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The Edmund Edelman Children’s Court is a juvenile dependency courthouse in Los Angeles designed with bright murals, open play spaces, and modified courtrooms to be “child-sensitive” and “family-friendly.” Through a recounting of the political and cultural forces at play building up to its construction, I argue that the decisions to build a “child-sensitive” court confirm the carceral containment of the culpable black adult. This article represents an inquiry into the cultural logic of the court’s construction, revealing the relationship between raced constructions of innocence and guilt. This study draws from five months of fieldwork conducted in the Edelman Children’s Court.

Humans lifespan is characterized by delayed maturation. Delayed maturation may arise when juvenile mortality is reduced. Recent research suggests that juvenile mortality reduction could be achieved via provisioning to weaned juveniles, particularly during health crises. Here I test this idea with data on the causes, distribution, and duration of injuries and illnesses suffered by Shiwiar forager-horticulturalists during the juvenile period. Health insults for which prolonged care is necessary for survival are a recurrent feature of the juvenile lifespan. About half the individuals for whom data on disability duration were gathered suffered health insults likely to be lethal without extended aid; over 80% were born after a parent suffered such an event; and over 90% were born after a direct ancestor in the two ascending generations suffered such an event. The data indicate that health-care provisioning reduces juvenile mortality, and that provisioning of sick and injured juveniles has important fitness consequences in this population.

In his first two months at the immigration detention facility, euphemistically called a ‘shelter’, Deruba consumed his daily lessons of vocabulary and math. ‘Good morning. My name is Deruba. What is your name?’ he would chant. ‘I am from Guatemala. Where are you from?’ ‘Good afternoon. How are you? I am fine’. He had only attended school for four years in Guatemala before his parents died in a bus accident forcing him to support his younger sister, Isura. ‘It was not a good time. We did not have anybody. No aunts, no uncles to help us. My grandparents died long ago. I don't even remember them. It was just me and my little sister’.⁵ Deruba, 13 years old at the time, and Isura, then 11 years old, lived on the streets of Livingston, Guatemala for over 2 years. He worked as a boat hand on boats [lanchas] transporting tourists to Livingston, painting cars at a small auto body shop and selling marijuana to young German and American tourists coming to soak up Livingston's bohemian environs.⁶

The Personal Responsibility Work Opportunity and Reconciliation Act of 1996, better known as Welfare Reform, implemented, in addition to many other features, a 60-month lifetime limit for welfare receipt. Research to date primarily documents individual-level barriers, characteristics, and outcomes of those who time out. Very little scholarly work considers experiences of mothering or carework after timing out. In this chapter, I ask, what kinds of carework strategies are used by women who have met their lifetime limits to welfare? What do the ways mothers talk about these strategies tell us about the discursive forces they are resisting and/or engaging? Using in-depth interviews at two points in time with women who have timed out of welfare (n = 32 and 23), this analysis shows how mothers’ strategies and the ways they discuss them reveal covert material and symbolic resistance to key discourses – negative assumptions about welfare mothers and a culture of work enforcement – and the conditions shaping their lives (Hollander & Einwohner, 2004). Mothers use carework strategies very similar to those identified in many other studies (e.g., London, Scott, Edin, & Hunter, 2004; Morgen, Acker, & Weigt, 2010; Scott, Edin, London, & Mazelis, 2001), but they provide us with an understanding of carework in a new context. The three groups of strategies explored here – structuring employment and non-employment, protecting children, and securing resources – reveal raced, classed, and gendered labor in which women engage to care for children in circumstances marked by limited employment opportunities and limited state support. The policy implications of mothers’ strategies are also discussed.

The United Nation’s Convention of the Rights of Persons with Disabilities in 2006 declared the need for countries to facilitate the right of individuals with disabilities to their full inclusion and participation within communities across the globe. The community clearly plays a necessary role in the overall preparation and quality of life of students with disabilities and their families. The present chapter will specifically address the role of the community within instructional programming and parent advocacy. First, the chapter discusses the importance of integrating community experiences within inclusive K-12 preparation for students with disabilities for the purpose of enhancing students’ postsecondary outcomes. Second, the chapter reviews the role of community organizations in supporting parental advocacy for effective inclusive programming while highlighting the work of two specific community agencies. These sections are followed by concluding comments emphasizing the role of schools and community-based organizations in supporting inclusive education, community-based instruction, and family advocacy for students with disabilities.

In this chapter, I examine stories that foster care youth tell to legislatures, courts, policymakers, and the public to influence policy decisions. The stories told by these children are analogized to victim truth testimony, analyzed as a therapeutic, procedural, and developmental process, and examined as a catalyst for systemic accountability and change. Youth stories take different forms and appear in different media: testimony in legislatures, courts, research surveys or studies; opinion editorials and interviews in newspapers or blog posts; digital stories on YouTube; and artistic expression. Lawyers often serve as conduits for youth storytelling, translating their clients’ stories to the public. Organized advocacy by youth also informs and animates policy development. One recent example fosters youth organizing to promote “normalcy” in child welfare practices in Florida, and in related federal legislation.

How delinquent, dependent/neglected, and abused children are treated by criminal justice agencies is a concern that crosses geographical boundaries. Do the courts sentence juveniles too leniently or, conversely, too harshly? Around the world some of the most serious questions involve the placement of juveniles in penal institutions. There are some clearly recognized problems. First, many countries still house delinquents and non-delinquent children in the same institutions, despite nation-wide reforms or legislation specifically prohibiting such practices. Second, many juveniles, regardless of their status, are held in jails and detention facilities built or administered for adult populations that greatly outnumber the younger inmates. Third, efforts at reform, while ambitious, have been ineffective in changing objectionable practices and/or aiding children in need. Fourth, left unresolved is the question as to whether the problems noted above in developed countries are present to a greater or lesser degree in developing countries.

This chapter examines the seeming paradox that although children may be a net cost to parents, they may nonetheless play a key role in underwriting the cost of large families. Maya time allocation and reproductive history data are used to approach children’s economic value from two methodological perspectives: wealth flows and the timing of children’s economic contributions. While Maya children are expensive to raise, when viewed in light of the timing of their labor supply across the demographic life cycle of the family, children’s economic contributions enable Maya parents to continue childbearing and raise more children than they might otherwise be able.

Considerations of the legal rights of incarcerated juveniles are often concerned with the myriad ways in which due process rights are circumscribed, abridged, or undermined by the operations of the juvenile court (e.g., Berkheiser, 2016; Cleary, 2017; Feld, 1999; Rapisarda & Kaplan, 2016). Studies of youth legal consciousness have additionally sought to explore the role of media, legal status, court experiences, and even parents in the formation of youth attitudes about the justice system (e.g., Abrego, 2011; Brisman, 2010; Greene, Sprott, Madon, & Jung, 2010; Pennington, 2017). This chapter builds on this work by exploring the way rights shaped the everyday lives of incarcerated youth. Drawing on fieldwork conducted in a juvenile hall, this chapter explores three different moments outside of a formal legal context where the invocation of due process rights limited the self-expression and exploration of incarcerated youth. In each of these cases, the invocation of protecting due process rights by adults served to stifle youth efforts to remake juvenile hall as a place open and receptive to their needs. These three moments demonstrate that rights project a particular legal vision onto a world that does not neatly conform to the reality in which youth lived. For these reasons, the consideration of legal rights for youth must also consider how these rights can forestall the very transformation in circumstances that many youth seek.

Courts play a critical role in facilitating access to alcohol, drug, and mental health services for juvenile offenders. This research examines the court's decision to refer offenders to A&D services and whether offender ethnicity affects this rehabilitative response. Results suggest ethnicity has no effect on treatment recommendations independent of its relationship to other variables. Rather, ethnicity modifies the effect offense type has on the treatment referral decision. Specifically, Blacks arrested for A&D offenses are significantly less likely than their White counterparts to be referred to care. Distinctions in drug laws seem to limit access to A&D services for Blacks.