Youth prisons breed criminals
In 1980,1 accidentally took iny
first mission into investigative
journalism, straight into the
foster care and youth prison system of
the state of Nebraska.
It all started in 1980 when I ran
away from my physically and emo
tionally abusive home. The first time
I ran away, a police officer sent me
back, quoting a Bible passage: “Sparc
the rod, spoil the child.” 1 was again
severely beaten. The second time, I
refused to return and was placed in an
overcrowded foster home, where l was
treated poorly and used as a handy
free labor source. I soon ran away
from there also. Mycaseworkcr treated
me like I was a criminal and did
nothing when the people refused to
return my valued belongings. I was
then placed in a group home.
Depression set in, and concentrat
ing on school became very difficult.
Escape from reality became priority
one, and before I knew it I was in
prison at age 17. 1 was arrested for
possession of a controlled substance.
Valium, which my friend had taken
from his father’s cabinet.
I met my public defender five min
utes before my hearing. This over
worked state employee was little help.
Although I had a previously clean
criminal record, good grades and even
dedicated involvement in high school
sports, I was sent to the “big house.” I
feel I was dealt an extreme injustice.
Yes, I broke the law, and yes, I
needed help. No, I did not need fur
ther abuse, which I soon received from
the Youth Development Center in
Kearney.
I was quickly stripped of my dig
nity. I spent nine months with 7Cro
privacy and was not allowed to go
anywhere without my group of 13
peers. The system is set up so that
group members constantly arc against
each other, scrutinizing each other for
flaws so they can look good by com
parison and go home. Tnc toilets had
no stalls, and we were expected to
wear only underwear — state-owned
Yes, I broke the law, and yes, I
needed help. No, I did not need
further abuse, which I soon
received from the Youth
Development Center in
Kearney.
--1
Fruit of the Looms — the last two
hours of each evening. The bedroom
had 40 uncomfortable beds lined up
for the three groups in our “cottage.”
The system, used by most states, is
basedon 12 “problems.” Group mem
bers were required to watch other
members and confront them if they
showed a problem. Any sign of being
upset became an “casi ly angered” prob
lem. A “fronting” problem consisted
of clowning around or trying to gain
another group member’s acceptance.
Any show of insecurity was a “feels
inferior” problem. 1 even had to watch
my voice lone and wording so as not to
show an “aggravates others” prob
lem. I quickly learned to suppress all
feelings.
Repeat offenders who had learned
to play the game were usually treated
with favoritism by the staff, as were
the more violent, aggressive residents
who were often able to intimidate the
entire group. We were required to
show “care” to $roup members by
giving “face sessions.” All 13 of us
would pin the member showing a lot
of problems to the floor and scream in
his face at the top of our lungs, often
for hours on end. Receiving this treat
ment was tcrror.cspccially when some
peers would deliver cheap shots. An
ger and hatred were encouraged in
these “care” sessions. If 1 had refused
to partake in this act of violence, I
would never have gone home and
would have been next in line for the
treatment.
Once, I was held down for two
hours while an intimidating group 1
member pinched the back of my arms. I
The pain was excruciating, and the I
back of my arms later became one |
large bruise. 1 was then taken into the J
bathroom, backed up against a wall by ■
four peers and punched in the face.
My future foster parents wrote to ex
press their concern. The superinten
dent did nothing. My mail was read
from that lime on, and I was forced to
write an apologetic letter to my foster
parents for “lying.”
If a group member escaped, the
group was punished severely. The
group would be required to be within
arm’s length ofcach other at all times
—sometimes elbow’s length—even
in the bathroom. State clothes were
required, and the group would have to
sit around a large table all day. One
group in my cottage spent 45 days in
this situation.
Staff members often encouraged
violence, even punching, and they fed I
on our fear. One day a staff member
beat a resident’s head against a locker
for a half hour. Humiliation was an
other tactic. They often told me what
a low life I was and said I would
undoubtedly go to the penitentiary. I
could go on and on.
I have reason to believe nothing
has improved in recent years. Breed
ing criminals is not in our stale’s best
interest, nor is punishing, rather than I
helping, victims of abuse.
Koester is a senior soil science major and
a Daily Nebraskan columnist.
Whining only weighs you down
One down and at least three
more to go.
Well. I guess that depends
on my senility and vitamin intake for
the rest of this week, but I plan on
finishing my finals before I go crazy
and run down the interstate ramp in
flames and a yellowpolycstcrjumpsui t
All right, so it wasn’t as bad as
having a root canal on a soggy July
afternoon; actually, in some quasi
matic fluffy sort of way, it was “fun."
And, hey, 1 learned a lot... a lot.
Thoughts of the French Revolu
tion, soil moisture balance, dead sales
men and the clastic clause drift aim
lessly in the nebulous gray protoplasm
gushing about in my skull. They drift
and wait, drift and wait.
While they’re drifting and wailing
to be brought up later on in this little
adventure, I’d like to say I’m sick and
revolted with people who whine and
pout about their education here at the
University of Nebraska-Lincoln.
At almost any un iversity, your edu
cation is what you make of it. Y ou can
spend your days as a drooling sloth or
get out of bed before noon and do
something with your life.
Now, I’m not go ing to be one of the
little Herbie Husker groupies and sur
render my talents as a cheerleader for
UNL. However, it is one of the finest
universities in the nation, and its
graduates ofthc non-sloth variety havc
excelled in their fields.
These whiny little dweebs seem to
think their university life revolves
around their academic success, and if
they fail to pass “Rubber Balloon
Animals 101/’ it’s not their fault; it’s
the university’s.
My “rich and influential’’brother,
Mike, bestowed upon me a nice little
piece of knowledge. Well. I think he
stole it from a quote somewhere, but
the sentiment still stands.
Mike said, “It’s your attitude, not
your aptitude, that will determine your
altitude,” meaning your Cliffs Notes
* and sonic calculators won’t allow you
to succeed in life if you have the
I Mike said, “It’s your attitude,
not your aptitude, that will
determine your altitude,”
meaning your Cliffs Notes and
sonic calculators won’t allow
you to succeed in life if you
have the disposition of a
Cheeto-snarfing swamp rat.
disposition of a Checto-snarfing
swamp rat.
No one here cares if you were the
“big man” in high school, and you
can’t rely on that philosophy. You
must start over.
You have to possess a certain altb
tude about your life here and stop
complaining about sculptures you find
silly or grading policies you just can’t
cut because you don’t have the moti
vation to do so.
Case in point. I went into my physi
cal geography class with a hellish
loathing for any type of science-re
lated phenomena. I figured, what docs
a news-editorial major have to know
about dirt or soil or whatever the
brown gunk is on the side of the road?
Despite all my agony, I kept an open
mind.
As a weather freak and one still
mystified by the Nebraska nonconfor
mity of storms and cyclones, I found
the whole meteorological aspect to
this whole subject fascinating and
useful.
Furthermore, if I ever plan on build
ing a house some day, 1 should know
what the soil moisture balance and
compac lability of the soil in my area is
so my home doesn’t fall off a cliff or
sink into the ground in the first rain
storm.
So, even if I didn’t solve the mys
tery to life on this planet, Meamed
some useful geographical trivia and
watched ncat-o videos to bool.
There were and will be classes that
hold less than one iota of relevance to
my life, and the information 1 learn
there will be as useful as what I pick
up on the back of a Chccrios box, but
I can just chalk itup to experience and
move on.
I’m not about to curse every ad
min istrator, professor, jan i tor and stu
dent at this university because I didn’t
like this or that class, and it was too
hot in the building 1 was in.
So, stop whining! This means you,
yes you—all you pathetic people who
write and complain about some sniv
eling, menial Engl ish class that forced
you to think.
If some aspect of your academic
life relies on your own creativity and
not some mathematical equation, you
think it’s worthless.
I’ll be the first to admit there arc a
few bad eggs in the university hierar
chy. but that doesn’t mean you should
go off half-cocked and make an om
elet out of the entire UNL system if
something displeases you.
As for me, I’m sitting here in the
basement of the student union at 11
p.m., and, admittedly, I’m happy —
pleased even. I have enough final
exam stress to trigger a small seismic
tremor (more geography), but I’m
happy to be here.
I even like those sculptures.
Lavigne it a freshman newt-editorial ma
jor and a Dally Nebraskan tenlor reporter.
——— paid Advertisement ““
Re-Elect
Wade Nutzman
NRD Director
LOWER PLATTE SOUTH
NATURAL RESOURCES DISTRICT
• 8 Yrs. on NRD Board • UNL Graduate
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