Spray Paint and Title IX: Defunding the Police
I watched a demonstration by an artist who used spray paint last night. He filled in huge letters on a sheet of plywood. They were fuzzy on the edges until he outlined them in a way that made them seem to extend forward into the air and sink deeply into the board. They were big, bold and spoke loudly without annoyance. They were confident, optimistic letters with loads of positive self-esteem. It struck me how much the artist conveyed by the way he laid the paint on the board.
This morning I recall a tiny self-portrait drawn by an eleven-year-old girl admitted to the adolescent psychiatric unit where I worked as a young adult. She drew herself in the center of the paper, so small, with her arms pulled into her sides, her legs close together. The drawing stood timid and fearful, but it stood—and on her face was a slight smile, as if, fearful as she was, she still hoped to be welcomed with affection. A part of this girl, who had been molested by her grandmother’s boyfriend, knew she deserved love. In her drawing, her body was filled with apprehension, but her face persisted in seeking that love, quietly, shyly.
Children have such resilience. And, teenagers, I learned, wield it like a sword. They are not shy at all. They will whack you up the side of your head with their resilience, and if you’re lucky, that whack will summon your own resilience in response, waking it from its slumber and making you whole again. Adults on the outside of that adolescent psychiatric unit, looking in, often shook their heads, seeing only discarded youths, but on the inside, we staff members felt their energy and their life, their tenacity. With just a modicum of positive reception, they thrived. Unfortunately, we were a MASH unit. We sent them back out into the war that was their lives, and they often returned more deeply wounded than before.
In gangs, I am guessing, teens and young adults pool their resiliences and lash out at a world they find untenable. They clash with each other, and many others. They wield spray paint too. Teen-aged tagging lets the world know these teens exist. With spray paint, they mark their boundaries and tell a piece of their collective stories. Gangs are The Lord of the Flies, urban style, with a side of Rust-O-Leum. They are my eleven-year-old, a few years into the future. The style of the request has changed, no longer quiet and shy, it rages, but I believe it seeks the same thing the eleven year old did, whether those sending that request are aware of it or not. And unfortunately, most of us become the adults on the outside of their adolescent unit, seeing only discarded youths.
Responding effectively and constructively to gangs requires the input from resilient adults and a thinking, compassionate community that knows how to draw boundaries itself. Off-loading this responsibility onto the police force will never be adequate. “Defunding the police” has become the outcry of many in our country. That phrase could do with a little unpacking. “Defunding the police” may truly be about reshaping our communities’ responses to the myriad of problems we have off-loaded onto the police, gang activity among them.
The same art club that sponsored the demo by the spray-painting artist, my art club, attempted to invite a handful of “at-risk” youth into our midst one year. We hoped to channel some of their energy into more safe, creative outlets. We ended up connecting with a single teenaged girl, a tagger. Her art-teacher mentor brought her to our meetings, hoping to get her off the street at night, when the teen went out to adorn upright surfaces with her original images. Because our club was divided about supporting youth who engaged in this kind of activity, we found we had to create a euphemism for “graffiti.” We dubbed it “Urban Art,” and invited an adult unban artist, himself a former tagger, to demonstrate at one of our shows. As with the demo of the self-confident letters, the urban artist enthralled us as he covered a 4 x 8 foot sheet of plywood with spray paint, creating his signature image, a giraffe.
Girafa and his art October 2016
We also invited our teenager, our young urban artist, to demonstrate. She deftly rendered the image of a tubby extra-terrestrial, holding its head in its hand, her signature image. I wondered about that alien. It was shorter than our teenaged artist, and much more vulnerable in appearance—and so happy to stand there holding its head. The little alien’s happiness in the face of headlessness must have been an expression of this young girl’s resilience. We lost track of her for a full year. Her mentor finally located her at an alternative high school, a high school for teens who had a history of getting into serious trouble. But our tagger was on track for graduation, no less. We cheered.
Did our club help her? I have no idea, but I do not regret our trying. Her father, who regularly engaged in criminal activity, had been arrested by the police. This was a key component in her landing at the high school where she was heading for graduation. In this instance, the police had played an appropriate role and the young tagger’s resilience kicked in to save her. Or at least we hope it saved her.
I find myself wondering how to tap the resilience of our police officers. They are helping professionals after all. They have a particular calling, but like teachers tasked with collecting money for band candy sales, they have become burdened with inappropriate responsibilities. At the very least, these ill-fitted responsibilities stamp out the natural energies many police professionals may have for their jobs. In other cases, motivations become bent and officers end up acting in ways that are contrary to the tenants of human kindness, until, at some point, we have come full circle, back to The Lord of the Flies. The police become another sort of gang. Lethal weapons replace Rust-O-leum and in reponse, automatic weapons find their way into the hands of teenagers.
To many, defunding the police in the face of criminals toting automatic weapons and the ever increasing frequency of home invasions sounds idiotic and dangerous. To others, defunding the police is about preserving and protecting the lives of their family members and friends—protecting those the police have repeatedly targeted, battered and killed with unnecessary violence. I believe that defunding the police is as much about my neglectful ignorance of what has been heaped upon our police forces, as it is about their errant behaviors, and it is as much about my ignorance of those errant behaviors, as it is about the officers who commit them. Defunding the police is about my failure to speak out and to lend a hand to shaping our communities’ responses to the myriad of tasks we have heaped upon our police forces. My apathy, my silence, my preoccupation with the dust in my house instead of the strife outside my door has allowed the Lord of the Flies to take the wheel. Others may observe that I am insulated by the color of my skin and my socioeconomic status, but mostly I am insulated because I ignore the Lazaruses lying at my feet everywhere I walk. I insulate myself by photoshopping what I choose to see.
Oh to have some magic spray paint to strengthen the fuzzy boundaries that define the mission we have given to our police officers, a hue to make their letters immediately bright and clear as the letters on that piece of plywood were, a color to tap the resilience of men and women who want to do a truly good job, combined that important boundary tone that defines their mission and keeps them from resorting to violence. But it’s going to take a lot of attention and investment on all our parts to figure out what “defunding the police” actually means. We can’t sit this one out.
I tend to think of defunding the police as similar to Title IX. Before 1972 the vast majority of physical education money was going to sports for boys and young men— i.e., football—a lot of money went into football programs in high schools and colleges. Title IX diverted money into sports for girls and young women—consequently the girls and young women poured into those opportunities in droves. According to the National Center for Educational Statistics, girls’ participation in sports has increased more than 10-fold since Title IX was instated—and boys participation in sports has increased too. Title IX did not hurt males. Carolina football still thrives. Diverting money to help women served men too. Odd how that works. Similarly, diverting money to invest in support services that build healthy communities may very well strengthen the police. This is a paradoxical endeavor—always a hard sell.
So get that can of spray paint out of the garage and start practicing. It’s time to join this conversation.