On September 29, my son was sentenced to two years and nine months in federal prison.

I’ve always been straight-up about my own substance use disorder. I’m open about it because no person should die in shame because they used drugs. Whenever that happens, we have all failed as a society. I have committed my life to help marginalized people, because humanity isn’t something you get to assign to those you deem worthy—no one should experience the guilt and shame I went through.

Unfortunately, my son got the same traits and used drugs to cope with life, just as I did. He ended up doing illegal things to make money because he had no job, and a huge family to clothe and feed at such a young age. There are those of you who will ask, Why did he have so many kids? Well they’re here, alive and thriving.

I warned my son that the system would eat him up, like it did me. After I was criminalized and made homeless for my drug use, the system turned members of my own family against me, convinced them I was unworthy of raising my own newborn baby girl due to my drug use.

I knew the feds were watching him, ever since he had been arrested for the first time, for a similar charge back in 2014. But he thought he knew better, as all young adults do. They caught up to him eventually, and once they got their claws in him, they didn’t let go. In 2019 they made him come back to New York from Florida, where they could watch his every move. They handed him his own leash and said, Here you go, go ahead and hang yourself. And as a young poor man from the hood, hang himself he did.

You could hear prosecutors and the staff in court, talking and laughing as if there wasn’t a young, scared man sitting there with his future at stake.

Due to the pandemic, I was only able to access the court proceedings over the phone. That made it even harder, when I hadn’t seen my son in almost nine months.

On the day of sentencing, you could hear prosecutors and the staff in court, talking and laughing as if there wasn’t a young, scared man sitting there with his future at stake. My hands and legs were shaking. The tears were already streaming down my cheeks. Then the check-ins began. The judge was extremely polite, making sure my son could hear every word she said, stopping every so often to ask, “Mr. Ortiz can you hear the proceedings well?”

The words felt sadistic, every kindness condescending. I just saw my son as a six-year-old boy, surrounded by adults who were there to scold him.

The judge and public defender discussed how many chances he was given and didn’t take advantage of. It’s true that he tested positive once while on pretrial parole and living outside. He was violated and sent straight to an inpatient program—one of the worst inpatient programs I know of. The way he was treated there was outrageous, as I previously described.

He committed a crime. It wasnt murder, it wasnt home invasion; it was fraud—committed against a white person. That, combined with drug use and a past drug conviction, was enough to automatically qualify him for a two-to-four-year mandatory minimum sentence in the Federal Bureau of Prisons.

Last year, the news covered several white celebrities who committed a different kind of fraud. They were fortunate enough to get a sweet deal of short sentences in prisons with spas and all kinds of amenities.

Because my son was Brown and poor and used drugs, he wasn’t worthy of any type of leniency. Not that the judge could have provided much. She excused herself by noting that she had no choice but to sentence him to the mandatory minimum according to the law and his history.

What my son needed was a job program, counseling or therapy, and help in developing coping skills—none of which, by the way, were available to him during his 10 months in jail awaiting sentencing. So he sat and wasted time when he could’ve been accumulating days to shorten his sentence.

But even therapists too often subscribe to the system’s narrative. None of the ones I went to ever bothered to ask what made me use drugs to begin with.

Clearly, my problem was me. My son used drugs for his own reasons. But clearly, his problem was him.

I don’t know the answer for sure. Perhaps it was the trauma I experienced as a 13-year-old girl losing her mother to breast cancer. I was pulled out of middle school to move to another state to help my mother as she went through chemotherapy. I watched her die slowly, this beautiful, strong, caramel-colored woman with hair down her back that she would always ask me to brush. I never had the heart to tell her there was nothing to brush anymore, so I brushed anyway. Or was it having a father present who only cared for one of his nine children, and the chosen one wasn’t me?

But no one ever asked. Clearly, my problem was me. My son used drugs for his own reasons. But clearly, his problem was him.

The judge really tried to sound human as she sentenced him, but I’m convinced there was someone operating her from underneath her robe. The DA stayed pretty quiet during the proceedings. I mean, I would too, if my job was being done for me.

I formerly worked at an organization of attorneys that fought until our last breath for our clients—even if we lost, at least we could say we tried, and gave it our best fight.

My mother taught me, if I couldn’t say anything nice about someone, not to say anything at all. So I won’t talk much about the public defender. I’ll just say, she had a warm body she needed to represent and she did just that. She stood right next to him at every appearance and looked the part of an attorney.

For now, my son has two years and nine months to look forward to. So do his children. So do I. In the feds, he can be shipped anywhere in the country, so I don’t know when I’ll see him again. And our family becomes another statistic to illustrate the perverse cruelty our system inflicts on people of color who use drugs.

Photo by Carrie Z from Pixabay

The post The Day They Sentenced My Son to Federal Prison appeared first on Filter.

My nerves were shot. We were running late after traveling down from the Bronx, first hitting traffic in an Uber, then switching to the subway. Of course there was a sick passenger a couple trains ahead.

I kept texting with my son’s attorney, updating her on the delays until we made it to the building. Then they took away my phone and watch, placed them on an open shelf and gave me a token-like object as my receipt.

As I watched my son taking his belt off, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this would be the last time I would have him next to me for a while. A tear began streaming down my face. But I wiped it away quickly, so he wouldn’t see his mom not be strong when he needed me the most.

We were there because he was on pre-trial monitoring and had been summoned for a violation. He was arrested in 2018 for charges that are still pending. He was on pre-trial probation for quite a while before he began using and testing positive for cocaine, and was ultimately mandated to a drug treatment program. But he didn’t last two months before they found a reason to kick him out.

Understand, I didn’t raise my boys to be momma’s boys, but I would never for one second not support them. Good, bad or indifferent, these are my boys. As they grew up in the Bronx, I witnessed the NYPD harass them to no end. I once picked up my other son from the precinct when he was 18 years old. He had been arrested by undercovers for riding his bike on the sidewalk. These cops are hunters, and our Black and Brown boys are their prey.

My son who was at court with me is 25 years old. He has five children, and that’s a lot of pressure for a young man. He stood by his partner’s side through every pregnancy and every birth, and is a daddy to all his children. He did what he could to provide for his family and make sure his kids never went without. He is loyal, and everyone who meets him loves him because he’s a kind old soul.

He was living as a full-time father whom no one would hire because he didn’t finish high school.

When he began using cocaine last year, it was as a stress reliever and an attempt to self-medicate symptoms of what he has only more recently been diagnosed with: anxiety and panic attacks.

Whether this program was a good fit or not didn’t matter. They had an empty bed, and my son’s warm body could fill it.

At an earlier hearing, my son’s pre-trial officer suggested to the judge that he be mandated to an inpatient drug treatment facility. I won’t mention this program’s name for fear of retaliation against my son, but the program is a bad joke. I have heard many complaints from people not involved in this story about how horrible it is, and I soon found out for myself.

The pre-trial officer didn’t suggest that my son meet with a few different providers to find the right fit for him. No, he just asked the judge to order my son be sent to this particular one. We all know there’s a financial incentive for these places to fill beds and meet the quotas in their contracts with the courts. So I guess whether this place was a good fit or not didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. They had an empty bed, and my son’s warm body could fill it.

From the beginning there were many issues with this program. I brought these issues—not the question of my son’s enrolment with the program itself—to the attention of his Probation Officer. Nothing changed. The PO went to visit the program, but took everything they said as fact.

You would think if a client is allegedly causing problems or being unruly, the first person the program would call is that person’s PO. That’s not what happened. Instead, it got to the point where I had to call the program and the PO, who weren’t communicating with each other, on a regular basis because I was so concerned about what was happening.

My son suffered two panic attacks while he was there. And one month in, he had yet to even meet a doctor or a psychiatrist—not until I called and made it an issue.

It’s no surprise that after a couple of weeks of me calling and making them do their jobs, and alerting his PO to their shenanigans, they kicked my son out of the program. Their reason was that he kept looking like he was under the influence—regardless of the fact that he continued to test negative during his time in the program and when he came home. He had been out exactly two weeks before having to appear in court for the violation.

As I sat on the cold bench behind my son and his attorney in the courtroom that day, I was forced to hear the probation officer’s version of events about my son’s alleged drug use and behaviors in the program—a version my son and I know to be false. The judge listened intently and hung on his every word.

Then came the PO’s wing man from the program, who stated that he had 29 years of experience in drug counseling—and apparently has the ability to tell when someone is under the influence just by looking at them. That helped seal the deal.

All that they said went uncontested. My son’s attorney tried to explain that this program was clearly not a good fit for my son. She proposed several alternative options, including another inpatient program, but to no avail.

I turned to my left and saw the marshalls sitting there patiently, waiting to wrap the steel bracelets around his wrists.

The judge made a point of mentioning that the program has a contract with the courts, is in good standing and would never jeopardize that contract. Am I the only one who thinks that this line of reasoning is absolutely preposterous?

I wanted to stand up and scream. I wanted to tell the judge how they were lying—how the executive director of the program was upset because there was a parent who cared enough about her child to keep them in check and made sure they did their jobs, or at least the bare minimum. 

But court doesn’t work that way.

Instead, I turned around and hugged my son. At that moment, in my eyes, he went back to being a five-year-old who was lost.

I turned to my left and saw the marshalls sitting there patiently, waiting to wrap the steel bracelets around his wrists.

So I began to pray. I prayed that this judge saw my son as a young father with a lot of responsibilities on his plate and stresses no parent could bear, let alone a parent of five.

It didn’t work. But the system worked exactly as it was intended to. Less than 30 minutes later, my son was handcuffed, stripped of his shoelaces and jacket. Bail was revoked and the defendant was remanded in custody until further notice.

I cried the entire ride home, holding my son’s belongings in one arm and my work bag in the other.

In my job, I fight every day for people’s freedom, for their rights to autonomy, equity and genuine justice. But this week, I couldn’t fight for my own son.

Photo (modified) by George Hodan via PublicDomainPictures.net.

The post The Agony of Attending My Son’s Probation Violation Hearing appeared first on Filter.

Ever since, we have been able to see the crippling impact of this sinister and deceptive strategy on these communities. We can see it simply by visiting any prison or jailhouse—or by viewing the demographics of incarcerated populations.

But what is not talked about enough is the drug war’s effects on parents in these communities. It has long been strategically intertwined with the child protective system in such a way that it can be sold to stakeholders under the guise of “saving the children.”

If you take the time to spend a day in any family court, what you will see is disturbing: Benches full of parents of color and little black and brown children in despair.

See, what is not talked about in the same breath as mass incarceration are the rates at which families of color are being torn apart. More meaningful to me than statistics is the real suffering of these families that I have often witnessed.

There was wall-to-wall media coverage of the forced family separations happening at the US-Mexico border. Yet this has also been happening—for decades—in the communities targeted by the War on Drugs.

One mother I knew, whose child was removed due to her drug use, had carried years of trauma with her and used substances to numb her pain. That did not take away from the fact that she was a loving mother, one who went above and beyond for her child. So when her child was removed and placed in foster care, she felt hopeless.

Through her tears, she told me she had “no reason to live if I can’t be a mother to my child.” That has stayed with me for many years. When a child is removed from their parent, there is no therapist in the world who can erase the pain and turmoil. The scars are long-lasting.

Looking from the outside in, some may think that separating these families is in the best interest of the child—but says who?

When there was recently wall-to-wall media coverage of the forced family separations happening at the US-Mexico border, many child psychologists were called upon to talk about the trauma that separating a child from their parent causes. Neither parent nor child should have to experience this. Democratic senators were up in arms about these separations, as they should be.

Yet this has also been happening frequently—for decades—within our borders in the communities targeted by the War on Drugs. When you hear the stories of the people impacted, and realize these separations are due most times to drug use, it starts to paint a very different picture of what we naively call “child protection.”

When a child old enough to speak is asked whether they prefer to be with their parent, in foster care or even with other family members, the child will almost always choose the parent. Why? Because that is their comfort zone, the person who loved and nurtured them since birth. No matter how difficult the situation is at home, this will almost never change.

I know this partly through the experiences of my own family. I gave birth to three amazing boys who lived with me during my active drug use, which spanned approximately 10 years.

I lived both in New York and Florida. While in Florida, I maintained a full-time job for the most part, for as long as I had a vehicle. During my best times, I had my own apartment in a beautiful complex with three bedrooms and all of the amenities one would want. But in the worst of times, we ended up homeless with nowhere to turn.

My children were always my rock and the source of my happiness. The love and support I received from them was unwavering, and every single chance they got to speak to the child protective workers, they said they wanted to be with me. They knew that no matter what mommy was going through, I always loved and nurtured them. I protected them with my life, and would go without food so that they could eat. That’s what parents do.

Working in the System That Tore My Family Apart

I began working as an advocate many years ago. I found my voice working with the formerly incarcerated population via a grassroots organization by the name of W.O.R.T.H—Women on the Rise Telling Herstory. It was through this organization I was able to do an internship at another organization, one that focused on mothers and pregnant women who use drugs.

I realized I had a calling—a calling to help other parents who used drugs and had experienced the Child Protective System as I had.

But I quickly found I had more questions than answers. Such as: Why am I only seeing low-income black and brown faces? Especially when the evidence shows that people of color and white people use drugs at similar rates.

I have a thought on that. Some may view it as controversial, but hear me out.

We’re talking the kind of difficult-but-not-disastrous personal situations in which white, wealthy families would generally maintain their privacy, and turn to social networks and professionals for support.

When you live in a low-income community and the cost of living is astronomical, even with more than one job per household, most times you have to depend on public assistance to make ends meet. In order to apply for public assistance, you are forced to spend an entire day—sometimes more—at the human resources administration (HRA). This is a horrible place. It always feels like the workers do not want to be there, and they’re so begrudging that it’s like the funds they are approving you for are coming out of their very own pockets. They are also all mandated reporters.

If by chance you can’t afford the sky-high apartment rates in New York then you have no choice but to enter the department of homeless services (DHS)—another wonderful place where the staff is miserable and call the police and ACS (New York’s child protective services) for every single incident, big or small. Because they are also mandated reporters.

Then we have our public school system, where in low-income areas particularly, the teachers are underpaid and overworked, and the only way they know how to deal with struggling students is to report them—you guessed it—to the police or to ACS. Because they, too, are mandated reporters.

It leaves me with no doubt as to why family courts are filled with low-income black and brown families. It’s because these are the families who are surrounded by mandated reporters at every turn.

We’re talking about the kind of difficult-but-not-disastrous personal situations in which white, wealthy families would generally maintain their privacy, turn to social networks and professionals for support, and enter drug treatment if wanted and warranted.

Low-income families of color, lacking most resources except for this army of mandated reporters, routinely face instead what’s known in the child protective world as “emergency removals.”

Was It Really an Emergency?

An emergency removal, or remand, is when ACS take it upon themselves to remove a child without a judge’s authorization. These cases will eventually find their way to court some 72 hours later—but by then, the ACS has already traumatized this family for life.

They have guaranteed that this child will no longer feel safe under their parents’ care as they did before. Once the child is returned, there will more than likely be therapists and psychologists in that child’s future to help them work through their abandonment issues. There are enormous ripple effects every single time a child is removed.

Did this child need to be removed from their home? And why aren’t there emergency removals in affluent neighborhoods?

Yes, there are horrifying but thankfully rare cases of abusive homes where children are under real threat. But in the vast majority of cases that I’ve known, I’m left to ask myself: Was it really an emergency? Did this child need to be removed from their home? And why aren’t there emergency removals in affluent neighborhoods?

Being a person who uses drugs does not mean you are a less loving parent. I would not want any parent who uses drugs to experience this horrible act—but why is the response different when parent has substantial resources?

There are many stories yet to be told about emergency removals from drug-using, low-income parents—stories that should always be contrasted with how well-resourced parents continue to have the agency and anonymity to do what they see fit for their family.

This brings me back to the failed War on Drugs—the war against poor people and people of color. Be under no illusion: It is being fought not only on the streets and in the prison system. It is being fought through family courts every day.

Photo by Sai De Silva on Unsplash

The post We Need More Focus on How the Drug War Attacks Parents of Color appeared first on Filter.