Does Massachusetts have the guts to save its kids?

Yahoo

25-05-2025

Editor's note: This story is part of 'Hard Times,' a special report by The Republican on the challenge of healing from civic trauma.
When I taught English in a Springfield public school, one of my students started every morning the same way — scrolling through a website on a school computer, checking where gunshots rang out the night before.
'Bullets fly all around my neighborhood,' she told me.
Another student came home from school one afternoon to find her father gone. He'd been picked up on a drug charge in a police 'sweep' of her community. She wouldn't see him for years.
Another student showed me a newspaper clipping: mugshots of three young-looking Black men arrested on drug charges. 'They're my uncles,' he explained. 'No Christmas presents this year.' His uncles were the ones who made sure everyone had gifts.
There were other stories. Children without permanent homes. Children raising siblings. Children growing up in the streets.
I've spent months reporting on how this kind of shared civic trauma warps and stunts hope – and limits opportunity. In stories today, I share the experiences of people in Western Massachusetts whose lives have been changed by trauma. And I introduce readers to politicians, attorneys, counselors and community activists working to help those affected by trauma.
In her book 'Truth and Repair: How Trauma Survivors Envision Justice,' psychiatrist Judith Herman outlines what justice looks like for survivors of abuse, including survivors of racial violence and urban poverty.
To Herman, healing isn't private — it's a public act. She believes we must confront trauma's causes, hold systems and people accountable and make amends. And we must do this together, openly, as a community. These stories are meant to explain why.
'Growing up in Springfield's North End — one of the poorest districts in Massachusetts — I saw food insecurity, substance abuse, domestic violence and even murder,' said state Sen. Adam Gomez, a member of the Massachusetts Childhood Trauma Task Force.
Two out of three Massachusetts children experience at least one traumatic event before age 16, according to the group's 2023 annual report. The closer you look, the worse it gets. Black, Hispanic and low-income children experience trauma at much higher rates, largely due to systemic barriers — growing disparities in education, health care and the justice system.
Since 2019, the task force — made up of child advocates, legislators, juvenile court officers and social service agencies — has worked to bring what's known as 'trauma-informed' practices into schools, health care, child welfare and juvenile justice.
Yet such work is limited due to a severe shortage of trauma services, leaving many children without care.
'Without these services, many of our efforts to support children cannot succeed,' the report states.
One effort to close this gap is the Center on Child Well-Being and Trauma, established in 2021. The center trained 378 educators from 19 school districts to create trauma-informed classrooms and is developing a statewide web-based resource to help caregivers find trauma services.
However, Massachusetts has no central database of available trauma services, making it difficult for families to find help.
Gomez sees a pressing need to help urban communities, where children often face violence and economic hardship. Addressing trauma early, he said, can help young people avoid the school-to-prison pipeline and find stable careers and housing.
While some progress is being made, the state's behavioral health workforce remains dangerously understaffed, making trauma support programs harder to access, people in the field say. Without changes, Massachusetts won't come close to becoming trauma-informed — and the repercussions can be deadly.
When children suffer trauma, it harms their bodies as well as their minds. Dr. Megan T. Sandel, co-director of the Grow Clinic for Children at Boston Medical Center, recalls treating a young girl whose health declined dramatically after her mother lost unemployment assistance.
Though once thriving, the child's weight dropped and her growth stalled until she met the World Health Organization's definition of malnutrition.
'And I'm treating that child in the city of Boston,' Sandel said.
Sandel is the principal investigator for Children's HealthWatch, a research and policy organization that strives to ensure kids have enough food, stable housing and basic necessities like heat and electricity.
Too often, they do not.
And the crisis isn't confined to big cities like Boston. In Holyoke, for example, 26% of residents live in poverty, with 47% renting, 6.8% unemployed, and 23% of children raised by single mothers.
According to DiversityDataKids.org, cities like Holyoke and Springfield score 'very low' in opportunities for children.
Poverty's effects go beyond financial hardship. Overcrowded housing, pest infestations, mold, noise pollution and food insecurity all take a toll on children's health.
Some lack a home altogether. Ten percent of Holyoke students and 5% of Springfield students have experienced housing instability. In addition to homelessness, frequent moves, unaffordable rent and the stress of choosing between food and electricity wears parents and children down.
'Being behind on rent can be just as bad, if not worse, than being homeless,' Sandel said.
Even families with stable housing aren't immune. Living in high-poverty neighborhoods exposes children to violence, underfunded schools and fewer opportunities.
Poverty isn't random, in Sandel's view. It's the result of policy choices. When a supplemental child tax credit was in place, child poverty dropped. When it ended, poverty surged again.
'In this country, we have a narrative of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps,' Sandel said. 'When people struggle, they're told it's their fault. But it's not.'
'We have the evidence — money helps families thrive,' Sandel said. 'The real question is whether we have the political will to invest in children.'
She recalled the words of 19th century orator and abolitionist Frederick Douglass:
'It's easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.'
'We spend too much time fixing broken men,' Sandel said. 'It's time to invest in building strong children.'
Attorney Maurice C. Powe was exhausted. As a public defender in Springfield, he has spent the past month watching a street war unfold — culminating in a police officer being shot in the face.
Among those arrested was a 16-year-old.
'I can't think about anything else right now,' said Powe, who defends juveniles like that teen.
Over 15 years as a public defender, 10 of those focused on juveniles, Powe has seen young people charged with assault, rape, attempted murder and even murder.
Beyond his clients' alleged crimes, he sees their circumstances. 'I really believe in the juvenile justice model, which is about rehabilitation,' he said. 'We try to get the kids before they reach adult court.'
Yet rehabilitation is limited by the system itself. Judges have only a few options: juvenile detention, probation, or diversion programs — most of which are reserved for first-time offenders.
But what happens once sentencing is over?
'They go home with their trauma,' Powe said.
This isn't only a local issue. Some see it as a national crisis. A 2023 report from the state's Childhood Trauma Task Force found 'a dearth of services' for traumatized youth. The American Bar Association has urged reform, warning that many detained juveniles suffer from untreated trauma, leading to higher rates of suicide, aggression and recidivism.
One case haunts Powe – that of a 13-year-old girl who got into a fight at a community center. She often ran away, and her mother refused to take her back. Knowing probation would only set her up for failure, Powe fought the charges — and won.
'She was found 'not delinquent,'' he said. 'But then what?'
With no stable home, she was placed in the child welfare system, only to run away again. 'Last I heard, she was stealing food from Walmart,' Powe said. 'She's going to get caught for trying to feed herself.'
He sighed. 'Yes, we won the case, but did we really improve this child's life?'
It's a question with a sobering answer. As Powe has seen time and again, the system is sending young people in trouble back into the same environments that shaped them in the first place. And those settings do more than influence their choices. Hostile environments affect their brains.
'When children face prolonged hardships like poverty, violence and racism, their brain development is stunted,' said Dr. Christine M. Crawford, a child and adolescent psychiatrist at Boston Medical Center.
Under normal conditions, healthy social interactions help form strong neural connections. But when a child is raised in constant stress, that process is disrupted.
It's helpful to think of a gardener pruning branches. Trauma, however, prunes away the wrong ones in the brain — damaging impulse control and emotional regulation in the process.
Children raised in violent environments develop different brains. Their fight-or-flight system is always on high alert, said Crawford, who wrote a book on trauma called 'You Are Not Alone.' A minor insult can trigger rage because their brains struggle to slow down and weigh consequences.
The National Task Force on Children Exposed to Violence found that trauma leads to hypervigilance, impulsivity, aggression and isolation — all factors that increase criminal behavior.
'When someone lives in survival mode, delinquent behavior can feel like control,' the report said.
The connection between trauma and incarceration is well documented. According to a U.S. Attorney General's report, youth in detention are three times more likely than their peers to have experienced violence and trauma.
Crawford puts it simply: 'Hurt people hurt people — because hurt people have vulnerable brains.'
Behind Enrique Vargas Gonzalez's desk, three framed drawings tell a story. Some see suffering. Others see triumph. 'It depends on how you look at it,' he said.
Vargas Gonzalez works as a therapist, mostly helping Latino people struggling with poverty. He's seen firsthand how hard urban poverty hits families in Springfield and beyond.
The drawings on his wall were created by a patient, a young girl forced by circumstance to move from Puerto Rico to Springfield.
'She used to cry in every session, mostly because she missed her home,' he recalled. 'She's much older now.'
When Puerto Ricans leave their home, they often settle in cities like Springfield and Holyoke — the U.S. mainland city with the highest proportion of Puerto Ricans. After Hurricane Maria in 2017, thousands of Puerto Ricans were displaced. Many children, like Vargas Gonzalez's patient, struggled to adjust. 'They would talk to me about what they missed about home, and you could see how their faces changed,' he said.
More than half of the Puerto Rican children in Massachusetts grow up in poverty — twice the national rate. Many endure trauma linked to poverty, family instability and systemic barriers.
Vargas Gonzalez recalled how his patient channeled her emotions into art, drawing detailed pictures of her home. 'She had such a good memory,' he said.
Vargas Gonzalez's office at Mercy Medical Center in Springfield is a calm space. In addition to being a therapist, he serves as the clinical coordinator for the Gandara Center, a statewide organization providing mental and behavioral health services for Latinos and low-income families.
His office is calm, but the people who walk through the door carry heavy lives. Vargas Gonzalez recalls a man who was repeatedly expelled from residential homes. 'He would be kicked out at least once a week,' he said.
The man grew up surrounded by violence. As a child, he didn't attend school — he dealt drugs. 'Where he grew up, dealing drugs was one of the only ways to make money,' Vargas Gonzalez said. Eventually, the man went to prison and became an addict himself.
Now older, he is trying to turn his life around, but finds barriers at every turn. 'He feels misunderstood and treated unfairly,' Vargas Gonzalez said.
'He would always say people look at my face, and they shut the door on me,' Vargas Gonzalez said. 'And it's true. But when you talk to him, you see he has a big heart. He's trying to grow and become better, but nobody gives him an opportunity.'
Vargas Gonzalez believes healing is possible, but systemic obstacles make it difficult. 'The problem isn't just poverty,' he said. 'It's the lack of access to the resources available in wealthier communities.'
While Massachusetts has one of the lowest poverty rates in the U.S., Latinos in the state face poverty at nearly twice the national rate. In Holyoke, the median yearly household income for Latinos is $22,700 — far below the state median of $81,000.
A lack of good jobs and past trauma keep the cycle of hurt going, making it even harder to break free. Many who come to Massachusetts for a better life find the same struggles they tried to leave behind.
'They move here thinking things will be different,' Vargas Gonzalez said. 'Then they realize it's not.'
Stuck in a system with no real way out, a lot of people end up with post-traumatic stress disorder, which makes everything even harder.
'When someone has lived through trauma their entire life, it doesn't just haunt their past — it shapes their relationships, their sense of self and their ability to believe in the future,' he said.
The Gandara Center works with 15,000 clients a year. But the demand for mental health services far exceeds availability.
Vargas Gonzalez pushes his patients to find ways to heal. 'It's about finding parts of their identity that aren't defined by trauma,' he said, glancing at the drawings on his wall.
'Her art became her voice,' he said. 'It helped her say, 'That's not me anymore.''
Patrick O'Connor, a public school teacher, is a regular contributor to The Republican.
Read the original article on MassLive.