVE
When we count over the resources which are at work "to make order out of casualty, beauty out of confusion, justice, kindliness and mercy out of cruelty and inconsiderate pressure," we find ourselves appealing to the confident spirit of youth. We know that it is crude and filled with conflicting hopes, some of them unworthy and most of them doomed to disappointment, yet these young people have the advantage of "morning in their hearts"; they have such power of direct action, such ability to stand free from fear, to break through life's trammelings, that in spite of ourselves we become convinced that "They to the disappointed earth shall give. The lives we meant to live."
Jane Addams, 1909
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"Things come back like a flashback, like in a car accident," said Angel, 19 years old and wide eyed. I asked if he had ever heard of post-traumatic stress disorder. He had not. I explained that when people go through something scary or painful, like a car crash, memories of it could come flooding back like they were in that moment again. Angel told me that when he gets angry with his ex, he can see in his mind a time that he "put hands on her" and ripped her dress. He wanted to control the flashbacks but didn't know how. "It's kind of hard getting over it, 'cause like, she always has, she always has that in her head, too, like in her mind." We were in an empty classroom at the small charter school he attended in South Los Angeles. On the walls around us were students' "dream collages" for a school assignment, pictures cut out of magazines and pasted onto construction paper showing images of what they wanted for their future. I saw one covered in expensive cars and a swimming pool, another with models in swimsuits, chopped out of their surroundings. Angel was remorseful about his past actions but also stuck, unable to figure out how to move on. He wanted to get back together with his ex.
There's a couple of things that I did to her that she will never forget. Like it haunts me a lot. Like it bothers me that I even did that. Like there was once that we got in an argument and I ended up spitting in her face. It always bugs me, like she always brings it up, too. I'm trying to like, I don't know, like it happened out of anger, too, like I regret it so bad. But like I don't know how we get over that.
While the collages around Angel played out stories of the future, Angel and the person he loved couldn't get away from the past. As much as they tried, they couldn't begin in the middle. And it wasn't just his own violence that Angel couldn't get away from, but his home and community life also bore scars. He told me that there was "all this violence and I knew I was at that place, like I was doing violence, violence was going on in my life." The violence surrounding Angel came with messages. Growing up, Angel was taught "that females were always less than us." It used to be that every time he got angry, it would "come down to violence" because he did not care about anything else at that moment. He would punch walls. One time, he punched glass and badly lacerated his hand.
Angel's father "works for a good company. He does like statues and things like that." His mother worked on a maintenance crew. Even with steady jobs, Angel's parents struggled to pay for their car and apartment. "It's pretty expensive rent: pretty expensive one-room house. That's for six people." This put pressure on him at home, where his family gave him a hard time for still being in school at 19 years old. Angel saw finishing high school as a path to supporting his family and was hurt that they wanted him to quit school and find a job.
Angel explained that the way he thought about women was changing "after a couple experiences and, like, getting my things together and moving out, and getting my head out the streets." He had started to gain control of his temper. "It's changing little by little," he told me. Still, his history would not let go easily. Angel told me that "certain mistakes from the past" meant that he had to be careful in his neighborhood. When I asked Angel if there was anything he did to stay safe, he answered, "Just stay in my house." The past had its own inertia beyond Angel's control. Even as he tried to change his life, the past pulled at him. His past, after all, was not his alone; it lived on in the stories of others: in tales of the street, in flashbacks and relationships.
Angel was at risk. It was this fact that had brought me into his life through an interpersonal violence prevention program. The program had shown up in his classroom seemingly out of nowhere and was trying to change him and deter the dangers that loomed across his future. Programs like this one, in essence, started in the middle, in medias res, for a life that was ongoing. They dropped into lives and institutions already in progress. I had come to violence prevention looking for hope for the future; however, in many ways, for most of the young people I met, violence was already a fact of biography. Angel and young people like him require us to ask: What does it mean to be at risk?
Two years earlier, I had begun research into feminist violence prevention programs, interested in how they took the personal stories that emerged from consciousness-raising and turned them into evidence-based programs. Like most people, I assumed that programs worked in the ways described in the evaluation literature: as powerful and effective approaches toward changing attitudes and behaviors. But on the ground, I found that they were far more fractured and temporary than anyone had described them. I looked to the sociological literature on the state and found that, though the programs had things in common with the policies analyzed by scholars of neoliberalism, in myriad ways they were distinct. I came to see that prevention programs and at-risk youth were pieces of an underexplored shift in how the state deals with social problems. For three and a half years, I embedded myself in the world of violence prevention in Los Angeles, particularly in an organization, Peace Over Violence, that implemented multiple programs. I set out to understand how the system was organized and how it was experienced.
After a year and a half observing and participating in prevention programming, I had seen how young people were shuffled through the system, but I knew less about how they made sense of the programs that streaked across their lives. Which brings us back to Angel. When it came to the program, he was ambivalent: "I don't have no problem with you all," he told me. However, he believed that the outsiders who came into his class — and there were many of them, myself included — couldn't really understand what he had been through. He went on: "Everyone around here, like, it's just nothing but drama, violence. No love." This gap in understanding, I found, was at the heart of programs. Young people marked as at risk and the facilitators tasked with changing their lives — citizens and the state — grazed each other's lives, unable to understand one another.
After the interview ended I gave Angel the chance, as I did every young person, to ask me anything he wanted. Many young people took this as an opportunity to get my take on ideas from the prevention program, such as what I thought a healthy relationship looked like, or to ask me the same questions I had asked them. Others simply shrugged. A few asked me something similar to what Angel did, "What made you get into this?" by which he meant violence prevention. I told Angel that a friend of mine had been sexually assaulted and I had struggled to know what to do. I wanted to be able to support her, and myself, and to better understand why it happened. "Yeah. My, my ex been through that, too." He nodded. "Can I ask you a question? How can I help, like, somebody go through that?" Angel and I talked for another 20 minutes. He kept asking questions. My story had opened up a door. As I found repeatedly, personal stories made it possible to make a connection, to narrow social distance, at least for a while.
This was not counseling, nor did Angel and I have any kind of lasting connection. In fact, I was acutely aware of the distance between my experience and his, as well as the force of race, class, and place in shaping how we ended up in that room. It was a rare chance — an opening in time and space — to talk about the reverberations of trauma, and to work through complex and compounding histories, something that I found was rare in the lives of youth marked as at risk. The young people I talked to spent a lot of time around adults, especially in schools, but those adults rarely if ever asked young people about their lives or talked about their own, especially when it came to harm and trauma. This book takes those stories — and their absence — seriously.
Harm lives twice. First in a flash, often away from view. And then a second life, long and searing, as trauma and memory. Violence prevention claims to undermine the first, and though it may, what it fails to reckon with is this second life of harm, where it is reconstructed and interpreted and felt far away from its physicality. This second life of harm exists in real and tangible ways, even in bright and quiet classrooms. Harm takes on its lingering weight after the act, when it comes flooding back during an exam or on a date and sends us spiraling; when we cannot focus at a job; when we tell stories about it and remedy it — or we don't.
I wish I could tell you that our conversation helped Angel. I wish I could say anything about what happened next for him, but I never saw him again. The program's time at that school was up, which meant it was time to move on the next day to a different school, a different batch of strangers, with new and yet familiar stories. And then again and again, over and over. This churn of intervention and change, of which violence prevention was just one part, is the manifestation of a collection of policies designed to be fleeting and distant that I call the ephemeral state.
INTO THE EPHEMERAL STATE
The students were gone and I looked around the room. The space resembled the public school architecture I saw across Los Angeles: flickering halogen lights, dense rows of desks, pale walls and windows carved up with metal grating. Posters called out to youth to get tested or wear protection or not bully, alongside skeletons and maps of the human brain. Other rooms had bright inspirational posters of college-ready culture, which cried out with the watchwords of youth empowerment: Motivation! Respect! Leadership! A sheet of paper with blue sky and clouds printed on it had been scotch-taped onto the window, which had a thick film and did not open. This was a fitting metaphor for the wide range of programs that try to change youth: a promise of hope within the bars and concrete of broken-down institutions.
Throughout my research, I found myself in pockets of ephemeral change, flecked through massive institutions. Public schools are just one example, but an apt one. These lumbering institutions are largely dedicated to the long, slow grind of people processing: sorting and converting individuals into one category or another, issuing labels and credentials, sometimes alongside economic assistance. Think of the grinding days at a courthouse, hours of testing at school, or long waits for food stamps and you will have a feel for these institutions. I call this the slow state. In these places, the apparatus of government seems to be saying: You must learn to wait.
These traditional arrangements of time and space in social policy are inverted in the ephemeral state. Rather than a slow-moving institution, the state acts through a multiplied field of fleeting interventions into institutions and daily life that encourage rapid transformation. Policy blinks into existence for a short time and then vanishes. At one level, grants and contracts reshuffle economic pressures every few years, and on another level, short-term programs flash by in days. Unlike the slow state, which keeps track of every personal detail, programs set out to accumulate masses of depersonalized data. If the file cabinet is the symbolic distillation of the slow state, a messenger bag full of worksheets, pre- and post-surveys, sign-in sheets, and a tattered curriculum, all wiped of identifying data, represents the ephemeral state. These two temporal dimensions of the state — slow and ephemeral — produce a kind of social whiplash.
This is what it was like in the ephemeral state: A security guard led Anne, a young white facilitator, through a keycarded door, past a maze of cubicles and attorney-client meeting rooms, and into the dim basement of the Children's Court of Los Angeles. Beyond a long table with five adults doing paperwork, the room opened up and about 30 young people, mostly Latino and Black, sat in rows of thin plastic chairs or stretched out on floormats, facing toward a big-screen TV playing cartoons. Some were there for a hearing on criminal charges. Others were foster youth waiting for news about their parents or guardians. Every few minutes the loudspeaker crackled and a hollow voice called another young person out to meet their attorney. Peace Over Violence maintained a standing monthly presentation on healthy relationships at the court, deep within the physical and institutional architecture of the slow state.
A woman introduced Anne and me: "These folks are here to talk about a very important issue, violence, so please listen." As Anne and I walked to the front, six or seven youth leaned forward in their creaking chairs. Others cradled their heads in their hands facedown on the mats in the front row, white earbud chords trailing down their necks. They did not register our presence. Anne began with what facilitators called "the check-in." She asked each youth to say their name and how they were feeling. She forced some enthusiasm into her voice, a skill she learned in training to build connection and momentum in fleeting interactions. Moving along the rows, she pointed to individuals so they knew when it was their turn.
I caught sight of a young man toward the back, who smiled and leaned toward the young woman next to him. They shared a conspiratorial laugh and I wondered if relationships ever start here. A few seconds later, her expression flattened and she yelled out, "He's being disrespectful!" She smacked her right fist against her open left hand and sternly said to no one in particular, "I'm going to have to take care of him." The boy put out his hands palms up and shrugged. Despite the setting, this felt like the schools I had spent the last year observing. Young people navigated their personal relationships within these massive institutions, with adults all around, but at a distance. Anne waited a beat, and when it seemed neither the young man and woman, nor the other adults, had anything else to say, she continued the check-in.
As she snaked around the room, most of the young people said they were "good," but some said "bored" or "tired." One young woman said, "I have no feelings." A boy said that he was "frustrated" and pulled his gray hood close around his face until only his eyes showed. Facilitators told me that they used the check-in to gauge the "emotional temperature of the room." It let them know if the energy was low, if there was some trauma bubbling, or if a short fuse was lit and burning. After months listening to young people describe how they were feeling, I had learned how this would go. There was a hidden grammar of emotion in the slow state, which was to be vague and unremarkable. The majority of youth described their emotional state as simply good, fine, or tired. On this day, waiting for their names to be called out in children's court, it was difficult to imagine what it meant to be good.
As sometimes happened, a young person, in this case a young woman with wire-rimmed glasses, said that she was "not good, not at all." This seemed to set off a small alarm in Anne. I could feel it too, an embodied sense that I picked up in training and from watching implementers at work. When a young person says that they are not good in front of a classroom full of peers and strangers, it means they are likely on the verge of crisis. Anne nudged in a smooth drawl, "What's going on that is making you feel bad?" The girl started to answer, "My mom, she —" but then, like something caught her, she stopped and shook her head. "Never mind." "You sure?" Anne nudged again, gently. "Yeah," the young woman said as she looked to the wall. Anne paused for several seconds, then moved on. If this was my only peek inside a room like this, I might have thought that her change of heart had something specific to do with the court and its representatives, or with Anne, or with her peers' eyes on her. But this happened nearly everywhere facilitators went. This is one of the things facilitators learn: young people want to talk, often badly, but then don't.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Twelve Weeks to Change a Life"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Max Greenberg.
Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS.
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