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Sitting at my dining room table, I dialed the toll-free number, hoping that today would be the day that someone actually picked up. Instead, I heard the words that have rung in my ears for the past few months. The helpline was experiencing a high volume of calls. Call again later, the automated message urged before ending with an unceremonious “Goodbye.”

The more I heard that message, the more anxious I became.

I knew I wasn’t alone in this experience, and that somehow made it worse. Thousands of high school seniors who needed financial assistance to go to college were unable to complete the federal aid application — the same application that the U.S. Department of Education insisted was now “faster and easier” to fill out.

“Tears started rolling down my cheeks … tears of anger. I was angry — I am angry — about the jumbled-up application and the disregard for thousands of first-generation Americans.”
Miriam Galicia,
first-generation American

“Faster and easier” would be the last words I’d use to describe my family’s experience with the application, known widely as the FAFSA. It’s all because of nine little digits that not all applicant family members have: a social security number. Parents without one couldn’t initially submit the required form.

The FAFSA, which usually opens in October, was postponed amid the updates and released instead in late December. This delayed the process for everyone applying for federal financial aid, not just families in which not all members have a social security number. But once the application finally went live, many aid-seeking students breathed a sigh of relief.

At this point, those with an undocumented parent were told to call a federal government number to verify their parents’ identity.

That’s how I found myself memorizing that infuriating automated message that ended with “Goodbye.” After dialing the number 20-plus times in the span of a month, one day I got an answer. I was sitting in my college counselor’s office as the February chill crept into the room. I was surprised to hear a woman’s voice on the other end of the line. I explained my family’s situation as clearly and concisely as I could. The woman told me that my parents needed to make the call themselves or be present for it — something that proved hard to do during their workday.

The call ended there, and I headed back to class. I breathed in and out, trying to push the FAFSA out of my mind. But like the phone call, it felt hopeless. I sat in class, making no move to settle in.

“So how did it go?” my friends asked discreetly.

“They said I can’t do it,” I replied, not realizing until then how emotional I was.

Tears started rolling down my cheeks. They were not tears of sadness or even hopelessness; they were tears of anger. I was angry — I am angry — about the jumbled-up application and the disregard for thousands of first-generation Americans.

Stress was written on my face and, as my teacher came over to offer words of kindness and encouragement, I tried to look ahead to when my FAFSA was finally complete.

FAFSA form corrections took months

After negative media attention about the botched FAFSA rollout, the government did take steps to correct its mistakes, but it took months. They moved the verification process to email. At that point, we were required to email passports, driver’s licenses, and bills with my parents’ names and home address. The verification process seemed endless until early March when my parents’ account was finally verified.

Once I received that email, I logged in as quickly as I could, thankful that this process was almost over. But even with my parents’ accounts verified, the portal showed up blank, once again stopping me from submitting my FAFSA. I felt my body heating up, my face turning bright red. I had taken all the right steps. I thought I’d finally emerge from the FAFSA maze. I was wrong.

With only a few weeks left to decide where I would spend the next four years of my life — the deadline to commit to a college is May 1 — the FAFSA felt like my worst enemy.

It wasn’t until early April, after months of phone calls, paperwork, and meetings with my college counselor, that I was finally able to submit my federal aid application. My application is in, and that’s a relief. But like many other students in the same situation, I wonder if I will ever know what my financial aid packages would look like at some schools I’ve been accepted to.

Even with all the hurdles I’ve had to face these past months, I am one of the lucky ones. Just recently, I was offered scholarships from two private liberal arts colleges, allowing me to bypass the government aid process altogether. It is because of these scholarships, and only these scholarships, that the stress of FAFSA isn’t looming over me. But my good fortune makes me think about the other first-generation students who don’t have these options.

Why were immigrants overlooked in new FAFSA design?

Coming from an immigrant household, I’ve known since I was a little girl that my family and our experiences weren’t like those of most of my friends. I knew this when my friends talked about their vacations abroad or when both of their parents showed up to parent-teacher conferences. The differences became especially apparent during the college application process.

[Related: Partial FAFSA fix lets students from immigrant families apply for financial aid]

I remember sitting with my friends at school as they voiced relief about being done with their applications, personal essays, paperwork, and FAFSA. Now all they needed to do was wait. Everyone agreed — everyone but me.

One friend even suggested throwing a party to celebrate.

I couldn’t help but wonder why nine numbers made such a world of difference in our experiences. Months after that hangout session, I’m left with that and other questions. Questions like:

• Why are students from immigrant families made to jump through so many hoops?
• Why was our family, our experience, overlooked when this new “easier” FAFSA was implemented?

I know the immense privilege I have to pursue a higher education, thanks to the support of my family, my college counselor, and the private institutions offering me financial aid. Still, sometimes self-doubt creeps up like a shadow. I wonder why I am trying so hard to get to college when some of the processes that make college possible don’t seem to value people like me and families like mine.

***

Miriam Galicia is a senior at The Institute For Collaborative Education and is a 2023-24 Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow. In the fall she will attend Skidmore College. As a soon-to-be first-generation college student, she values the opportunity to pursue higher education not afforded to previous generations of her family.

Chalkbeat is a nonprofit news site covering educational change in public schools.

This story was originally produced by The Hechinger Report, a nonprofit, nonpartisan news outlet focused on education.

Imagine waking up each morning with no hope for the day ahead, navigating a minefield of potential conflicts with your body on high alert. That was my reality as a marginalized youth — misunderstood, labeled as a troublemaker and cast out without a chance to reconcile and evolve. Growing up with anxiety in school is an all-too-common experience that perpetuates a cycle of fear and resentment. It’s time to acknowledge and address this narrative that adversely affects our youth’s learning experiences and the education system.

Moving away from suspensions can help students become more engaged members of their schools.

Negative labeling of students can severely impact their confidence and sense of self. As a former “troublemaker,” I know firsthand how difficult it can be to overcome such labeling.

Participating in a restorative justice program allowed me to take responsibility for my actions, repair relationships and gain the confidence I needed to succeed. By providing restorative justice programs, we can help students become positive and engaged members of their school communities.

Restorative justice is an alternative to suspension that involves having those in conflict talk through their issues with a mediator. The goal is for students who have misbehaved to understand any harm they’ve caused and work to repair it and restore relationships. It offers a beacon of hope, a transformative approach prioritizing connection over isolation and understanding over punitive discipline.

Students need to feel that those with power see their life experiences. They should not be subjected to pointless punishment that has no value other than the punishment itself.

Restorative justice empowers students to take responsibility for their actions. Providing a safe dialogue space helps students learn how to communicate effectively, build empathy and establish trust with their peers and teachers. By embracing restorative justice, schools can create a culture of accountability, healing and growth that benefits everyone involved.

[Related: What does restorative justice look like?]

But restorative justice is not just about addressing behavior problems; it’s also about addressing the underlying issues driving those behaviors, often stemming from trauma, neglect or systemic injustices. Restorative justice recognizes that everyone has unique circumstances and challenges and deserves personalized support to address their needs.

It’s about breaking the cycle of fear and punitive discipline.

Many students do not have access to the resources needed to address their mental and emotional concerns, and they do not have the proper tools to deal with everything they go through in their lives. Instead, they manifest their struggles through misbehavior. They need someone to recognize their lived experiences and help them confront the sources of their actions.

Responding to misbehavior in this supportive way is a paradigm shift from punitive measures that only serve to alienate and perpetuate cycles of violence and incarceration.

In marginalized communities, where access to mental health support is often limited and stigmatized, restorative justice can be a lifeline. Instead of funneling youth into the school-to-prison pipeline, we must invest in their potential by providing access to counseling, therapy and other resources that address the root causes of their behavior. This process starts at the ground level: Those who see students daily need to be the first ones to help them address their issues.

[Related: Restorative justice isn’t a panacea, but it can promote better relationships among students]

Restorative justice provides students the tools to go forth into the world as optimistic, encouraged and emotionally intelligent individuals — allowing them a greater chance to reach their goals.

Implementing restorative justice requires a concerted effort from educators, administrators and policymakers. It starts with training in restorative practices, creating safe spaces for dialogue and conflict resolution and collaborating with mental health professionals to provide holistic support.

Challenges and resistance are inevitable. Skepticism and fear of change are formidable barriers, as are entrenched policies and funding allocations that prioritize punishment over rehabilitation. However, the success stories of restorative justice programs nationwide prove that change is possible and necessary.

[Related: Giving first-time juvenile offenders avenues away from detention in New York]

Reflecting on my journey from fear to advocacy, I am reminded of the transformative power of restorative justice. It’s not just about breaking down walls; it’s about building bridges of understanding and compassion. It’s about breaking the cycle of fear and punitive discipline.

Seeing the positive impact of restorative justice on our school community motivated me to become certified in restorative justice. Now, I’m able to help others in my community find ways to resolve conflicts and build stronger, more meaningful relationships through restorative practices.

It won’t happen overnight, but with perseverance and collective effort, we can create school systems in which every student feels seen, heard and valued. It’s time to tear down the walls of injustice and build bridges to a brighter future for all.

***

Jully Myrthil is a high school senior in Rhode Island and a passionate advocate for fostering understanding, inclusion and justice for all. She is a co-founder of Shades of Knowledge, a nonprofit dedicated to making education and literature accessible to all youth worldwide.

Keira Boxell, fellow co-founder of Shades of Knowledge, contributed to this piece.

The Hechinger Report is a nonprofit, independent news organization focused on inequality and innovation in education. Sign up for Hechinger’s newsletter. 

WASHINGTON, D.C. — Youth activists from A New Deal for Youth, an initiative supported by the Center for Law and Social Policy (CLASP), endorsed the Young Adult Tax Credit Act, which was introduced on March 5 by Rep. Morgan McGarvey, D-Ky-03, and Rep. Bonnie Watson Coleman, D-NJ-12. This legislation creates a universal $500 monthly payment, indexed to inflation, for all 18–24-year-olds in the United States, including its territories. This cash transfer would allow young people to access capital earlier in their lives, better afford necessities, or otherwise build their lives and be more integrated into the tax system.

“This $500 monthly tax credit means someone can make a car payment, buy groceries, pay rent, or afford childcare.”
Congressman McGarvey

This legislation creates a universal $500 monthly payment, indexed to inflation, for all 18–24-year-olds in the US, including in territories such as Puerto Rico and American Samoa. This unconditional cash transfer would allow young adults to access capital earlier in their lives, better afford necessities, or otherwise build their lives and be more integrated into the tax system.

“New Deal for Youth is proud to have worked with Rep. McGarvey on drafting the Young Adult Tax Credit Act,” said Rebecca Do, A New Deal for Youth Changemaker. “We are excited that this bill is being introduced. Now, we need other elected officials to listen to youth voices and pass this landmark piece of legislation.”

Our social safety net rightfully has programs for childhood and seniors, but it fails to address the prevalence of young adult poverty. We should have a program that invests in young people, helping them stay afloat and giving them the tools to thrive in and contribute to society for the rest of their lives.

The Young Adult Tax Credit Act is designed based on lessons learned from a Louisville guaranteed income pilot (see video below) and was developed in consultation with young people, including New Deal for Youth Changemakers.

Young Adult Tax Credit Act: Legislative highlights

Eligibility:

• Must be 18-24 years old.
• Must have a social security number (US citizen) OR possess a Tax Identification Number (US immigrants, including DACA recipients and undocumented immigrants are included).

The payment:

• Is an advanced, refundable tax credit, disbursed monthly and indexed to annual inflation adjustments.
• Cannot be used in any offset or garnishment cases, including student loan repayment, and does not count towards income measures for other
  social programs.

Implementation

• The bill directs the IRS to conduct an outreach campaign, prioritizing members of populations which are less likely to file taxes or have bank
  accounts.
• For dependents, the payments will be sent to the tax filer (e.g., the parent) for the remainder of the year until the young adult files a tax return
  not as a dependent. Then, the independent young adult will be eligible to receive payments directly for the upcoming year (i.e., whom the
  payment goes to is based on the previous year’s dependent status).
• The bill creates an online portal that is mobile friendly and in multiple languages to allow the young adult to update their information throughout
  the year.

Young adults have one of the highest poverty rates of any demographic group in the U.S.

“Twenty-two percent of 18-24-year-olds in Kentucky live below the poverty line, and we must do something to help,” said Congressman McGarvey. “Louisville recently conducted a successful pilot program directing payments to young adults so they keep moving ahead instead of falling behind. That’s why I’m proud to introduce the Young Adult Tax Credit and establish a national program that invests in our upcoming generations, allowing them to thrive in and contribute to society for the rest of their lives. This $500 monthly tax credit means someone can make a car payment, buy groceries, pay rent, or afford childcare. I’m excited to work with my colleagues in Congress to move this across the finish line and start lifting young people out of poverty.”

“As recently as last summer more than half of young people reported some difficulty meeting their basic living expenses.”
Dr. Nia West-Bey, director of youth policy, CLASP

The Young Adult Tax Credit has the potential to dramatically reduce poverty for young people, especially for young adults of color. As stated in a newly-published CLASP publication titled, Two New Guaranteed Income Bills Bring Different Strategies to Reducing Young Adult Poverty, “According to the Official Poverty Measure, 15.3 percent of young adults ages 18 through 24 were living under the Federal Poverty Line as of 2022. When using the Supplemental Poverty Measure (SPM), the rate increases to 17.7 percent of all young people; but 22.5 percent of young people of color lived in poverty as measured by the SPM. The expanded CTC that was temporarily implemented in tax year 2021 cut child poverty nearly in half, especially benefitting Black and Latino kids.”

“It’s a little known fact that young adults have one of the highest poverty rates of any demographic group in the country,” said Dr. Nia West-Bey, director of youth policy at CLASP. “As recently as last summer more than half of young people reported some difficulty meeting their basic living expenses. These are policy choices, and the Young Adult Tax Credit Act represents a huge step forward in our commitment as a nation to advancing economic justice for young adults.”

“We owe young people a strong foundation so that they can build healthy and fulfilling lives for themselves and participate fully in their communities,” said Megan Martin, executive vice president, Center for the Study of Social Policy. “But today, too many young people struggle to make ends meet because we have failed to live up to our collective responsibility, excluding them from government programs and denying them opportunities to pursue their goals. The Young Adult Tax Credit Act is a critical and overdue step forward. It would provide the strong economic foundation all young people deserve— and in doing so ensure a brighter future for us all.”

“A New Deal for Youth envisions a world where the economy is designed to uplift all young people and abolish structural barriers,” wrote Makayla McDonald, A New Deal for Youth Changemaker, and Ashley Burnside, CLASP senior policy analyst, Income and Work Supports. “[The Young Adult Tax Credit Act] would accomplish this by providing young people with unrestricted investments. CLASP and A New Deal for Youth urge Congress to pass [the bill] to invest in and support young people.”

***

A one-page bill explainer can be found here. The full bill text can be found here. 

A New Deal for Youth (ND4Y) is a youth-led, youth-centered effort advocating for the creation of new systems, policies, investments and structures that reimagine life for young people in America. ND4Y serves youth who have been left behind — the disconnected and the disenfranchised, marginalized, misrepresented, and silenced, young people who may not use their voice as much as they would like to. We center Indigenous and Black communities and youth of color; LGBTQIA+ youth; disabled folks; all immigrant communities, including undocumented young people; young parents; transition age youth; and foster care and former foster care youth. We recognize the intersections of these identities, including intersections with gender and gender identity.

Endorsing Organizations as of March 05: Advocates for Youth, Center for Law and Social Policy (CLASP), Center for Popular Democracy, Center for the Study of Social Policy, Kentucky Youth Advocates, National Network for Youth, National Youth Employment Coalition, NETWORK Lobby for Catholic Social Justice, New Deal for Youth (ND4Y), Point Source Youth, Prosperity Now, United for a Guaranteed Income, and Young Invincibles.

Bill sponsors: Rep. Morgan McGarvey, D-Ky-03, and Rep. Bonnie Watson Coleman, D-NJ-12. 

Rep. McGarvey’s office is currently looking for cosponsors, if you’re interested or have questions, please reach out to Trevor.OConnor@mail.house.gov

Before the pandemic, Jordan Gilbert would meet the homeless young people she’s charged with helping in schools, parks, libraries and drop-in centers where they can get a shower and a hot meal.

After making those connections, Gilbert, the interim manager for the REACH Center’s housing assistance program, called ACT, would encourage her 12- to 24-year-old clients to show up and apply for aid at the Tacoma, Wash., agency, whose name is shorthand for Resources for Educational Advancement, Careers, and Housing. If those clients needed gas or groceries, Gilbert would meet them at the point of purchase to pay for it.  

Listen and follow: Spotify | Apple Podcasts | Google Podcasts | Pocket Casts | RadioPublic

But when schools closed and the state locked down against COVID-19 in March 2020, Gilbert and many employees at organizations serving homeless youth felt a wave of panic. How would they aid students trying to attend school remotely from inside a car? Or reach kids quarantining in crowded homes where money for food and rent already was stretched thin? 

“My biggest concern was, how are we going to serve these youth and young adults, and how are we going to help them stay safe?” Gilbert said of those first days. “And then my other thought was, ‘Oh, my gosh, my team? How are we going to keep them healthy and still do our jobs? We can’t shut down.’”

But Gilbert also was “a little excited.” She saw an opportunity to make the ACT program more accessible and appealing to young people by moving more of its services online. 

Within two days of the state’s COVID-19 shutdown, Gilbert, 30, set up a Facebook page and an online form, in English and Spanish, where youth could request assistance at their convenience. The REACH Center, which also connects youth with education, employment and health care, created a live web chat and began sending youth money for food or other modest needs via PayPal. 

“We were very nervous that we would have zero clients because we couldn’t be out in the community reaching out to them and connecting with them,” said Devon Isakson, REACH interim director.

Instead, the number of young people reaching out to the organization exploded. REACH worked with more than 800 youth in 2021, up from 300 in the 12 months prior to March 2020. Isakson attributes the increase to both greater accessibility and increased needs. 

When schools closed and the states locked down against COVID-19 in March 2020, employees at organizations serving homeless youth felt a wave of panic.

This story and podcast are part of an ongoing series on homelessness in Washington state, done in collaboration with Crosscut. It is made possible, in part, by support from the Raikes Foundation. Youth Today and Crosscut maintain editorial control. Find links to more stories, podcasts and videos in the series at the end of this story.

The shift to virtual outreach “has completely changed the dynamic of how we communicate with youth and young adults because we are meeting them where they are,” said Gilbert, who briefly was homeless when she was starting as an ACT program intern in 2019.

As COVID-19 upended their usual protocols, some nonprofits that didn’t manage to alter their outreach strategies saw the tally of homeless youth they served plummet. But for other organizations, in Washington and nationwide, the pandemic spurred innovations in how they find and serve a population whose needs were amplified and, in some ways, made more acute because of COVID-19. 

Like REACH, a number of service providers adopted online and telephone-based options for young people to apply for housing, attend support groups and connect with case managers, mental health counselors and doctors. Other groups went in the opposite direction, delivering food and other supplies directly to youth and their families wherever they were sheltered, including in cars and motel rooms.

Several organizations across the country also began experimenting with giving cash directly to young people, allowing them to determine how best to meet their own needs. One of those is Point Source Youth, which, in partnership with Chapin Hall at the University of Chicago, is piloting monthly $1,250 cash transfers to young adults in New York and California.

“The pandemic exploded a lot of preconceived notions that young people experiencing homelessness have to go through certain hoops, have to show up in certain places, have to take certain assessments,” said Larry Cohen, co-founder and executive director of Point Source Youth, which supports service providers across the country with training, evaluation and advocacy. Instead, Cohen said, more organizations are reimagining their services to reflect what young people who have experienced homelessness say they need.

In another example of service providers trying something new, staffers at The Night Ministry in Chicago helped connect homeless young people with telehealth appointments when they couldn’t get a face-to-face with their physicians; and handed them boxes of donated food while they waited, sometimes for months, to re-qualify for food stamps. 

Service providers, and funders too, “are much more open to new ways of doing things,” Cohen said, “because it’s been clear in really painful ways that the old way hasn’t worked.” 

That’s clear from the numbers: Nationwide, at least 4.2 million young people aged 13 to 25 experience homelessness each year, according to a 2017 national survey by Chapin Hall. A majority reported having lived in a car, tent or other place “not meant for human habitation,” or in temporary housing such as a homeless shelter. And in Washington, more than 40,000 students, including 5,736 in Pierce County, where Tacoma is located, were homeless during all or part of the 2018-2019 school year, according to Building Changes. Students of color were disproportionately numbered among them, according to the latest data available, making up 46% of the state’s under-18 population but 61% of homeless students. 

“The bottom line is, a lack of housing and a lack of services for young people who are experiencing homelessness means we are going to see prostitution, prison and death,” said Shawna Kemppainen, executive director of The Place, which provides emergency shelter and street outreach in Colorado Springs, Colo. The pandemic spurred the nonprofit to open a new drop-in center and begin building 50 units of permanent supportive housing for young adults. “So we have to step up and do more of this across the country.” 

Post-pandemic, some intake and outreach will remain online

As a second year of the pandemic nears an end, REACH and some other similar organizations have returned to meeting young people in schools and other reopened spaces. But the new online offerings, at least at REACH, are here to stay, Gilbert said. 

Virtual outreach has several advantages, she noted. Back when she was doing client intake in person, getting honest answers could be difficult. “A lot of the times I was getting hesitant answers,” Gilbert said. “Or I would get no response, or I would get a lie.” 

 Online, she said, applicants often are more forthcoming about their circumstances.   

Sometimes youth are nervous or embarrassed to go into an agency to ask for help, REACH manager Isakson said. The online form “totally took away that kind of power imbalance.” 

Plus, Isakson added, youth can fill it out at night or on weekends, instead of having to show up for a two-hour meeting during business hours. And they don’t have to figure out transportation, which poses another barrier for many people who are homeless.

Despite these advantages, a lack of steady or reliable internet access can be a barrier for those seeking help remotely, Gilbert acknowledged. But youth are skilled at finding ways to get online, she said. “They will sit at Starbucks, and they will do whatever they need to do to get the support that they need because they’re so resilient.”  

When needed, the seven outreach specialists in REACH’s ACT program still meet young people face-to-face. This hybrid approach is critical because not all youth prefer virtual communication 

Vy Vu, the ACT program’s first youth “lived-expert” peer outreach specialist, who recently was homeless, is one of them. 

Vu, 22, who identifies as non-binary and left an abusive home shortly before turning 18, said they never felt accepted by their family. Queer and trans young adults experience homelessness at twice the rate of their non-LBGTQ peers, according to research by Chapin Hall. A 2020 national survey by the Trevor Project found that 29% of homeless LGBTQ youth and young adults had been kicked out of the house or run away. 

Vu had been living in their 2006 Toyota Camry on and off for about three years and were anxious to get into housing when they reached out to the ACT program last summer. Yet, Vu found trying to collaborate with an ACT outreach specialist via phone and text frustratingly slow. “Talking,” face to face, Vu said, “you can get things done a lot faster.” 

Last August, Vu signed a lease on the first place they could find, a one-bedroom apartment for $1,450 a month. REACH, using state and private grants, cut the landlord a check for about $1,800 to cover the security deposit and first month’s rent. Around the same time, Vu started their job with ACT, which allows them to pay the full rent themselves. 

Despite their own preference for in-person help, Vu said a lot of their peers prefer texting because they feel anxious speaking with strangers and uncomfortable asking for help. For others, Vu added, work and child-care obligations, transportation challenges, and the daily uncertainties and stresses of living without stable housing also make it hard to show up for an appointment. “You adapt to your participant, and that’s how it should be,” Vu said.

In Colorado, The Place also found that face-to-face interactions can play an important role in getting kids off the street. 

During the first year of the pandemic, The Place served 20% fewer youth and young adults in its street outreach and in its 20-bed emergency shelter, according to Kemppainen. With libraries, youth-friendly coffee shops and other safe indoor spaces closed, she said, the need for a drop-in center where youth could come inside, get a meal, charge their phone and connect with a case manager became more urgent.

So The Place repurposed a nearby LGBTQ center that had ceased in-person activities to pilot a homeless youth drop-in center from December 2020 through March 2021. 

Having that point of contact with young people proved critical in getting them housed, Kemppainen said. Compared to the previous year, the nonprofit saw six times the number of youth exit the street to housing because they were able to get to know drop-in center staff who could sign them up for one of several housing programs. 

That success helped accelerate the creation of a permanent drop-in center last December, something The Place had been wanting to do for several years. “The pandemic lit a fire under the need for opening a drop-in center,” Kemppainnen said. 

The Place also is building a larger emergency shelter and 50 units of permanent supportive housing for young adults. “The pandemic really brought the need for housing even more into focus,” Kemppainen said. Nationwide, 35% of youth and young adults who applied for housing were offered a place, according to a November 2018 Chapin Hall study; those who were selected waited an average of four months or more for the offer. 

Caseloads soar; workers head outdoors to find youth 

When Gov. Jay Inslee ordered all Washington schools to close in an effort to slow COVID-19’s spread, Julie Easley was alarmed. “I was, like, ‘No! I need to get to my kids,’ ” said Easley, referring to those she’d been serving as the sole outreach specialist for The Coffee Oasis in Tacoma. The nonprofit conducts homeless youth outreach and has drop-in centers and 18 emergency shelter beds for youth and young adults in Kitsap and Pierce Counties.

“I have youth that were already having so many obstacles,” she continued, “so much instability.” Then they were being told to quarantine, Easley said, but often they didn’t have a safe place to stay. Some, for example, were living in cars, while others found themselves no longer welcome in homes where they had been couch surfing.

Like Gilbert at REACH, Easley was abruptly unable to connect with her clients at libraries, drop-in centers, basketball courts and other regular haunts. And Easley knew that school is where many youth get meals and counseling and make important connections with friends, teachers and other stable adults.

When it became clear that life would not return to normal after the initial, two-week lockdown, Easley knew she’d have to figure out alternative means of contacting her clients. 

Instead of a computer, Easley turned to her car. Starting with the youth she already knew, she began providing food, clothing, personal protective equipment and other essentials. 

“‘I’m still here, and I can still drive, and we still have supplies, and, so, let’s figure this out,’” she told herself. “I’ll admit,” she added, “I didn’t really have, like, some master plan.”  

Word quickly spread. When Easley would meet a kid in her compact car to shuttle them to the food bank, they often would have three friends in tow.

“I have times where we had so much food in the trunk, and the kids would have boxes on their laps, and we would bring them to grandmas that were taking care of them … and to families that were letting them couch surf,” Easley said. Those visits also let her get to know and support relatives of youth. 

Easley said she worried more about the youth than about COVID. “Not because I didn’t want to be safe and protect others,” she said, “but I really needed to engage the youth with where they were at.” 

For those living with a vulnerable grandparent, she would drop food off at the doorstep and chat outdoors from a distance. As masks became more available, she carried and offered them to her clients, but she didn’t force the issue. 

“Overall, my love for the youth won over my concern for COVID,” she said.

Easley’s caseload ballooned to 80 teens, up from 55 pre-pandemic. She drove them to court hearings and doctor’s appointments and helped them register for school. She has been by the sides of two 17-year-old clients through their pregnancies, attending medical appointments and ultrasounds, but she wasn’t able to be at their babies’ births due to COVID.    

Such “mobile case management,” as Easley calls it, has allowed her to build trust with youth, and with their families, by supporting them through important life events. They have continued to reach out when challenges have arisen, including when they have had a car accident or received an eviction notice. 

In March, Easley became Pierce County youth programs director for The Coffee Oasis, which operates statewide. A recent grant will let her hire three new outreach workers who will continue the in-person service model she pioneered. 

Youth are entrusted to utilize cash stipends

Another change accelerated by the pandemic involves giving cash to young people and trusting them to spend it on whatever they need.

During the pandemic, REACH began giving out one-time amounts of up to $250 for necessities such as food, transportation and personal hygiene. Youth tell REACH what they want the money for, but they don’t have to provide a receipt or otherwise prove how they spent it. Most requests are for about $50.  

“It changed the game for us,” Isakson said. It allows staff to serve more youth because they’re not spending two hours meeting one person to buy them groceries.    

It also empowers young people, she and Gilbert added. Young adults “still have the right to make their own decisions,” Gilbert said. “And we trust that the youth, the young adults, are going to do what they need to do.” 

A young person might be afraid to say they need $50 for HIV prevention medication and, instead, say it’s for gas, Gilbert said. “That’s not my place to judge,” she said. “I just want to make sure your needs are met.”

In New York City, San Francisco, Oakland and Los Angeles, another new cash transfer program is testing whether giving young adults $1,250 per month — an amount that reflects the cost of housing, usually with a roommate, in those cities — will result in long-term housing stability for 30 to 100 participants in each city. Called the Trust Youth Initiative, the program will provide the cash, along with optional support services, for up to two years. Point Source Youth is overseeing implementation and Chapin Hall will evaluate the results. 

The effort, Point Source Youth’s Cohen pointed out, costs considerably less than housing young adults in congregate shelters. New York City spent more than $50,000 per shelter bed in fiscal year 2021. 

“We have to trust young people as experts in their own lives,” Cohen said. And given that youth of color and LGBTQ+ youth are so overrepresented among the homeless population, “it quickly becomes, trust Black youth, trust trans youth, trust BIPOC youth,” he said. “That is what’s morally required.”  

Such cash transfers have been rare in the United States, although research has shown them to be successful at alleviating poverty in other countries. That’s partly because government and private grants to nonprofits typically limit how funds can be used and require careful tracking of how they are spent. 

The stimulus money that all Americans received during the pandemic helped shift the conversation among funders, Cohen said. No one, he pointed out, asked people, “Did you buy Chardonnay with your stimulus payment?” And those payments worked to improve people’s ability to afford food, rent and other necessities, while reducing depression and anxiety. 

The Trust Youth Initiative is funded by a combination of state, local and foundation dollars. In Washington, one of REACH’s private funders gave it permission to use an existing grant for the cash transfers; the group hopes to continue them as long as funding is available.

REACH and other groups say philanthropies not only boosted their giving during the pandemic but also trusted service providers to spend it in ways that best help young people, often with young people’s input. REACH, for example, was able to use some emergency funds to hire Vu, one of its own program graduates, to guide other struggling young people. 

Even when the emergency funding dries up, said Isakson, REACH is determined to stay relevant and accessible to the young people it serves. “We really just don’t want to be that antiquated model of a social service agency,” she said.

Related videos, stories and podcasts

***

Allegra Abramo is a freelance writer whose stories and photos have appeared in ProPublica, NBCNews.com, InvestigateWest, and other local and national outlets. She grew up on the East Coast but loves the mountains and trees of the Pacific Northwest too much to ever go back.

Sam Leeds is an independent producer and sound artist living in Seattle. They are passionate about reporting that examines systems of power and approaches the people who agree to share their voices with deep care. You can hear their work on NPR Music’s Louder Than A Riot, Life Kit, KNKX’s Sound Effect, and more.

This story is part of an ongoing series on homelessness in Washington state, done in collaboration with Crosscut. It is made possible in part by support from the Raikes Foundation. Youth Today and Crosscut maintain editorial control.

Recently, at one of the writing workshops that I teach at three juvenile lockups in and around my hometown of St. Louis, one of my students posed a provocative question:

“Why should I write about changing the world when the world doesn’t care about me?”

The tall, lanky 16-year-old asked his question in a slow, rebellious twang that reminded me of how I spoke as a child.

“You should write about changing the world so that the world can start caring about you,” I quickly responded.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said.

While my instant answer could have been met with skepticism, my students, who range in age from 13 to 17, know that I am not just talking in a vacuum.

My story

“Now, my classes are among the weekly programs that are mandatory for the kids.”

They know that in the late ’90s, when I was 16, I sat in the city’s juvenile detention center before being certified as an adult and standing trial for participating in two armed robberies. They know that I was convicted of 17 felonies, and sentenced to a total of 241 years in prison. And they know I served nearly three decades before getting out on parole at age 43.

While these kids are facing the school-to-prison pipeline rather than the youth superpredator panic that ensnared me when I was tried, convicted and sentenced, the point is the same: If they don’t change their lives, what likely awaits them is prison or death. That’s why I urge my students to use the art form of writing. Succeeding in the arts can help these youth rise above poverty. Writing can help heal their trauma.

My process

The rooms where I teach are made up of stark concrete walls, white linoleum floors and black chalkboards. As a security precaution, my students are only allowed to use pencils. During each class session, I stand in front of about 15 kids who are overwhelmingly Black. They sit in the chairs and small tables sprawled about and diligently take notes or record their own ideas.

But mostly, we all just talk.

This format opens the door for students to challenge me. For instance, on the day in question, another kid wanted clarity about this concept of writing for change.

“The truth is, these classes help me as much as they seem to help my students. These kids are full of potential. Giving them guidance is my way of giving back.”

“But how can a written document change the world?” he wanted to know.

Before I could respond, a peer raised his hand and said, “Man, the Bible is a written document, and it changes people’s lives every day. It constantly changes the world.”

The class fell silent for a moment. Then a third child raised his hand and declared, “The United States Constitution is a written document, and it changed this country forever.”

As others interjected — the writings of Martin Luther King Jr. and Socrates had global impact, they informed me — we found ourselves in the middle of a lively discussion.

[Related: To end the age of incarceration, three communities pioneer a developmental approach]

When it was time for me to speak again, I explained how reading “Long Walk To Freedom,” the autobiography of Nelson Mandela, showed me the power of forgiveness and restorative justice. I also revealed how I became serious about writing: As a lost 18-year-old in an adult prison, penning a book of poems helped me find myself. That led to another student telling the class how much poetry books had inspired him as he was battling depression. I was happy that he felt safe enough to share that.

The beginning

Perhaps I should mention here that I am not a trained teacher or counselor. During the 27 years that I spent in Missouri state prisons, my jobs included working in the kitchen washing pots and pans, and I had a very brief stint as a G.E.D. tutor. But I did write 13 books, including eight that I self-published. This lived experience gave me the confidence to walk into three juvenile detention centers — Hogan Street Regional Youth Center, St. Louis County Juvenile Detention Center and the St. Louis City Juvenile Detention Center — and propose a curriculum. I had only been out on parole for two weeks. Shortly after I made my proposal, I became a volunteer writing instructor.

[Related: Public Welfare Foundation’s Candice Jones debunks the latest tough-on-crime rhetoric]

Now, my classes are among the weekly programs that are mandatory for the kids. They run from 90 minutes to two hours, but often feel much shorter. My students have access to a library full of books. I give them homework assignments every week, but they don’t get traditional grades. Instead, they critique each other’s work, sharing constructive feedback.

The truth is, these classes help me as much as they seem to help my students. These kids are full of potential. Giving them guidance is my way of giving back.

The results

Toward the end of the class, when we discussed writing for change, I noticed that one kid had been sitting silently the entire time. I asked him what his opinion was, and he said that he was certain that writing could at least change the world one person at a time.

“How is that, man?” a classmate asked, genuinely interested.

The quiet young man held up a copy of “Humbled To The Dust: Still I Rise” — my most recent memoir — and read a passage that he had chosen:

“The world has its problems, and it always will,” he recited. “But there [have] always been good people who work to change the world while trying to make it a better place. … Despite our flaws, we can change the world, make it better, and enjoy it with happiness.”

I felt grateful that he used a piece of my memoir to bring the class full circle. And I got no argument about their assignment for next week: Write your own essay titled “What I Would Do To Change The World.”

***

Bobby Bostic, a St. Louis native, was released on parole in November 2022. During the 27 years he spent in prison, he wrote 13 books. His most recent memoir, “Humbled To The Dust: Still I Rise,” was published in August 2023. Follow him on X and Instagram @FreeBobbyBostic, and visit his websites,  www.minddiamonds.net and www.juvenileliferswithoutparolespeaks.org

The Missouri Department of Social Services’ Division of Youth Services did not respond to questions about their educational programming by publication time.

This story was originally published by The Marshall Project, a nonprofit newsroom covering the U.S. criminal justice system. Their Life Inside series publishes perspectives from those who work and live in the criminal justice system. Sign up to receive “Life Inside” emailed to you every week.

When my 8-year-old cousin called me “bad” for being gay, I was sitting on the top bunk of the bed of the one-room deer camp my grandpa had built. Outside, around the fire, the adults in our extended family were talking and eating treats from our celebration of Grandpa’s 71st birthday. We kids had retreated indoors, exhausted from an extensive game of hide-and-seek. 

As the second oldest cousin, I was used to a flurry of questions during these family gatherings. On this occasion, they wanted to know who I had a crush on. I gave them a name, a boy’s name.

I was 14 years old at the time, an eighth-grader at a 300-student middle school in Houghton, a small town in Upper Michigan. I was out only to a small group of friends. And I wanted to test the waters of my family by telling the young, supposedly open-minded relatives. I never expected any of them to say anything homophobic or hateful. I wasn’t mad about the 8-year-old’s insult; he’d repeated what he’d heard somewhere, maybe even from one of our kin. I was hurt.

I gave up on the idea of coming out to my whole family. They would find out in time and we could have that conversation then. Life went on. 

“At 17, I’m experiencing harassment that I didn’t experience when I was 13.”

Toward the beginning of my sophomore year, I confided in my older brother my fear that someone at my high school was going to say or do something to injure me. I’d seen the way teenage boys behave in the bathroom. They violently shake open stall doors, sometimes. Or they give a guy “jumper cables” by poking him under both sides of his rib cage to make him hop up abruptly while he’s using a urinal. If that’s what they do to their friends, what would they do to someone they didn’t like? Yet, my brother told me not to worry. 

My brother was wrong. On the Wednesday before Halloween, during what was then my junior year, I heard it: “ … faggot!” A person shouted that at me, putting the f-word in front of what he’d said, as I was maneuvering down a crowded hallway. Someone else laughed. 

I was terrified. I stormed away as fast as possible. I didn’t look back. My brother and friends who’d been my safety net had graduated the prior spring.

When I told the school therapist that I didn’t know who said it, she pulled up the security camera footage and told me that I could go. She would take care of everything. 

Talking about it and having people listen

It felt good to be listened to. So,  I spoke to my school board. I convinced my principal to train teachers and staff about how to defend LGBTQ students. In my advanced placement language class, I wrote a speech that I gave at Ford’s Theater in Washington D.C., where I also met with staff from my U.S. Senator’s and U.S. House of Representatives members’ offices. I told them about my everyday fears.

And the statistics are scary: Suicide is the second-leading cause of death for people aged 10 to 14 and aged 20 to 34 in America. LGBTQ+ people were four times more likely to commit suicide during the pandemic, a horrifying yet consistent trend.

Forty-three percent of transgender youth have been bullied on school property; 29% have been threatened or injured with a weapon while on school property; 29% of gay or lesbian youth and 31% of bisexual youth have been bullied on school property; and 6% of gay and lesbian youth and 11% of bisexual youth have been threatened or injured with a weapon on school property, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. 

What happens on campus reflects the violence off-campus, where LGBTQ+ people are four times more likely to be victims of rape, sexual assault, simple assault and other several other crimes.

Beyond physical threats, the CDC has also stated that LGBTQ+ people are placed at high risk for substance abuse and poor health outcomes due to experiences of discrimination and stressful conditions such as laws targeting LGBTQ+ people, marriage bans, hate crimes and medical discrimination. 

Several states have banned gender-affirming care for those under 18, further erasing the identities of many LGBTQ youth. A Republican congressman from Louisiana has introduced the Stop the Sexualization of Children Act, which, among other things, would ban books, events, and programs that discuss sexual orientation, gender identity, gender dysphoria, or related subjects. 

The House of Representatives has passed the Protection of Women and Girls in Sports Act of 2023. But an E Alliance study and others suggest that “there is no firm basis available in evidence to indicate that trans women have a consistent and measurable overall performance benefit after 12 months of testosterone suppression.” 

Anti-gay legislation fuels anti-gay action

When adults tout their anti-gay legislation on the 5 o’clock news, young people listen. Some of them parrot the adults.

At 17, I’m experiencing harassment that I didn’t experience when I was 13. (And I’ve been out at school since around freshman year.) My friends have received death threats. 

Yet, as I and others join the important conversations about these things, I also have seen some of my peers grow more understanding and less hateful. I have seen fellow LGBTQ+ students grow a little less afraid. I have had teachers thank me for being a source of news and other information. 

The same classmates who used to vehemently expressed their homophobia or transphobia, chiding me and my kind, now stay silent. It’s a small step. But progress is progress.  

According to The Hill, two-thirds of Gen Z are worried about the future of LGBTQ+ rights. They want to protect those rights. It’s a sign that, together, we can make it through this. We can create a world that is safe for everyone.

***

Ian Evans is a senior at Houghton High School in Houghton, Michigan. He plans to someday run for his state’s legislature or for Congress.

“Oh, please don’t do that,” I plead silently under my breath as a promised protector — my classmates’ and promised protector, the police officer stationed at our school to keep us safe — tackled and swept another young person just my age across the floor in the very classroom I shared with them.

Too afraid and in shock to speak up, I sat by and watched as the school resource officer attempted to pull a misbehaving student out of class. It was almost as if I was agreeing to and condoning the behavior by not speaking up. But who was really to blame? The “protector,” or the students who were supposed to be protected but were instead endangered? 

I could hear the clicks of the handcuffs and my classmate wailing. They hadn’t resisted the officer’s request in such a terrible way that they had needed to be treated like that. The anger, vengeance, demanding of the officer was the lighter that lit the bud in my stomach. The bud that always quickly flourished from nervousness to full-on anxiety. I wanted nothing more than to be home, out of this situation. I felt that only in America, and only ever were people of my skin color targeted and treated this way. 

I’ve always felt that authoritative forces such as police officers were intimidating and threatening. And not only because of the things I’ve seen them do, but also because of the things I knew they could do. It isn’t normal nor should it be normalized. You can feel the hostility of when someone doesn’t care for you, but you can see it ten times clearer in their actions. In a system designed for Blacks and people of color to fail, the level of racism in schools, communities, and elsewhere does not at all surprise me at the age of seventeen now. I’ve become desensitized to it, except I’m no longer silenced.

What’s highly at stake is the safety of our children. I must make change. It’s in my name. We must advocate, whether we die doing so or only make it halfway or a quarter there. We have the power; we have the togetherness and the voices to make change. We only have to want it bad enough.

This is my advice to school resource officers and police officers in general: 

If you want us to not see all law enforcement officers as threatening, first establish a connection, one that shows understanding and compassion, love and acceptance. Equity and Equality. Many of us lack these in our home life and could use it from wherever.  But if you build the correct foundation, one centered around integrity, empathy, respect, patience, fairness, and honesty, it shall be reciprocated from youth as learned behavior.

“Evaluate before you penetrate. The youth needs you.”

People don’t care about how much you know, until they know how much you care. Many of us already admire and are inspired by police officers, firefighters, paramedics, governors, etc. We know your position. Please do not attack us, but why not use our inspiration and admiration to your advantage instead? Lend us a lecture or two about your position, your life story. What it took for you to get where you are today. Educate us. You could change the right kid’s life with just words. Those words would show you care.

You want school communities to feel safer and more welcoming? Well, evaluate who you’re hiring in these resource officer positions. Give these people the correct training and not just guns. Go back to their childhoods, do research, evaluate them. 

As a resource officer, build bonds with these young people you are around every single day! Ask us what we like to eat, our hobbies, our life goals and paths. Buy us lunch once in a while. Show us that you care, and don’t sit on our backs. Love the youth and care for us because we are the next generation. We will age and hold important decision-making positions someday. We will grow and remember these experiences and carry these situations and trauma with us through adulthood. Don’t sabotage our country’s future through your misuse of power.

***

A’Miracle Williams is a New Orleans-based writer and advocate. She is a 2023 graduate of New Harmony High School and will be attending Grambling State University to major in psychology and minor in creative writing. She’s written and published two books with 826 New Orleans, a youth writing center, already and looks forward to her future as an author. 

There’s been a lot of news about women abused by men in power lately, and I’ve been thinking about the girls I was locked up with. A majority of them were young girls just looking for an escape from a life under pressure, only to find something that led them to more hurt and then incarceration. If you ever really look at the big picture, most kids who are locked up have gone through some serious upheaval and trauma that led them to that place. They are hurting, just as I was, seeking an escape from some of the more hurtful aspects of life, the things that are difficult to confront, like parents who are addicts, or abusers in other ways.

In the case of the girls from the halls, often a man used them to get what he wanted, dragging them along and convincing them that what was being done to them was based in love. This took away their innocence and robbed them of experiences every child deserves to have. We were forced to become women even before knowing what “being a woman” meant. I was in a life where my mom was using meth and being the teenager at 36 years old, which essentially forced me to act as the adult at 15 years old, maybe even earlier.

As a result, the experiences I shared with those girls made them more than just my friends or people I shared a dayroom with; they became my family. We survived the war zone that was incarceration, where all we really had was each other. We all saw each other as we really are: made entirely out of love, honesty and compassion. We helped each other in good times and in bad. I learned how to care for another human being on a far deeper level than I believe I would have, had I not been sent to the halls.

Perhaps these girls have also been on my mind so much lately because I still feel a bit locked up. Even two years out, I still feeling like I’m not doing what I really want, like I’m still running a program rather than living a life.

I feel like other people are still running my life and I have no choice in what I do. There are staff in placement programs who are just there for the money and who don’t care about the kids or what’s happening to them. When a program for system-involved youth is run like that — based on how much money a certain kid brings in due to their issues — it leads to complete failure in rehabilitating them. To name just one example, when I was in placement I saw more kids getting sent back to the halls than kids being rehabilitated and sent back home to their families. When the place is meant to “lift you up” but in truth it only brings you down, it means there needs to be more of an understanding as to just why the kids are in that space in the first place and why they are hurting the way they hurt.

What’s also true is that kids who spend time behind bars need to be taught how to navigate through the world once they get out. For me, personally, after a while being locked up began to feel like “home,” and even today sometimes I think it’d be easier to go back to what had become so familiar and nurturing to me while inside. But would that mean I’d be going backwards, or just trying to feel normal again, or would it mean that I’d be running away from real life? This is what I need to think over before deciding what happens next in my life.

When I transitioned out of the halls to a placement, it was legit the scariest thing I’ve ever felt. I really couldn’t even figure out how much money I should give the cashier for snacks I was buying! Everything felt foreign to me.

There needs to be a way to teach kids what everyday life is after spending time away from it. There needs to be a crash course on what these kids should expect coming out. The “normal day” routine I’d learned, then grown into and then relied on for peace and safety in those crazy, scary times, had been taken from me, and I was thrown back onto the streets, not knowing what to expect.

I even felt like there was a big sign on my back with my criminal charge written across it, so that everyone could see what I’d been accused of and what had just happened. I didn’t even feel normal around members of my own family. I was torn; half of me devising a plan to get sent back, and the other half remembering my girls. The ones I left behind, who held me up when I was facing going to adult court and state prison, and who lovingly wished me well in my new life as I got my second chance. A lot of them still haven’t gotten their second chance yet. But in honor of them, and all we shared together, I’ve decided that I’m not going to waste mine.

Taylor, 18, is working on her resume. When not at the InsideOUT Writers office in Los Angeles, she’s been doing some work as a production assistant.

Christine Alegre is a youth mentor for the Spirit Awakening Foundation, which serves incarcerated and formerly incarcerated youth with meditation, arts and other healing services. She is also a prison abolitionist.

Jimmy Recinos is youth editor for the InsideOUT Writers program, a creative writing organization for incarcerated and formerly incarcerated youth in Los Angeles. He works with IOW’s young adults to develop opinion articles on some of today’s most pressing issues.

Recently, the two sat down for a conversation as two mentors in the field to assess some of the major developments in progressive politics and how they may impact their respective collectives. The opinions expressed are those of the authors and do not represent the organizations they’re a part of.

J.R.: Just for the record, how would you describe yourself?

C.A.: I’m an empath to the max. I can empathize with the person and still understand that they’re wrong. I’m also not the most into everything that’s going on, but what I do know is that sometimes you gotta laugh about the sad things. We gotta laugh, because that’s how we cope, and maybe even how we move on … Forgiveness and laughter is cultural for me.

J.R.: What did you make of the phrase the first time you saw #MeToo?

C.A.: By the time it hit Facebook, I immediately thought of my own situation. I had just been at the convenience store with a friend when from out of nowhere some stranger that I’d never seen before came up from behind and put his hands on me. Before I could even process what had just happened, he ran away like a madman. At that moment I felt violated but knowing he was gone, all I did was laugh. I had to laugh and move on because as women we know unsolicited and unwanted attention is inevitable. It was that or I could cry, but sometimes the latter is too much for the moment.

When I saw the #MeToo hashtag though, what kept me from sharing was that I didn’t want to take away from more traumatic experiences with my mundane one. I don’t think #MeToo was just about saying “we’ve all been catcalled.” For me it was about saying: I understand you, sister.

J.R.: You stopped yourself from sharing, then, to give space to others, if you will.

C.A.: Although I liked that the conversations [#MeToo] generated were open to everyone, I also felt my experience wasn’t the same as that of other women’s. There were women sharing their #MeToos who had been raped or molested, and that’s not the same as being catcalled or harassed.

Every woman you’ve ever met has been catcalled.

At the same time, I also don’t think it’s very helpful for women to get online to make generalizations about men. I know that wasn’t the intention of #MeToo, but at least on my side, that’s what I saw much of it coming down to.

J.R.: It sounds like you appreciated certain aspects of #MeToo but also like you had some disagreements about the direction, mainly in how it came to describe something about men that, although resonant, wasn’t completely representative.

C.A.: My problem with where the me too movement has gone is that it’s including men but not in an inclusive way. If we want men to change we need to give them the space to do so by setting clear standards. Saying that all men are trash, for example, is inadvertently giving men permission to act like trash; in my opinion, it’s better to hold men accountable and create spaces for men to hold themselves accountable as well.

Apart from this, when I find out that #MeToo got really big because a white woman did what a black woman originally did, of course I’d have mixed feelings.

J.R.: What I hear you saying is that even “woke” campaigns have to be placed into perspective.

C.A.: After a while, when you keep up with campaigns like #MeToo you come to see that certain voices lead the momentum. Maybe that’s not the worst thing that can happen for a movement, but then when those voices got all these other people in agreement, what do you do with that?

A lot of people feel like sharing a video or hashtagging is doing something about things, and though it’s a part of the process, there’s just as much work out there for all of us to do. It’s hard to remember that in the moment of status update, especially now. We’ve made the internet into a shouting factory. It used to be all this free info, but now it’s a matter of navigating through what’s real and what’s fake.

J.R.: What else might the mainstream conversation be missing in its critique of gender inequality?

C.A.: For one, when the talking heads out there can’t even be bothered to recognize the work being done to combat issues like gender inequality by women of color who aren’t Hollywood actresses, I feel like it’s so last century. Why are white women still taking away from women of color when it comes to liberal America’s agenda? As a collective, how is [it] that we’ve allowed so little to change over the course of nearly 100 years?

What’s also true is that there should be more openness about what’s actually going on with everyone instead of shaming a select few people for getting caught. Yes, there are men out there with strange fetishes who are playing dangerous games with real human lives, but there are also women who do these things. That’s simplifying, but my point is: When exactly did we decide that anything sexual differing from “the norm” is supposed to be punished? I don’t have the answers to all these things, but I do think we can’t get very far if all we do is scapegoat the sexuality of “a few bad apples.” We need to discuss our assumptions about sexuality as a whole, historically.

J.R.: I wonder if the historical norms vary from place to place, depending on the time and environment. As a woman of color in a city as diverse as Los Angeles, do some of the more recent trends in awareness and activism give you reason to be optimistic about a greater balance of power between the different groups which make up our “collective”?

C.A.: Honestly, it varies. You gotta be optimistic to do this work. However, when I look at the lack of knowledge centered in so many of the “movements,” or how many people think they’re doing their part by sharing a video or adding a like … I get disheartened. These changes will not be made behind computer screens. These real conversations that need to be had, have them. Have them with family, friends, your kids, and then let that fuel what you do next. But do something, actively participate. Don’t just be an ally from behind the screen.

J.R.: Wait, did you even attend the Women’s Marches following the inauguration last year?

C.A.: I did not. When it comes to a march, the government can see that you’re there, but what else? The Black Panthers didn’t just make themselves seen. They showed the world how they could generate a completely self-sufficient system outside of government programming, and that’s what really scared big brother back for a moment.

J.R.: Should we expect more from the organizers of the Women’s Marches in 2018, or might it be time to move toward another group’s moment?

C.A.: I was never on board with the women’s marches to begin with. Even these marches, they weren’t inclusive enough. It’s a step backwards to see that you’ve got power but to do nothing about it. Saying let’s have a march to celebrate women is different from saying let’s all get out here to celebrate the different facets which make up our humanity right now, which includes way more than just one gender.

That said, of course there has to be exclusive space for different kinds of people, but I believe it’s still most important for our differences to be put aside in order for all of us to live together. That’s the kind of inclusiveness at the end of the day that we still aren’t working with.

J.R.: That reminds me of an interesting point I heard about the Democrats’ inclusiveness. What would you make of the contention that Democrats are only interested in immigration reform because immigrant populations tend to vote blue?

C.A.: Immigrants are more Democratic-leaning because they know how to live in a multifaceted society where everyone has a different role to play. Plus, a lot of immigrants don’t arrive here with arms full of money, so of course they could appreciate a helping hand. Republicans, on the other hand, are all about maintaining wealth in the hands of their nonimmigrant constituents. The jobs and tax cuts act spoke for itself this last year.

At the same time, I know many people whose parents are immigrants voted for Trump, and sometimes there’s no way of knowing how someone is gonna vote. It’s based on experiences as much as it’s based on beliefs.

J.R.: Given that, should we expect the Democrats to finally turn the page on immigration reform this year?

C.A: I feel like the debate has been so obfuscated that a lot of advocacy is about fighting for little pittances of progress. Of course young people who had no choice over their status should be given some protection. Instead, Republicans passed tax cuts for corporations, none of which are facing the threat of deportation or time in a detention center. It’s up to those of us doing out work out there to remember times like these, including how the Democrats stall.

At the end of the day change in our system will not come at the hands of the Democrats or the Republicans … it’s in the hands of the people. We also can’t look for one place to assign blame but rather we have to look at these systems as a whole. In the words of Angela Davis: Whenever you conceptualize social justice struggles, you will always defeat your own purposes if you cannot imagine the people around whom you are struggling as equal partners.

Christine Alegre, 25, is a youth advocate in Los Angeles. For those interested in hearing more, check out her first article for Youth Today.

Jimmy Recinos, 27, is a writer and editor in Los Angeles. To learn more about his work with InsideOUT Writers, check out his column, the first in this series.

As kids we were told not to touch the stove or we’d get burned. A warning was enough for some, but others had to feel the sensation of the hot flames burning the skin to understand. Then there were those whose mesmerization by the flame drove them to touch it repeatedly, even if it caused them pain.

I was more of the latter. Although I knew the flame would burn, I touched it repeatedly. It wasn’t always like this. I was the youngest of three brothers in a family overseen by a single mother.

Growing up in South Central Los Angeles, a young woman pushing a stroller down the sidewalk with a baby crying in it while another child skipped along ide wasn’t a strange sight. Whether she was on her way to or from school or on a simple walk to the store, you hardly ever saw a male father figure beside them.

As a kid, I didn’t really focus on the absence of my father but rather on the presence of my mother. She spent the majority of her time working to provide for herself and her three kids, but even when she was away, she was a powerful figure whose presence was still felt at home.

She left Guatemala at a young age to lead a better life for her and my oldest brother, who she carried in her stomach at the time. They arrived to pursue a life of happiness out here in California. I wonder if she began to feel captive to her Guatemala environment, the way I eventually began to feel about mine in Los Angeles.

City as kennel

When I became a teenager, the neighborhood I once felt freedom in began to feel limited. It became the liquor store to the north, where the O.G.s hung out in front with brown paper bags in their hands, while the youngsters waited around the corner for theirs. To the south it was the burger joint, where long days and nights living fast led you to get your meal. To the west there was the bakery, where all the mothers purchased fresh, warm bread for their households on Sunday mornings. To the east was the 10 freeway, which acted like a bridge, dividing two worlds that were actually more similar than one thought. I was enclosed in these parameters, parameters that existed only to those who lived in South Central L.A.

Suddenly, my city, which I once viewed as the place for tourists, the home of stars and celebrities, began to feel like a small kennel. There was violence and crime where I lived, yet somehow it still felt safer than the rest of the city that I didn’t know. So many tragedies would take place in my neighborhood, yet none seemed to make the news — as if we were on an island by ourselves. It led to this stigma that we were on our own in South Central.

As more time passed in my teenage years, it wasn’t only my city I felt disconnected from, but also my family. The absence of my father gave me a sense that I had to grow into a man quickly and on my own. And my brothers, the two older role models, began to feel like two older comparisons of the life I should and shouldn’t live.

My oldest brother was a knucklehead in his youth, which meant I had to carry the consequences of his actions in my own attempts at freedom.

“You want to quit school and hang out in the streets all day up to no good like your brother?” my mom would say sternly.

“Entonces, escúchame.” Listen to me.

When that didn’t shake me out of it, I had to live up to my second brother’s standards.

“Why can’t you get good grades and take school and your future more seriously … como tu otro hermano?”

Believing my own lies

Although a part of me recognized that my mom was just trying to push me to be better in those regaños — or scoldings — it was hard to listen. With my mother constantly working hard, she couldn’t possibly see all the pain I was dealing with. She was there to scold me but not to comfort me when I felt I needed her the most. She was able to notice my grades dropping and my attitude changing, but she couldn’t see how I was hurting, or the reasons why I began acting out. Feeling as if no one would understand or cared about my problems, I let my imagination harbor a better world for me.

I began to believe my own lies. The streets carried these stigmas I felt I had to adopt. Between my friends and me, there was a stigma about school, that it was more of a daycare center than a place of learning, or a distraction that stood in the way of what we really wanted at the time — the things Los Angeles seemed to love most: expensive clothes, jewelry, fast cars and everything else easy money could buy.

There was also the stigma that we who lived in South Central weren’t good enough for the lavish life, as if it was assumed that we didn’t deserve it, which only led us to believe that we had to make it happen on our own terms. With no job at the time and a family I felt disconnected from, I chose to leave school and started to hang out with some older cats who had that fast life I felt I needed.

Now the lavish life

I began to make the lavish life my own, materials and all included. Suddenly, everyone began to notice my new encounters, including those I didn’t even want in my business. But the more people knew about me on the streets, the more I began to care less. The truth is, I needed to escape the noise that surrounded my environment, a place away from the distractions that stood before me.

Although I was aware that I’d grown up being taught right from wrong in my household, it didn’t change the fact that it still took a toll on me when everything seemed to fall apart between my family and me. I had to find that connection somewhere else, and so I felt I would gain love, trust and a better understanding of myself with those older cats, because somehow they could relate to my story. Things went on with the lavish life for awhile, until I realized I had to stop myself.

It wasn’t until I was given an opportunity to give myself the time, space and attention to grow that I realized I was going about living my life all wrong. Somehow, life had its way of sitting me down. Finally, advice from those who surrounded me couldn’t have come at a better time. I held questions about life that I didn’t hold the answers to, but suddenly it seemed as if those who surrounded me not only understood me, but held those very answers I was searching for.

Looking within

One day I sat down with an O.G. who I could finally relate to. He grew up carrying the same stigmas I did: feeling less than worthy, his voice unheard and, like me, a hopeless teen without a future based on his environment, too. He admitted to chasing the easy money in his youth, believing he was doing it out of necessity, like I was. Then he told me how he felt he had failed himself when he realized he spent so much time focusing on everything around him instead of everything within him.

“Within,” he said, “de adentro.”

I had done the same. I didn’t realize what I had because I was too fixated on what others had. My necessities were always there, but a sense of greed drove me to seek more. I was confused and mad at the world. When I got my hands on what I thought I could call my own money, instead of making me feel more complete, the money just made me more mad and confused. I wanted to know how to reach a better state of mind, one like the O.G.’s. He told me my happiness was my own and that no one could simply give it to me. I had to learn from my mistakes, ensuring to do better for my future by committing to my present.

I began to notice how my mother’s advice to me as a kid made more sense then.

“Escuchame.”

The brothers now

One day she and I got on the phone and spoke about those two older role models of mine. I marveled at how three kids growing up under the same roof, with the same single mother, experiencing the same neighborhood, were all in different places in their lives. How could they be doing good when they were dealt bad hands in life too? For a time, questions like these became crutches that I used to justify as excuses for my own actions.

It went back to the flames. Some must feel the hot flames burning the skin to understand. This was my oldest brother. As the oldest he held responsibilities that were strange to him. With no father at home, he had to become the man of the house at a time when he still just wanted to wake up to cartoons and his favorite cereal, like the rest of us. He had to be a leader early on yet was still learning how to be led. It wasn’t easy. He made his mistakes.

As a father now, his responsibilities are new and strange, just like when we were kids. He has to decide if he wants to listen to the advice of those who want to guide him or do things his own way again, but the choice is his.

To others, a simple warning about the flame is enough. This was my second brother. He realized early that there was a lot he had to learn out there, yet he was willing to trust the process. A great leader must learn to follow first. And that’s what he did. Today he is still focused on his growth and has kept away from distractions.

Then there was me. I had touched the flame, knowing it would burn, and kept at it until the pain overwhelmed me. But I realized it had nothing to do with my mother, my father, my brothers, my environment.

It was me.

There I was counting and thinking about all the bad that had happened, how I threw away my education, quit playing sports or how I damaged the relationships with those I loved. At an early age I began to feel like life was over for me, even though I was still just getting started.

When I saw this about myself, I began to seek knowledge — not the knowledge taught in schools but the one of self-examination. I started attending classes of that nature. Putting aside the pride I carried for so long, I was humble enough to ask for help. From there, I began to make the most of my present.

Choosing to be ‘selfish’

Muhammad Ali once said, “Don’t count the days, make the days count.”

I kept digging deeper into my youth with these classes. I was putting my hands where they didn’t belong in my youth, looking for shortcuts and accepting other narratives about who or what I was supposed to be.

My perspective, my vision was blurred from reality then. I felt I didn’t have a family who was willing to listen, but it was me who wasn’t willing to speak out. I had given my power away to other people, places and things. I had been hurt early on, so I became hesitant with everyone else. By deciding to carry this hurt, I was continuing to live in the pain that came with it. I had to learn to forgive those who hurt me in order to regain my power over the direction of my life.

Mohandas Gandhi once said, “Nobody can hurt me without my permission.” I decided then not to let another person’s actions dictate my being.

There are people in this world who were misled in their youth and taught to believe that mistreating themselves was the only thing they could do.

In my own life, the consequences of the fast life in my youth didn’t create the end of my journey, but rather the beginning. I was given a second chance, time to think things through. I realized that, yes, certain people did give up on me before I had a chance. However, it wasn’t everyone who gave up on me. The same compassion that was given to me by those few on my side was what I had to give others in return. I chose to have empathy and sympathy, knowing I couldn’t give up on my future based just on my past.

Gandhi also said: “You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.”

I was once viewed as one of those “dirty drops.” I lived with no structure, no discipline and no regard for others and myself. I wanted to lead my own life before understanding the meaning of life. Not so much anymore.

“It isn’t the mountains ahead that wear you out; it’s the pebble in your shoe,” Muhammad Ali also said. By continuing to examine myself I had to come to terms with my flaws. At the same time, in doing so I realized I have some unique qualities, too.

I had to start exercising the best qualities about myself and letting go of the ones that weren’t so good. I had a habit of selling myself short, thinking I wasn’t good enough, but what I actually needed was to start taking the risk of letting my full potential show. Then, and only then, would I be ready to take on the mountains lying ahead. I believe life lived in its purest form is life lived selfless.

I also found it funny that we must first choose to be selfish, spending time with our inner self, before we can learn about selflessness.

Gandhi also once said: “Champions are made from something they have deep inside of them — a desire, a dream, a vision.” It was the inner flame that I was chasing.

Although everyone’s desires, dreams and visions are unique, our stories share similarities with one another that we can learn from. I am still growing through self-examination and the knowledge of others, but I truly believe we all learn on our own time. For that reason, I cannot expect someone to change their life simply because I’ve changed mine. Life is a learning experience. Just because you chose not to listen to advice given to you at some point and got burned, it doesn’t mean you’re destined to do it again. You have to learn from your errors and realize that you don’t have to have all of life figured out at once.

Life is a process you must trust in. You hold the pen to your story, the fuel to your fire.

So light it up.

David V., 23, loves to capture his thoughts in a variety of writing forms, poetry being his favorite. When he’s not at the InsideOUT Writers office in Los Angeles, which feels like home, he spends his time with his loved ones making the best of the day he has.