Since the killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis several months ago, the subject of police violence against BIPOC (Black, Indigenous and people of color) citizens and more broadly, the role of the police in our society, has been headline news. The topic has a significant role in current political campaigns. An ongoing pandemic and the accompanying economic disruption, not to mention multiple long-lasting wildfires, can make questions about the role of police seem less urgent or at least less urgent here in Marin despite protests throughout the Bay Area. But the topic is no less urgent simply because there has been no local high-profile police shooting in the headlines.

Much of the news has focused on such shootings, which have in turn led to broader examinations of police policies, training and functions. Less attention has been given to one of those functions in particular, the role of police in schools. For many readers, when they were in school, the police had no role except for the relatively rare occasion they responded to a call. The reality in many schools today, including here in Marin, is very different. School discipline is effectively now part of the criminal justice system. One reason for this is school resource officers (“SROs”). SROs are sworn police officers assigned to one or more schools. Unfortunately, their net effect is the greater criminalization of our youth, a criminalization that falls disproportionately on our BIPOC students.

One former student’s story illustrates this all too well. Alyssa Martinez, a 28-year-old mom of two girls and alumna from Marin County schools who identifies as Peruvian, Black, and Chinese, recalls her experience in the public school system as one that failed her, over and over again, criminalizing her rather than supporting and cultivating her as a learner and a valued member of the community. For Alyssa, “the paper trail” started in kindergarten, where her entry and consequential diversion into the school-to-prison pipeline began. Alyssa remembers her relationships with educators always overshadowed by “yearly progress reports [in which teachers] keep records of poor performance and behaviors, [that serve to] check BIPOC students and their families off the list.” Throughout her educational experience, she was placed in poorly managed classrooms with predominantly BIPOC (Black, Indigenous and people of color) children with varying educational and developmental disabilities, who in reality just needed more human connection “due to dysfunctional family structures.” As a student who was struggling academically, like many, Alyssa began rebelling at home as well as in school.

“My acting out in school ended up being as a ‘class clown.’ I was disruptive, but not because I didn’t want to be there, but because I had no understanding or control over my feelings or emotions.” Alyssa explains that her weight and identity issues made her an easy target to be bullied. She continued to struggle in school, but never received the right support and felt increasingly disconnected from her peers and community. “Growing up, I didn’t have a voice.” When she would arrive late to class, she felt discouraged by teachers who were more concerned about her being disruptive than why she was tardy in the first place. She experienced a suspension in eighth grade after throwing a soda can at another student, and recalls several days in detention and multiple suspensions thereafter. At the end of her eighth-grade year, she was prohibited from walking in her commencement ceremony, glumly recalling, “I didn’t get to experience that.” Alyssa started her freshman year at San Rafael High School (SRHS) and continued to feel “misunderstood and lost.” At SRHS, her academic and social difficulties transformed into encounters with local law enforcement and frequent disciplinary action by SRHS’ School Resource Officer (SRO). What she needed was a supportive ear, affirmative guidance, and educational tools. What she was met with were suspensions, citations, and bookings into juvenile hall.

Alyssa does not believe that schools need SROs, although she understands the role of police officers in cases of sexual assault or life-threatening violence. However, “to be on campus for tardiness, skipping class, or to escort a student out of class as if they’re a criminal when they are just trying to get their education [is not necessary]. Or to have a fight break out or someone steal a backpack; it’s not that serious, [but] it’s going to look that serious. Things like that do not need police enforcement, they need somebody who is going to sit there and mediate the problem.” Alyssa wishes that her school would have invested more in restorative justice practices and community building to resolve problems, such as having students sit back to back to talk with one another after a fight, rather than resorting to calling SROs every time.

After interactions with her school’s SRO in 9th grade, Alyssa was referred to probation, which only “dug the hole deeper. Once you’re on probation, you’re automatically checked off, like yup, you’re going to end up in juvenile hall, yup you’re going to go to jail, yup you’re going to prison.” Over the next five years, she was closely watched by school administrators, expelled from SRHS, and then pushed through two continuation schools in Marin County, where she was further criminalized, degraded, and monitored by campus security. By her second continuation school, she began to feel “isolated, because no one wants you in the classroom after reading your file.” Between her experiences in the three different Marin County schools, she also regularly found herself inside the walls of juvenile hall and various group homes, booked only on misdemeanor or petty offenses. Alyssa recalls, “It was like daycare. I always got a room that had my name on it. Sometimes I would get lucky and I would be placed with a cellmate; it’s better than being by yourself.” Alyssa remembers times when she was restless in her cell and would “go to my window, lay back down, go back, lay back down,” but for the most part, she was used to the routine, and recalls, “It was home to me.”

Alyssa was never given a chance to succeed. “All of [these] experiences affected me like crazy. I don’t know how to live life. I’m just learning right now. If I would have had the proper education and self-love, I would not be where I am at right now mentally, physically, emotionally, or financially.” Reflecting back on that time in her life, Alyssa knows what would have helped her: a peer mentor or a mental health counselor with personal understanding of her life experiences. “I didn’t need a police officer to tell me when I was doing something wrong, what I needed was a peer counselor, somebody who looks like me, somebody that can come and talk to me. [Someone] to [try to] dig into you to get you to open up, because that’s what is really needed.”

Unfortunately, Alyssa’s story with the criminal justice system didn’t end there—as it commonly does not for youth involved in the juvenile justice system. When Alyssa turned 18, she moved out of her mother’s house to try to live on her own. As an adult, Alyssa was cited multiple times, and arrested on two different occasions. “I was homeless at the time. I had just left the shelter and needed some extra money. I made a bad decision to go into a store and take some things. I had to do what I had to do. I needed it to survive.” But, for Alyssa, this was when the chapter in her story labeled “criminal” ended, and a new chapter began.

“You grow out of bad habits.” Although Alyssa was failed numerous times by systems and people, against all odds, she is healing. She is learning how to be happy, and building the skills that she wasn’t able to cultivate while growing up. Today, she is focused on her role as a parent and local community activist. She is one of the few who made it out of a broken system and who is now able to speak up to fill the void of the thousands who didn’t make it. She is fighting every day for a predominantly white county to listen to stories like hers.

Many young adults, especially BIPOC young adults, are healing from a system that recklessly and unequivocally pushes them out of school and into the criminal justice system. SROs make up only one piece of the puzzle but they are a significant one. They often hold a struggling student’s fate in their hands, deciding if they will be healed or criminalized. The SROs in Alyssa’s story served as a catalyst to her over-criminalization, humiliation, disengagement from school, and unmet social-emotional needs. They made her feel unwelcome and ashamed of herself. They contributed to a system that robbed her of the care that she clearly deserved.

Criminalization Begins in Schools

As in the case of Alyssa Martinez, the over-policing, criminalization, and adultification of children, especially BIPOC children, begins in the classroom of our local schools. Black and Brown children are frequently and disproportionately removed from their classrooms for minor disruptions through exclusionary disciplinary practices such as office referrals, suspensions, and expulsions, despite these practices being proven ineffective in changing children’s behaviors.² Studies show that Black children are more likely than their white peers to be suspended, expelled, or arrested for the exact same behaviors. Most research attributes this disparity to racial targeting by teachers and SROs in schools.³ Across the country, these minor infractions quickly escalate into irreversible harm against students of color. The case studies below illustrate how the integration of law enforcement in schools can quickly transform an innocent child into a campus criminal:⁴

“A four-year-old [B]lack boy in a California preschool is suspended for theft for retrieving his bag of Skittles that the principal confiscated.”

“A twelve-year-old Latina girl doodling on her desk is arrested by a NYPD police officer, handcuffed, and perp-walked out of the school for defacing public property.”

“A food fight in a middle school cafeteria in Chicago results in arrests and two-day suspensions for reckless conduct of twenty-five [B]lack children, ages eleven to fifteen.”

These systems and attitudes contribute to a national phenomenon known as the “school-to-prison pipeline” (STPP), a process that initially starts with the over-policing of Black and Brown children in their classrooms, hallways, and schoolyards, and results in the insidious problem of mass incarceration of BIPOC communities.

They are unfairly catapulted into the unbreakable cycle of the STPP, which flows from referral to the office for disruptive behavior → suspension → expulsion → school failure → school drop-out → juvenile arrest → eventual admission into the carceral system as an adult.⁵

School Resource Officers—Who Are They?

In recent years, the funneling of BIPOC children from their schools into the criminal justice system has become largely facilitated by the implementation of campus-based SROs. By definition, SROs are sworn police officers deployed by local law enforcement agencies to work within one or more schools.⁶ While SROs have a stated intention of mentoring students, maintaining a safe learning environment, and resolving problems with youth, their primary duty is to provide law enforcement services.⁷ Furthermore, SROs are not trained in providing counseling services to students. Clinicians across California are trained in substance abuse, mental health, and child development, which often requires six to eight years of schooling, whereas SROs complete only five days of training related to school-aged children’s needs.

To many, criminalized school discipline and increased surveillance by the use of SROs makes schools reminiscent of a “prison-like environment,”⁸ which for Black and Brown students in particular, means schools are a place where they are seen as a threat rather than a student. This is evident in the data, as research shows that SROs are associated with higher rates of suspensions, expulsions, arrests, and referrals to the juvenile justice system for Black and Brown students.⁹

In response to several high-profile shootings, schools across the U.S. increasingly turned to deploying SROs on their campuses for the purpose of keeping students and staff safe from intruders. But the presence of SROs has hardly proven effective in always stopping these incidents, nor preventing deaths.¹⁰ In the devastating Parkland shooting at Stoneman Douglas High School in 2018, the SRO on duty did nothing to prevent the death of 17 students and injury of 17 others.¹¹

Literature analyzing the recent addition of SROs across school campuses describes them as a “short-sighted and deeply misguided” response to school safety issues.¹² Similarly, some researchers have argued that because SROs are an unproven tactic in deterring or preventing school shootings, they are an irresponsible use of funds that could be used for other school safety measures or resources.

Although some believe that SROs and strict punishment will create a safer and more successful academic environment, research shows this is a complete misconception. “Removing children from the classroom contributes to missed instructional time, decreased school engagement, and removes students from adult supervision for extended periods. Further, being suspended once in ninth grade doubles the dropout risk and triples the chance of juvenile involvement within one year.”¹³

SROs in Marin

In Marin County, there are seven SROs who operate in schools in Novato, San Rafael, Mill Valley, Larkspur, Corte Madera, and unincorporated Marin. As Marin County Supervisor Kate Sears put it, “For Black and Brown students in particular, the impact of [SROs in Marin] is neither benign nor positive.”

In schools all across Marin, the statistics directly mirror Sears’ statement. Latinx children are approximately three times more likely to be suspended than white children, and Black children are approximately nine times more likely to be suspended than white children.¹⁴ Furthermore, in 2018, Latinx children accounted for 55 percent of the juvenile arrests in Marin County, despite only making up 31 percent of students in Marin County public schools, and Black children accounted for 8 percent of the juvenile arrests in Marin County, despite only making up 1.8 percent of students in Marin County public schools.¹⁵

More importantly, these numbers do not convey the student experience, stories, and harrowing narratives of criminalization and victimization of Marin County’s children, as exemplified in Alyssa Martinez’s story and those of many other Marin County students. Marin County students have said,¹⁶ “I hardly ever see white kids with the officer” and “[as a person of color], going to school and seeing an officer makes me feel like I’m a criminal that constantly needs to be watched over.” Others report that they have seen SROs “disproportionately punish Black and brown students,” and “constantly [single] out kids of color [by] searching backpacks [and] getting violent [with] them for no reason.”

Mahalia Morgan, a 14-year-old Black activist and student in the Novato Unified School District, says BIPOC students “are definitely over-targeted [by SROs]. Every student of color is constantly being watched. Everyone is doing the same thing, but students of color [are the ones who] get in trouble,” whereas white students get away with the same behaviors. Tafari Maynard, a Black alum from San Rafael recalls when he was accused of stealing $5. He expressed that he was denied his rights to an attorney and due process by the SRO, and was handcuffed and hauled off to juvenile hall, which only “reaffirmed the racist stereotypes of all the students and employees that saw another [B]lack boy dragged out of the school in handcuffs.” Don Carney, Director of Youth Transforming Justice, works with most youth who are referred to probation in Marin County. He sees the referrals and police reports, and they often come from SROs. He states that some SROs “cite a lot of kids and send them to probation. They are particularly fond of following kids off campus during lunch time and pulling them over for a made-up stop and searching them.”

Others express concern for how Marin County schools rely on SROs to respond to mental health crises and to address other sensitive topics, which police are not trained to do, often resulting in children feeling more traumatized. One Marin County educator notes, “When a student expresses suicidal thoughts, we regularly have our SROs assess their risk and if they feel the student is at risk, they put the student in the back of a police car, often handcuffed (per procedures), and take them to the crisis unit. [This] prevents students from seeking help. It punishes students and causes [additional] trauma. Criminalizing mental health is traumatic.” Another student recalls that as a child, they were being abused, which often led them to skip school in order to take care of their basic needs. The school’s response was to use police officers to escort the student to school, which to that child was “incredibly out of line and frankly, traumatic, [especially considering they] never listened to my complaints throughout childhood about being physically abused.” Other children express feeling uncomfortable and hesitant to talk to SROs about being sexually assaulted, and wishing there were a more trauma-informed approach to help students through that experience. Jasmine Shevick, a white Terra Linda High School (TL) alumna, struggled with substance abuse issues during her time as a student at TL. Rather than being offered supportive or rehabilitative resources, Jasmine recalls, “I was met with punitive responses from administrators and teachers and I viewed the SROs on campus as adults who would only further punish and potentially criminalize my behavior.”

Many students report that the mere presence of police with weapons on their school campuses makes them feel less safe, and that it is “terrifying,” “intimidating,” “threatening,” and “extremely uncomfortable.” One student stated, “Whenever I saw an SRO, I felt nervous and anxious,” and another remembers that they felt “more afraid of cops than thinking [that] they [would] protect me.” Don Carney notes that for children of color, “seeing a cop on campus triggers their trauma—their historic trauma. When a [child] feels anxious and traumatized, they have their amygdala hijacked and they overreact, and it’s criminalized.” Don further explains that most children who are involved in the juvenile justice system have experienced trauma and, as a result, develop behavioral issues. In this way, schools and SROs simultaneously punish youth for their experiences of trauma and fail to treat their underlying needs, all of which make it significantly more difficult for children to focus on their education.

Given the many stories, experiences, and statistics that bring to light the unchecked power that SROs in Marin County schools yield, we arrive at an inflection point where we have no choice but to demand change. Children are suffering and struggling in environments intended to promote growth and learning. Marin County must do better, and that starts with getting police out of schools.

Alternatives to SROs

We must pursue alternatives to SROs as a number of other school districts are beginning to do right here in the Bay Area and across the country. The Black Organizing Project (BOP), a grassroots organization based in Oakland, CA, recently won a ten-year struggle over removing police from schools. In their movement, BOP demanded that schools engage the community in all decision-making processes, increase the use of culturally-responsive restorative justice practices, and invest in additional school-based behavioral health services.

Community-Driven Solutions

For Black Bay Area organizer and Director of BOP Jackie Byers, it is essential that any replacements to SROs involve a “community-driven process.” That means fully including students, parents, teachers, support staff, and community partners in the planning and decision-making around developing strategies to increase school safety, wellbeing, and student learning throughout Marin County school districts. “In order to successfully ensure that groups who have historically been disenfranchised are able to succeed in the current school structure, their voices must be included and centered in the process.”

Jahmeer Reynolds, a Black activist and community leader in Marin City, also believes that alternatives to SROs must start with listening. School personnel “[must] understand how youth are being impacted and really learn how to communicate with the people that they’re providing safety for.” Jahmeer believes that schools thrive when there is a focus on building community, which he has seen firsthand at Bayside Martin Luther King, Jr. Academy, where he works as the Community Schools Manager. When schools “create a village within [themselves],” they are not only better able to take care of students and families in the community, but they are also more equipped to help students resolve conflict. Even for “knock-down, drag-out fights, creating a space at the school to talk it out work[s]. Community plays a part and it also brings everyone closer.”

Restorative Justice

A Restorative Justice (RJ) framework is grounded in a complete transformation of how schools view and respond to children who are “misbehaving.” RJ theory is based on healing individuals and communities by identifying and repairing the root of a problem through collective participation. It is a tool that can be applied and scaled to many situations and institutions. In Marin County, RJ already has been implemented in some sectors of our criminal justice system [Editor’s Note: You can read about RJ in Marin in District Attorney Lori Frugoli’s article about it in this issue of the Marin Lawyer.], but there is still a long way to go. Restorative justice is also a growing method of addressing behavior in schools. While in Marin County schools it is scarce, Oakland’s school district has proved RJ immensely successful.

In 2006, Restorative Justice for Oakland Youth (RJOY) implemented non-exclusionary and non-punitive, school-based RJ methods at Cole Middle School in Oakland. Using restorative circles and conversations to address school infractions, RJ helped students explore the causes of their harmful behaviors. For incidents involving other students or teachers, the students learn how their actions negatively affect their community, while the community can understand and address the needs of the individual students. Through the first two years of RJOY at Cole Middle School, suspension rates dropped by 87%, there were no reports of school-based violence, and overall academic performance increased. This led Oakland Unified School District to implement restorative justice as concrete policy in 2010 across all schools in the district.¹⁷ Consequently, the Black/white discipline gap has narrowed by 47% and the Latinx/white discipline gap¹⁸ has narrowed by 59%.

School-Based Behavioral Health Services

Many youth with “behavioral issues” experience varying forms of trauma, stress, and mental health disorders. Rather than criminalizing behavioral issues, schools and students can address complex root problems by employing culturally-competent resources to support students’ underlying mental health needs in a holistic and compassionate manner. As seen in a number of nearby school districts, when children’s needs are effectively addressed with the appropriate services, their wellness, health, and academic achievement improve.¹⁹

Neighboring San Francisco Unified School District (SFUSD) implemented the “San Francisco Wellness Initiative,” a program that does just that by providing numerous mental health services to students on-campus at no cost to students and families through “Wellness Centers.” The Wellness Program provides resources and education to students schoolwide, facilitates peer groups, and provides students with access to individual 1:1 counseling and case management services through on-site nurses and behavioral health counselors. Additionally, they refer students and their families to community-based organizations and create “safe spaces” on campus where students can consult a mental health professional or de-escalate.²⁰ Currently, 18 schools in San Francisco have robust Wellness Centers, with noteworthy results.

In Marin County, Wellness Centers are the exception. Tamalpais High School is one of the few schools in Marin that has a fully functioning Wellness Center, based on SFUSD’s model. In many other schools throughout the county, wellness services are lacking: an inadequate amount of mental health clinicians, behavioral health specialists, nurses, academic counselors, and other supportive resources in comparison to the volume of students. To meet the growing needs of students in Marin County schools, schools must make an intentional and complete shift away from punishing youth for their behaviors via SROs, and instead choose to expand and fully integrate trauma-informed behavioral health services into the learning experience.

Conclusion

It has become clear that our schools are failing children and families across the country. When it comes to the actual safety of children and school staff, SROs have proven to be ineffective and beg the necessary question: who really is safe under their watch? As an extension of the carceral state, SROs strengthen racist and oppressive systems, which do not hold back on the youngest and most vulnerable populations. We must work as a community to remove SROs for the survival and wellbeing of our children. Removing SROs from Marin County schools is the first of many steps to deconstruct the harmful cycle that perpetuates lifelong racial inequity. In order to support BIPOC youth and our youth at large, we must deeply reevaluate our schools as an institution, and understand them as entities that in large part determine the trajectory of one’s life. In this evaluation and analysis, we must ask ourselves: will we fight to ensure that our schools are places of curiosity, critical-thinking, community, and passion for all of our children, or will we allow schools to employ SROs, sending more and more youth into the unforgiving world of mass incarceration?