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A 2004 report by the Democratic staff of the House Government Reform Committee documents that on any given night, “nearly 2,000 children in need of mental health treatment will languish in America’s jails.” In a newspaper article, Daniel P. Mears, a justice policy researcher at the Urban Institute in Washington writes about the injustice of the hardnosed juvenile justice system which has doubled, in some states even tripled the number of spots available for incarcerated young people. This is their answer to the flood of mentally ill youth into the system. Meanwhile, funding for mental health programs in almost every state continues to diminish. For me, statistics now has a face, Jason’s face.
Other than the usual pre-visit butterflies in my stomach, the drive to the new facility began uneventfully. As I reached the city limit, dark gray clouds filled the sky. Suddenly, they opened up and bombarded my Toyota Celica with a deluge of blinding, wind-swept rain. Barely able to see the road, I crept through the city streets to the desolate outskirts, past nondescript warehouses and a deserted factory until finally, with a sigh of relief, I arrived at my destination.
Sitting in the parking lot, I tried to calm my nerves, waiting for a let-up in the downpour. A few moments later, the stark reality of my surroundings registered in my distraught brain. This place was the definition of bleak. Cheerless cement buildings comprised the lay-out of the compound, surrounded by frighteningly harsh, razor-wire fence. Incredulously, my Jason was somewhere within the confines of this horrible place. How was this an appropriate setting for juveniles struggling with both mental health issues and substance abuse problems? My gaze crept past the cruelly lonesome buildings but found no respite. There were no trees, no bushes, and no flowers. Nothing was alive. I quickly reached up to wipe away the tears and steeled my emotions against the overwhelming sadness I felt. Jason needed me to be strong.
A break in the torrential rains finally allowed me to sprint across the parking lot and into the visiting center. It looked more like a deserted bus station waiting area, cement block walls, a row of colorless plastic chairs, posters issuing warnings and rules for visitations, and a wall of small lockers for those who had brought in forbidden items. The security personnel were behind a caged wall, someone passed me the sign-in log through a small opening. I showed my identification, signed the book, and waited to be called into one of the small rooms used for the obligatory pat-down search by one of the guards.
As I stepped out of my sandals, lifted my feet one at a time for inspection, then raised my arms for the apparently necessary violation of my personal space, my thoughts filled with images of Jason’s sweet face, stoically attempting to keep the horrors of these legal consequences from showing in his blue eyes. He did not want me to worry over something neither of us could change. At least our visits were face-to-face. I could hug him upon greeting and departing, and occasionally touch his arm while we talked and ate greasy food from the vending machines. We would speak in positive clichés, meant to inspire his continued good behavior and an eventual release. It’s hard to believe a year has already passed.
The room was filled with other incarcerated young men lucky enough to have a family member willing to endure this sadness in order to be near them for a few hours, to offer encouragement, and to help plan for the future. Suddenly a door at the end of the room opened and Jason stood beaming in his slate blue prison-issued sweats and tee-shirt, offering a wink of reassurance. He hurried to my waiting embrace. With my head on his shoulder, I felt the tenseness slip away and I returned his smile. This was no way for a mother to spend time with her son, but it was better than nothing.