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When James* stepped out of his building in the residential rehab facility to meet me, cigarette in hand, decked out in Calvin Klein, my first impression was of a confident, talkative young man. When we spoke, he was forthcoming – but also vulnerable. He was 25 at the time, only a year younger than me, and told me about the past ten years of his life, spent in and out of the prison system.
Victoria has just announced a raft of changes to youth justice. It will uplift a number of children’s offences to face adult prison terms, and will also introduce a new ‘Violence Reduction Unit’ to coordinate crime prevention policies across government.
It’s hard to ignore the impact of the harsher sentences on criminalised children – it feels as though the government is playing political football with their lives. I cast my mind back to James, whose story captures what some of these impacts might be.
“Well once I was in,” he said, “that was that. Like, it just involved me, you know? It's been ten years in and out.
“I've spent, like, a lot of my life in jail since […] I've been three times in youth jail. And I’ve been four times adult jail.”
The reasons why James returned to prison are complicated. From the outside, James appeared to be a “chronic repeat offender”. Looking a little closer, however, James was a young man experiencing homelessness who struggled to understand and comply with supervision conditions. I sense this is hard for him to talk about – he stops and starts a lot here – but he says:
“I've never been able to – I've never been good with pa– paper, reading off paper, and stuff like that. I actually can't, you know – it's been like, you know – I’ve always had – [pause] Didn't do well at school, you know?”
On top of this, he adds, “I never had nowhere to live. I'd always get out to just being on a CCO and nowhere to live, not be able to make my appointments because it’s not – I just couldn't even get, couldn't even work out where to lay my head at night. You know?”
When James* stepped out of his building in the residential rehab facility to meet me, cigarette in hand, decked out in Calvin Klein, my first impression was of a confident, talkative young man. When we spoke, he was forthcoming – but also vulnerable. He was 25 at the time, only a year younger than me, and told me about the past ten years of his life, spent in and out of the prison system.
Victoria has just announced a raft of changes to youth justice. It will uplift a number of children’s offences to face adult prison terms, and will also introduce a new ‘Violence Reduction Unit’ to coordinate crime prevention policies across government.
It’s hard to ignore the impact of the harsher sentences on criminalised children – it feels as though the government is playing political football with their lives. I cast my mind back to James, whose story captures what some of these impacts might be.
“Well once I was in,” he said, “that was that. Like, it just involved me, you know? It's been ten years in and out.
“I've spent, like, a lot of my life in jail since […] I've been three times in youth jail. And I’ve been four times adult jail.”
The reasons why James returned to prison are complicated. From the outside, James appeared to be a “chronic repeat offender”. Looking a little closer, however, James was a young man experiencing homelessness who struggled to understand and comply with supervision conditions. I sense this is hard for him to talk about – he stops and starts a lot here – but he says:
“I've never been able to – I've never been good with pa– paper, reading off paper, and stuff like that. I actually can't, you know – it's been like, you know – I’ve always had – [pause] Didn't do well at school, you know?”
On top of this, he adds, “I never had nowhere to live. I'd always get out to just being on a CCO and nowhere to live, not be able to make my appointments because it’s not – I just couldn't even get, couldn't even work out where to lay my head at night. You know?”
How could the wider community know, without being in his shoes?
James was never a “chronic repeat offender” – very few people are, despite what the media says – he was trapped in a cycle that prison did nothing to break.
“I just wanted [pause] a normal life. Couldn't have it. No matter how hard I was trying. Like, I've tried it, put myself in TAFEs, carpentry courses, shit like that. Didn't go far with it, ‘cause, you know, when you got nowhere to stay and shit like that, worrying about where you're going next, it's hard to make it to stuff like that. I tried but it would always upend. You know?
With nowhere to live and shit like that, eventually I was stealing cars and sleeping in cars.” And so on.
This is the part that really got me. James goes on to say, “when you’re involved in that life, it's like all you know. And it’s not, it’s like…
“I’m a good person, just, was surrounded by – I don't know how to explain it, just surrounded by a bad life.”
In the end, AOD services and housing were what he needed: “Drug court, like, gives you a chance. Here's a house, here’s some programs to do, they'll help you if you need it. And I needed it.
“That helped me bring myself back to reality, who I am – who I really am – and not have to be all that stuck in that other life. ‘Cause this is the life I'd rather live.”
AOD programs, housing – these are the things that young people in the justice system need the most. These are the kinds of investments we should most be making. Only time will tell whether the Victorian changes will be effective, but for now they may well contribute to more stories like James’.
How could the wider community know, without being in his shoes?
James was never a “chronic repeat offender” – very few people are, despite what the media says – he was trapped in a cycle that prison did nothing to break.
“I just wanted [pause] a normal life. Couldn't have it. No matter how hard I was trying. Like, I've tried it, put myself in TAFEs, carpentry courses, shit like that. Didn't go far with it, ‘cause, you know, when you got nowhere to stay and shit like that, worrying about where you're going next, it's hard to make it to stuff like that. I tried but it would always upend. You know?
With nowhere to live and shit like that, eventually I was stealing cars and sleeping in cars.” And so on.
This is the part that really got me. James goes on to say, “when you’re involved in that life, it's like all you know. And it’s not, it’s like…
“I’m a good person, just, was surrounded by – I don't know how to explain it, just surrounded by a bad life.”
In the end, AOD services and housing were what he needed: “Drug court, like, gives you a chance. Here's a house, here’s some programs to do, they'll help you if you need it. And I needed it.
“That helped me bring myself back to reality, who I am – who I really am – and not have to be all that stuck in that other life. ‘Cause this is the life I'd rather live.”
AOD programs, housing – these are the things that young people in the justice system need the most. These are the kinds of investments we should most be making. Only time will tell whether the Victorian changes will be effective, but for now they may well contribute to more stories like James’.
*James is not his real name and is the pseudonym he chose for himself.
Even behind bars, there are ways to soften the edges. Ways not just to pass the time, but to leave prison carrying something more than the baggage you came in with.
The other old men and I never thought our lives would come to this. But here we gather again, like withered autumn leaves, awaiting the 7 am call for muster. Occasionally we stare at the large blank television screen which has been positioned high up in a corner of our small common room. What are we looking for?
I spat my first fireball on the shore of Warwick's Leslie Dam over half a century ago. That freaky moment was the flashpoint for a short but spectacular career as a professional fire breather. It gave me money and notoriety, but it very nearly killed me.
I put the window down, and the wind rushed through my hair, and, as if by magical happenstance, How to Make Gravy came on the radio. His voice rolled out like it was coming from someone familiar, telling the story of Joe, writing home from prison before Christmas.
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