Jodi Kantor’s recent front-page New York Times story describes an experiment by the Harvard Business School to transform its deeply sexist culture and “foster women’s success.” But the gender problem in our economy runs much deeper than that.
HBS’ effort was launched in response to a pattern of troubling events at the school: male students groping women classmates during social events, a classroom culture that has been said to stifle women’s participation, and secret networks of “ultrawealthy, mostly male” students that help sustain the class and gender problems in the school.
As part of the experiment, the school instituted the use of software that shows professors’ grading patterns by gender, started coaching women students in speaking up assertively in class, formed student study groups instead of letting students pick their own, and mandated discussions about sexual harassment. And the effort has had some positive results. Since 2009, the percentage of women in the school’s class has risen slightly, to 40 percent, and the percentage of women in the top 5 percent of the class has nearly tripled, to 38 percent.
The school’s gender problems represent how graduate business school programs encourage wealth and success over men’s entire careers—and grooming them for economic leadership—while female students are often overlooked or allowed to fall behind. The entrenched sexism described in Kantor’s piece not only affects the experience of women business students while they are in school—it plays a role in how they will perform career-wise once they graduate. And while she didn’t say it explicitly, much of Kantor’s research reveals how a proactive effort to change gender dynamics is needed for the economy as a whole; recent events such as the battle between Larry Summers and Janet Yellen for the Federal Reserve Chair nomination make this abundantly clear.
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Harvard is a breeding ground for highly paid business executives, and basic economic security is not an issue for the average HBS graduate, male or female. At the same time, a major takeaway from Kantor’s piece is how, in terms of potential for career ascendancy and wealth accumulation, the odds are stacked against women from the outset. While Kantor didn’t focus as closely on it in her article, her research about HBS shows a connection between the culture of the graduate school and women’s versus men’s economic prospects post-graduation. After school, women graduates have the same hefty debt as their male counterparts, but with less likelihood of earning as much or being considered for the same opportunities. As Kantor writes:
[T]he class of 2013 would to some degree part by gender after graduation, with more men going into higher-paying areas like finance and more women going into lower-paying ones like marketing.
Kantor writes about some male students at the school offer each other tips “about many of the most lucrative jobs,” which aren’t shared with women at the school. The exclusion of women from “informal” networks such as these is discussed in a 2011 McKinsey & Company report about women in business:
The reasons why women choose to remain at their current level or move on to another organization—despite their unflagging confidence and desire to advance—include: lack of role models, exclusion from the informal networks, not having a sponsor in upper management to create opportunities.
In economics—another field in which wealth and policy stars are bred—a report from the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco discusses the “persistent underrepresentation of women” driven by the field’s culture. The report concludes that the presence of women economics professors yields more women taking an interest in those fields: “[A] larger share of women on the economics faculty of top universities has led to more female students entering economics PhD programs.” However, as of 2003, the percentage of female faculty in economics programs hovered around only 30 percent, and in 2009 women accounted for just 34 percent of first-year PhD candidates in economics programs and fewer than 12 percent of full economics professors.
All of these trends affect career ascendancy and earning power. Last month, ThinkProgress’ Bryce Covert wrote about the “firmly intact” glass ceiling among seven economic institutions, including Wall Street, where women comprise “less than 20 percent of executive officers and board directors and less than a quarter of senior officers.”
And among the elite business schools such as Harvard, the vast majority of deans and faculty are men.
The disparity is also abundantly clear in policy-making. The U.S. Treasury Secretary is the key economic adviser to the president, charged with setting domestic and international economic policy; the United States has never had a woman in this role. While President Obama is well aware of the highly qualified women ripe for filling these economic roles, he time and time again chooses men.
There are references in Kantor’s piece to how the environment at HBS mirrors what graduates would experience out in the “real world.” Deans at Harvard who were committed to this gender power shift grappled with the fact that “the more exquisitely gender-sensitive the school environment became, the less resemblance it bore to the real business world,” which, as these many examples have demonstrated, is clearly not undergoing a gender sensitivity program.
As Fatima Goss Graves, vice president of education and employment at the National Women’s Law Center, told Rewire, “Deliberately creating a gender-culture transformation is exactly on point, but I don’t see enough actors in the economy doing this. It probably takes an institution like Harvard to help make the case that this is important for business too.”
She went on, “The old-school informal networks are still around. Changing this requires mentorship, sponsorship, promotion, someone with the right connections to guide you through. It can absolutely make a difference in people’s careers.”
The Harvard Business School story shows how the playing field for women’s and men’s economic success is uneven from the start. The cultural transformation HBS has undertaken has already been recommended for the business world: McKinsey & Company pointed out in its report “the need for systemic, organizational change” on a cultural level. HBS’ attempt to address its gender problems head-on is rare and admirable, and sheds light on how deep the gender problem runs in our economy.
While attending UC San Diego (UCSD), Ireri Lora used her school ID at the university’s medical school to access birth control and other services.
Lora, who was undocumented then, told Rewire, “Sometimes you would see border patrol agents walking around or parked in their trucks, but they were always parked directly in front of the main hospital entrance. They would take people straight from the hospital [to a border patrol station], and they wanted us to see them do that.”
This behavior wasn’t unique to the UCSD hospital, Lora said. An acquaintance whose family members worked for border patrol in San Diego had told her that federal agents would drive around the perimeter of hospitals and park outside of them, presumably to intimidate non-citizens.
Every time Lora had to get her birth control prescription filled, she would make sure multiple people in her life knew where she was going so that if trouble arose, they would answer her call immediately.
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There are, however, California residents for whom none of this matters.
The reasons vary, but what is true across the board is that the more your identity is layered by race, gender, sexuality, and immigration status and the further your income falls below the federal poverty line, the less access you will have to sexual and reproductive health-care services—even in California. There are community-based groups working to fill this gap, but resources are in short supply for those fighting to expand access to undocumented people.
Stifled by Fear of Deportation
In August 2015, when Blanca Borrego, an undocumented mother of three, was arrested by sheriff’s deputies at her gynecologist appointment in Atascocita, Texas, some in the media rightly expressed outrage. But undocumented communities knew it wasn’t an isolated incident and that immigrants are detained and deported for seeking care all the time. Borrego was yet another example confirming some of their biggest fears.
“The fear that accessing [health] services will get you deported is very real in undocumented communities and what happened to Blanca [Borrego] isn’t at all unusual, so it’s not an unfounded fear,” said Alma Leyva, a research coordinator at the UCLA Labor Center’s Dream Resource Center, a national source for research, education, and policy on immigration issues. “She was insured and had been in the country for a long time. A lot of people think, ‘If that could happen to her, why couldn’t it happen to me?'” Leyva told Rewire.
Nearly three years ago, the Dream Resource Center sought to document the experiences of immigrant youth and their families in navigating California’s health-care system as part of its 2013 Healthy California Survey Project. From June 2013 to August 2013, a research team comprised of 37 immigrant youth surveyed 550 undocumented and “DACA-mented” young people. What resulted was Undocumented and Uninsured, the first statewide research project by and about immigrant youth on health access.
As the report explains, while Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) recipients under the age of 21 are eligible for Medi-Cal—the state’s free or low-cost health coverage for children and adults with limited income and resources—that doesn’t resolve a primary reason undocumented people and DACA recipients do not seek care: fear.
National policies contribute to high numbers of deportations and increase immigrant communities’ mistrust, such as the Priority Enforcement Program (PEP), which requires that all fingerprints of arrested persons taken by local law enforcement be sent to ICE to check against immigration databases, and Section 287(g) of the Immigration and Nationality Act, which allows DHS to “deputize selected state and local law enforcement officers to perform the functions of federal immigration agents.”
According to the Undocumented and Uninsured:
The police and Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) are not only in immigrant neighborhoods but also in the minds of undocumented people, triggering constant anticipation of harm and hypervigilant behavior. Emerging research indicates that immigrant youth experience feelings of shame, anger, despair, marginalization, and uncertainty stemming from discrimination, anti-immigrant sentiment, xenophobia, fear of deportation, and institutional barriers. Daily economic uncertainties elevate the risk of anxiety, depression, and vulnerability to mental illness for immigrant youth. Emotional traumas manifest in poor physical and mental health, which often goes untreated.
Leyva told Rewire that she has heard stories “where an undocumented youth was asked by a doctor to relay really complicated medical jargon to their mom as she was giving birth. They were so afraid they wouldn’t translate the information properly that it would be dangerous to their mom,” she said.
“There is anxiety around simple check-ups and fear around obtaining resources to get healthier. We’ve come to believe that this is just the price of being undocumented in this country, and that’s not OK. We too deserve the right to not just survive, but to live full, healthy lives. Health care is a right, not a luxury,” Leyva said.
Dire Circumstances in Rural California
Lora became a legal permanent resident in 2015, but while living in San Diego as an undocumented college student she said her “biggest fear” was a scenario like what happened to Borrego in Texas. In 2009, while working on college campuses and connecting with undocumented families, Lora learned that it was a universal fear among undocumented women.
“When I asked the moms [I worked with] if any of them, about 20 in all, had visited any particular clinics, they all shared that they were scared to because they heard border patrol patrolled the area or that vans waited outside to get people who were leaving the clinic, especially if the clinic was one that primarily served the Latino community. Fortunately, none of the mothers I ever worked with had been stopped by border patrol for seeking services, but that environment made them too scared to go to a clinic,” Lora said.
By that time, she and a friend had started a program where they brought different workshops onto campus based on the expressed needs of the community. Overwhelmingly, Lora said, undocumented mothers requested workshops about sexual education and birth control.
Lora worked with local community clinics from the Barrio Logan area of San Diego to do biweekly workshops in Spanish about sexual health. That experience led her to ACCESS, an Oakland-based organization “founded in 1993 by clinic escorts who were moved to action after witnessing the many barriers women were facing—especially young or poor women—to actually obtain an abortion.” ACCESS further explains on its website that the organization combines direct services, community education, and policy advocacy to promote reproductive options and access to quality health care for California women. It is one of the only organizations in California that helps to provide abortion access to undocumented women while also using a reproductive justice framework created by women of color for women of color.
Lora, who is now on ACCESS’ board of directors, began working with the organization as a healthline intern. The healthline, as Lora explained, empowers callers by giving them all of the information they need to advocate for themselves. It was at this time Lora learned of the very specific barriers undocumented women living in rural areas face.
“They always voiced fears about visiting any government agency to get Medi-Cal or a clinic like Planned Parenthood because they thought they’d be deported or profiled for showing a foreign ID,” Lora said.
Vanessa Gonzalez-Plumhoff, Planned Parenthood’s director of Latino outreach and engagement, made it clear that the health-care provider would not put a patient in harm’s way. She told Rewire that Planned Parenthood is serious about addressing the needs of the undocumented community, asserting that Planned Parenthood will provide health care no matter what, regardless of immigration, citizenship, or income status.
The reason why the services provided to undocumented women may differ by location, Gonzalez-Plumhoff said, is because of the legislative, political, and financial climate of a particular area. As reproductive health care continues to be attacked, it limits what services are made available from clinic to clinic.
Unlike most states, California allows low-income women to obtain public funds for abortion and also provides them with co-pay-free family planning services. Abortions are legal up to viability and California’s AB 154, which took effect in January 2014, increased the number of abortion providers in the state. The law authorized nurse practitioners, certified nurse midwives, and physician assistants to perform vacuum aspiration abortion, which previously only doctors were allowed to do.
But, like in most states, there are districts in California where abortion providers are nonexistent. According to the LA Times, UC San Francisco’s Bixby Center for Global Reproductive Health is largely responsible for the passage of AB 154, but just a handful of the clinicians trained under the six-year study are practicing in remote corners of California. Schools like the UC San Francisco School of Nursing are developing new training programs, but at this point, half of California’s 58 counties currently have no readily available provider. And even when new programs roll out in rural communities, they will only benefit women seeking abortions during the first trimester, leaving out a segment of the population at risk of fetal anomalies or later pregnancy complications.
The process of obtaining an abortion as an undocumented woman living in a rural area is complicated. Lora said these women often work in the fields and live in migrant camps, which makes obtaining the passport that some clinics require as a valid form of ID challenging—and that’s mostly because of the lack of transportation, which Lora said is a “huge barrier” for undocumented women seeking such identification.
In addition, these women often have to travel to reach one of the few clinics providing later abortion care in the state.
“A lot of clinics near women in rural areas only offer abortion until the first trimester,” Lora said. “By the time they’re referred to us, they’re often beyond that point, so they have to get transferred to a clinic that’s even farther away. Transportation comes up again and again.”
This is where ACCESS’ “practical support program” comes in. The organization helps callers navigate paying for care, leveraging over $200,000 of coverage per year for medical procedures. Also, with support from its network of volunteers around the state and the organization’s pool of funds, ACCESS provides around $25,000 annually to help with transportation, housing, meals, child care, medical costs, and doula support.
One of the toughest cases Lora ever handled on the Spanish healthline was an undocumented rape survivor who lived in a rural area. Her family didn’t know of the rape or the resulting pregnancy. By the time ACCESS could walk her through all of the steps, she was in her 20th week. Following the multi-week process, which included acquiring an appointment and bus tickets, she then had to come up with a lie to tell her family as to where she was going for two days.
“The information is not accessible and the barriers can seem endless. That’s why it’s especially upsetting to me when ACCESS constantly hears this misconception that people in California—and women of color in particular—purposefully wait until the last minute to get abortions. It’s simply not true. Most of the women I’ve spoken to were very clear that they wanted to terminate their pregnancies early on, but they were forced to wait weeks because of limited access to information, limited access to clinics, and because of transportation barriers and language barriers,” Lora said. “If abortion was as accessible in California as they paint it to be, all women who wanted to terminate their pregnancies would be able to do it in a week.”
Community Groups Are Working to Replace Fear With Trust
There is no telling how many women ACCESS has helped, but what is clear is the ripple effect of the progress the group is making. ACCESS alumna La Loba Loca, who identifies herself as a queer, machona, brown South American migrant, formed Autonomous Communities for Reproductive and Abortion Support (ACRAS) three years ago. La Loba Loca’s collective, comprised of mostly queer people of color, provides free and low-cost abortion support to Angelenos. Her personal project, Serpiente Birth & Spectrum Services, supports individuals and families during life transitions through bilingual full-spectrum companionship and doula work.
La Loba Loca takes a multifaceted approach to her companion work, coupling an academic framework with traditional knowledge gained through personal research and non-Western education, which she calls “abuelita knowledge.”
“I got into birth work because of abortion. To me, there’s no place people can go that will holistically support them getting an abortion,” La Loba Loca said. “I want to normalize abortion as just another aspect of reproductive health and remind people of the ways our grandmothers took care of their health and well-being outside of the medical industrial complex. It’s medicine and knowledge that is generational and that shouldn’t be lost.”
Above all else, ACRAS works to share knowledge and resources within communities. La Loba Loca has tirelessly compiled documents about abortion and reproductive health for the purpose of being used by undocumented people who don’t have easy access to clinics and hospitals. “The idea was also to include people in the collective who have historically been left out of these conversations or who have been denied the same kind of access to reproductive justice as other people,” she said.
La Loba Loca has been a major proponent of queer and trans people of color receiving the proper training to be both birth and abortion companions. The language used around reproductive justice isn’t inclusive, she said, and it can make queer and trans people of color afraid to discuss their bodies and their needs and afraid to access services.
“I’m hearing a lot of queer and trans people try to figure that out, just because accessing abortion as a queer or trans person can be difficult or when you do obtain one, it can be dehumanizing,” she said. “Right now, there are queer and trans people doing reproductive justice work, but it’s very isolating and frustrating to never receive the funding that’s needed to provide education for and about different bodies.”
To La Loba Loca, the answer to the lack of access and the poor treatment that undocumented people and other low-income communities of color often receive at clinics and hospitals is not working to change these systems, but rather using community-based resources to find ways around the structural hurdles. Roxana, an ACRAS member who requested that Rewire not use her last name, said that the road to sexual and reproductive justice has been built on the backs of women of color and the long history of institutions being harmful to communities of color who are already vulnerable is not something that can easily be overcome.
“I think of the Latinas in L.A. who were coerced into sterilization in the 1970s and how that distrust lingers in the community,” Roxana said. “The trauma stays, and it continues to be a barrier that scares people from going to an institution that historically been violent to people who look like them. It’s only harder when you’re undocumented.”
Like Lora, Roxana realized through her work that immigrant communities, Latino communities, and undocumented communities are all in need of sexual and reproductive health information that is in their language and that comes from people they trust.
At an ACRAS workshop around reproductive justice, according to Roxana, the age of attendees ranged from 15 to 65. A woman specifically asked if it was OK that her teenage daughter was there because she wanted her to have the information that she never did. ACRAS workshops bring a LGBTQ lens and the mother and her daughter were eager to learn about reproductive health for different communities and learn about gender and sexual identities that go beyond the binary. Roxana said the interest is there; it’s just a matter of providing it in a way that’s accessible.
“We’re having real conversations about real experiences and for me, as a person who does this work, it’s very political and very personally meaningful. It’s heart work; it comes from the heart,” Roxana said, growing emotional. “I want to go beyond ‘your body, your choice.’ I’m not really into that, especially because for a lot of us, what happens to our bodies isn’t a choice. For me, it’s more like ‘I got your back.’ ACCESS and collectives like ACRAS serve a very important purpose in our communities. We’re creating alternatives to a system that wasn’t meant for us and we’re providing access to people whose existence was never even considered. We have each other’s backs.”
CORRECTION: This piece has been updated to clarify ACCESS’ funding for “practical support.”
Last Wednesday, midway through a private fundraiser in South Carolina for Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton, a 23-year-old Black Lives Matter activist quietly made her way to the front of the crowd and unfurled a banner that read: “We have to bring them to heel.”
In the exchange that followed, captured on video, Ashley Williams asked Clinton to apologize to the Black community for a speech she made in 1996 celebrating a sweeping new crime bill, during which she referred to “gangs of kids” as “super predators: no conscience, no empathy.”
“We can talk about why they ended up that way,” Clinton continued in the speech, “but first we have to bring them to heel.”
The video made national headlines, and is amplifying a conversation among voters about Clinton’s role in the expansion of racial profiling and mass incarceration in the United States, and her ability—if elected—to deal with the school-to-prison pipeline. (The school-to-prison pipeline is shorthand for the disproportionate rate at which students of color are policed, punished, and funneled out of their classrooms into contact with the criminal justice system.)
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The conversation gained steam in February when Michelle Alexander, author of The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness, penned a piece in the Nation titled “Why Hillary Clinton Doesn’t Deserve the Black Vote.” In her essay, Alexander explored the ways in which then-President Bill Clinton championed a federal “three strikes” law to impose life sentences without parole for offenders convicted of certain crimes, and signed a $30 billion crime bill that created scores of new federal capital crimes and significantly expanded the police force—policies for which Alexander claims Hillary Clinton actively advocated.
While Clinton’s 1996 speech, referenced by Williams in South Carolina, did not explicitly refer to these “super predators” as young people of color, her statement is widely perceived as a highly racialized one, given the disproportionate impact of the Clinton administration’s policies on Black and brown youth.
Clinton acknowledged on Thursday in a statement to the Washington Post, “Looking back, I shouldn’t have used those words, and I wouldn’t use them today.”
Her statement came more than a week after unveiling her $125 billion Breaking Every Barrier Agenda that promises, among other things, to dismantle the school-to-prison pipeline.
Her proposal includes an allocation of $2 billion to school districts to incentivize reform of harsh disciplinary practices, which have been followed by soaring suspension and arrest rates: School suspensions shot up from 1.7 million in 1974 to 3.1 million in 2000, “and have been most dramatic for children of color,” according to the American Civil Liberties Union.
Clinton’s proposal also calls attention to an “ineffective culture of zero-tolerance,” and highlights the over-reliance on “school resource officers”—police personnel deployed in schools who numbered 9,000 as of 2008—as being emblematic of “overly punitive atmospheres that often disproportionately criminalize and stigmatize students of color, students with disabilities, and students who identify as LGBT.”
The agenda also hits out at legislation that allows some states to punish even minor disciplinary infractions—including talking in class or playing on a cellphone—with jail time, such as South Carolina’s Disturbing Schools Law, which resulted in over 1,100 students being referred to the state’s Department of Juvenile Justice for “disturbing their schools” in 2013-2014.
Citing data from the Department of Education, Clinton’s website notes that these laws disproportionately affect students of color, with Black students comprising 27 percent of all referrals to law enforcement and 31 percent of students subject to school-related arrests in 2014—despite representing just 16 percent of public school enrollment.
“I think this proposal is Clinton’s attempt to be responsive to the demands of movement advocates and activists across the country who’ve been pressing both candidates on the Democratic side to respond to racial inequality, mass incarceration, and police violence,” Priscilla Ocen, an associate professor at Loyola Law School in Los Angeles, told Rewire.
“I don’t think it’s accidental that the plan was announced just a few days before [the Democratic primary in] South Carolina—it gives her something to talk to African-American voters about, and it is certainly pragmatic election campaigning,” Ocen said in a phone interview last Thursday. This pragmatic campaigning paid off last Saturday with Clinton’s resounding success in South Carolina, where she secured 86 percent of Black votes, compared to just 14 percent for Bernie Sanders.
Still, some juvenile justice experts and educators feel Clinton’s agendafalls short, landing somewhere along the spectrum from “incomplete” to “disingenuous.”
“I can’t help but feel that if this was genuinely something at the top of Clinton’s agenda, she would have done something about it when she was First Lady … Instead she simply followed the same ‘tough on crime’ line as so many other politicians,” Cynthia Pong, a former public defender with the Legal Aid Society in the Bronx, and now a consultant for nonprofit social justice organizations at Embrace Change Consulting, told Rewire in a phone interview.
“Throughout the decade of the ’90s and beyond, [Hillary Clinton] and her husband played a huge role in upholding and expanding systematic mass incarceration of people of color in this country. In 1994 she was using some of the most disgusting racist rhetoric about young men of color I have ever heard. After all that, for her now to be saying she is committed to dismantling mass incarceration is disingenuous and even a little suspicious,” said Pong, who has defended clients at various stages of entanglement in the school-to-prison pipeline.
“Accepting money from entities that profit from locking people up, while saying you’re going to dismantle the school-to-prison pipeline, sends a completely inconsistent message,” Pong said.
Mishi Faruqee, national field director of the Youth First Initiative, shares a similar sentiment.
“I think it’s very important that the Clinton campaign completely repudiate all donations from lobbyists for the private prison industry, just as the [Bernie] Sanders campaign has done,” Faruqee told Rewire.
Faruqee also said she wants to see and hear more about how candidates intend to address the sprawling juvenile justice system, which incarcerates an estimated 54,000 young people on any given day, according to Youth First. As Rewire has previously reported, youth of color are disproportionately represented in the juvenile justice system, with Black kids experiencing a youth incarceration rate of 605 per 100,000 population, five times higher than the youth incarceration rate of their white peers, which is just 127 per 100,000. In 2013, Black children comprised 21,550 of an estimated 54,148 kids locked up in juvenile detention.
Last Thursday, nine national juvenile justice organizations distributed a letter to all presidential candidates, outlining their shared vision for an overhaul of the juvenile justice system. At publication time, none of the campaigns had responded to the letter, but Faruqee said she hopes Clinton’s agenda will begin to reflect some of the recommendations contained in the joint platform such as closing youth prisons, and reallocating funds towards community-based, family-centered alternatives to incarceration.
Others say the problem runs deeper than Clinton’s agenda suggests.
Clinton’s proposal promises to expend $200 million annually to dispatch “school climate support teams” into districts and schools with high suspension and arrest rates, with the purpose of tackling implicit bias—the subconscious ways in which perceptions based on race, gender, religion, or any number of characteristics feed negative stereotypes—and training educators in de-escalation tactics. But some educators say this proposal fails to closely look at implicit bias and the trauma it creates in classrooms across the country.
“In my experience working in historically and systemically disenfranchised communities of color, in which 99 percent of students are at or below the poverty line, what I see most frequently is a lot of trauma,” said Brittney Elyse Sampson-Thompson, a longtime educator who is currently serving middle school students at a charter school in Philadelphia.
“In schools where there is a large police presence or leaders who are quick to call the police on their students I’ve seen crazy things. When fifth-grade girls are led out of school in handcuffs my first thought is about the incredible ripple effect that will have, not only in the life of that young lady and her family, but also for every other child in the building who witnessed it,” she told Rewire.
“For the child herself it means that the idea of being arrested, of being in a cop car, of waiting in a precinct for her parents to arrive is no longer foreign—it becomes a true experience that she has lived. Add to that the fact that it happened while the child was in school—where she should be safe, not only physically but also emotionally and mentally safe to take risks and to explore and to be a child—and the situation becomes frankly tragic,” Sampson-Thompson added. “We serve in communities that have experienced generations of trauma and if we aren’t actively working against it, we add to it.”
Those whose work has focused closely on the intersections of race and gender in the school-to-prison pipeline also feel the proposal has some glaring gaps.
“Clinton ought to have an intersectional framework for understanding the gender dynamics of racial inequality that make girls vulnerable to both public and private expressions of violence,” said Ocen, co-author of a report on the disproportionate impact of the school-to-prison pipeline on Black girls, which found that they are six times as likely to be suspended as their white counterparts.
“She needs to be attentive to the gendered pathways that lead Black girls to being disproportionately incarcerated in juvenile detention facilities, and to be attentive to the fact that not only are girls and women among the fastest growing populations in prison, but also that the vast majority of them had been victims of physical or sexual abuse prior to being incarcerated,” Ocen said.
“Clinton will continue to have an incomplete understanding of racial justice and an incomplete racial justice platform until she attends to the specific vulnerabilities of girls and women of color,” Ocen added. “Both candidates ought to be listening to the people who are most affected by these policies, listening to their stories, their calls for transformation and their suggestions for what actually works.”