LA Central Juvi

"I don't have a PhD,  but I have a G-O-D!" says Mr. Flores, who directs programs in and around LA County's Juvenille Halls.

We're walking through a maze of fencing, squat cold war barrack style buildings, and empty stretches of grass. It's Central Juvenille Hall, which is essentially, purgatory...

Kids come here when they can't find a place in the Probation system. It's a processing center, between arrest and court date, and a move out to a long term placement- either a foster home, a camp, or a max security hall. So purgatory, where the waiting seems eternal. Or limbo. Between places, and yet nowhere.

I'm here to start up LA County's version of the Beat Within, a program for creative writing workshops inside of juvi's across the nation. It's been a goal of the Beat's founder for nearly a decade, and in his mind, LA County is considered "MECCA" for juvenile justice.

Why?

"It's the biggest and baddest probation department in the world."

Youth from 4,083 square miles, an area larger than the combined areas of Rhode Island and Delaware, with higher levels of poverty, and concominantly, crime, than any other part of the US. 


In 2005, Los Angeles County had a total of 1108 gangs with 85298 members. So imagine the diversity then, in this processing center, this "Central" Juvenile Hall. 


Mr. Flores heads me toward a girl's unit, where the first of three workshops is to begin. 


A group of 8, all Latina and African-american girls sit at a small table, and the conversations begin. The trick is to make writing interesting. And each has a story that got them locked up, and a story of being locked up and a story of when they get out. Hope is despair's shadow.


Today, most of the girls are talking, except one, an African-American girl sitting on the corner. A Latina lived with her grandmother, left the church to be with friends who laced the pot with meth, and got piss tested the next day, and came back to jail.


"Now, I'm not ever going to come back if I get out, because I found God. God is in the picture."


An African American girl begins to laugh: "Everybody says that. Everybody says, "Oh, I got God now!"


The silent girl in the corner can't be bothered, so I ask, "how you doing?"


"Bad."


"How come?"


"Mt back hurts..these damn matresses make my back hurt."


"So, if we get you a better mattress, everything's gonna be all right?" I ask, pulling her in to a conversation.


"No."


"Why not?"


"I got court in two weeks, and I'm pregnant."


"How old are you?"


"17."


"And where you going?"


"Maybe to Georgia to live with my dad."


"Hmmm. That's home?"


"I left when I was nine. Some terrible things happened, so I moved to Los Angeles, and then that's when everything got terrible."


Conversation in the room slowly takes over, and I don't want to leave her hanging.


"Write me something...write about the kind of world you want your child to grow up in."


Five minutes later, she passes me a page, on which she's written:


I was nine when I was raped and burned, and thrown out a window. That's where my mom found me bleeding.  I blame my parents, because I called them 3 times to come home, but they didn't listen. I have scars all over my chest, and everyone asks me in the shower what happened, and I just say I was in an accident, or something. I don't trust anyone.


As I read, everyone is told to leave the room and return to their cells. I hand her the page as she walks out the door, and she rips it into shreds. 


Then, it's on to another classroom.