Planning beyond Mass Incarceration

Racial Inequity in Mass Incarceration

The number of people incarcerated in the United States has grown dramatically since the 1970s. There are currently more than 2 million people in prisons or jails (Bureau of Justice Statistics 2018) and the United States has one of the highest rates of imprisonment in the world, comprising roughly 4 percent of the world’s population and 20 percent of all reported imprisoned people (Walmsley 2019). The imprisoned population includes roughly 462,000 people in local jails with no convictions and 46,000 youth (Sawyer and Wagner 2019). There are an additional 4.5 million people on parole and probation (Bureau of Justice Statistics 2018). A further 61,000 people are estimated to be held in immigration detention (Sawyer and Wagner 2019).

Imprisoned populations are not drawn evenly from all communities. Instead, the U.S. law enforcement system is characterized by persistent class and particularly racial inequities. Many in pre-trial custody, for example, remain in jails because they are unable to afford bail or to pay fines, relegated to a type of contemporary debtors’ prison. Racial disparities at all levels of the law enforcement system are striking. White residents in the United States are underrepresented in jails and prisons in every state except Hawai‘i (see Figure 1). Black and African American residents are overrepresented in every state except Montana. Indigenous, Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islander, and Latina-o-x populations are overrepresented in the jail and prison populations in various states across the country, and all three communities are overrepresented in jails and prisons in Arizona.

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Figure 1.

Racial and ethnic over and underrepresentation U.S. prisons.

According to the Sentencing Project (2019), the likelihood of being incarcerated over one’s lifetime is currently one in three for Black men and one in six for Latino men, compared with one in seventeen for white men. From colonial and antebellum Slave Codes through post-emancipation Black Codes and continuing state and federal disparities in sentencing guidelines and sentences themselves, the administration of law enforcement has long been intertwined with the maintenance of white supremacy.

Although the United States is an extreme case, patterns of extraordinary racial inequity are present in other countries as well. As examples, across the United Kingdom, the BAME (Black, Asian, and minority ethnic) population is 13 percent of the general population and 27 percent of the growing prison population (Sturge 2019). In Canada, racial and ethnic data collection is limited in the prison system, and generally only Indigenous status is recorded. While the lack of data makes it difficult to understand the entire racial picture in Canadian jails and prisons, we do know that approximately 30 percent of people admitted to prisons in the 2017/2018 period were Indigenous, as compared with 4 percent of the general population who identify as Indigenous. For women, 42 percent of admissions were Indigenous women (Malakieh 2019). In Australia, the rates of incarcerated Indigenous and Torres Strait Islander peoples stand at 28 percent as compared with 2 percent in the general population, and continue to rise at a faster rate than the non-Indigenous population (Australian Bureau of Statistics 2018). Finally, in Aotearoa/New Zealand, Māori people are 17 percent of the total population and 51 percent of the prison population (Ara Poutama Aotearoa/Department of Corrections 2019).

Harm through Law Enforcement

Legal scholar Dorothy E. Roberts (2004) examines the harms related to the racial inequity in the law enforcement system, and specifically the disproportionate rates of incarceration for Black men from low-income and poor neighborhoods. Roberts (2004, 1281) frames harm through a sociologic lens focused on the ways in which mass incarceration damages social networks, distorts social norms, and destroys social citizenship. The outcomes of these disproportionate imprisonment rates in African American communities include limitations on work and earning potential and strain on community and kin who need to support and compensate for the absences of incarcerated people. Roberts also notes the ways in which women in the community commonly end up doing the support work to compensate for men who are imprisoned. In addition, she describes the ways in which mass incarceration has been related to increases in violations of the law, limits in civil participation and limits in communities’ abilities to thrive, and has produced “deep wound[s] to children’s spirit inflicted by growing up under heavy supervision by the state and under suspicion by the rest of society” (Roberts 2004, 1300).

Public health researchers have also identified a range of mental and physical health harms related to the law enforcement system. Imprisoned people have both mental health and drug addiction rates much higher than the population at large (Pettus-Davis and Epperson 2015). The conditions in which people are incarcerated increase infectious disease transmission, morbidity, and mortality rates for diseases, including pneumonia, hepatitis C, and HIV (Binswanger et al. 2016; Pelligrino et al. 2017; Sprague et al. 2017; van Olphen et al. 2006). In addition, imprisoned people disproportionately come from, and return to, communities that have lower levels than other communities of health and economic supports, including access to employment and housing (van Olphen et al. 2006). The lack of access to resources exacerbates the health-related harms of imprisonment (Pettus-Davis and Epperson 2015).

Policing violence is an additional harm distributed inequitably across racial and ethnic communities. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) recorded 3,276 fatal injuries across forty states related to “legal interventions,” or injuries sustained during interactions with police and other law enforcement agents (CDC, National Center for Injury Prevention and Control 2005). Although the age-adjusted rate of fatal injuries was 0.18 out of 100,000 for the total population, it was 0.46 for Black men and 0.89 for Native American or Indigenous men (see Table 1 for further details).

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Table 1.

Rate of fatal policing encounters race, ethnicity, gender and region.

Population	Rates of fatal encounters (per 100,000)
Total population	0.18
Men across total population	0.37
White all genders	0.15
White men	0.28
Indigenous, Native American all genders	0.46
Indigenous, Native American men	0.89
Black all genders	0.31
Black men	0.46
Latina-o-x all genders	0.18
Latino men	0.34
Asian, Asian American, Pacific Islander all genders	0.06
Asian, Asian American, Pacific Islander men	0.11
Western region all residents	0.27
Western region men	0.52
Latina-o-x all genders western region	0.31
Latino men western region	0.58
Asian, Asian American, Pacific Islander all genders western region	0.11
Asian, Asian American, Pacific Islander men	0.21

While deaths are an extreme outcome of police encounters, public health research also examines impacts of more mundane violences. Following the World Health Organization (WHO) categories of violence (Krug et al. 2002), researchers have examined the impact of excessive physical violence, alongside psychological violence (threats, slurs, police-initiated prolonged stops and discomfort) and sexual violence in the context of civilian–police interactions (Cooper et al. 2004). For residents who experience encounters such as police-initiated stops on a regular basis, as the encounters become more intrusive, researchers find that health harms or impacts also increase. These health impacts included higher rates of self-reported anxiety and symptoms of trauma, including post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD; Geller et al. 2014).

At the same time that racialized communities are disproportionately imprisoned, surveilled, and harmed, these communities also report difficulty in gaining policing support and services when they have been harmed. This can be characterized as a violence of neglect where those with a responsibility to care, provide service, or protect from harm do not (Cooper et al. 2004; Krug et al. 2002; National Inquiry into Murdered and Missing Indigenous Women and Girls [NIMMIWG] 2019). Women who experience domestic, gendered, and sexual violence, in particular, describe encounters with police forces as re-victimizing (Cooper et al. 2004; NIMMIWG 2019; Roberts 2004). An additional harm related to this violence of neglect is that the lack of official care for women, their families, and communities perpetuates the narrative that their lives are not valued (Dorries and Harjo 2020; Human Rights Watch 2013).

Space and Place of Harm

The harms in the law enforcement system are also highly connected to conditions and relationships in space including processes of environmental determinism where the disorder of an area, as perceived through policing, is written onto all bodies within an area (Jefferson 2017; Razack 2002; Vigneswaran 2014). Cooper et al. (2004, 1115), for example, describe how residents in their study “remarked that the area’s [perceived] ‘ghetto’ status gave officers license to mistreat all residents.” In a study of digital policing in South Africa, Vigneswaran (2014) describes the ways in which digitized crime maps “define the boundaries between order and disorder” providing technologically sophisticated sanction for any policing tactics, including those that cause harm, within areas designated or mapped as disorderly.

Patterns of racial segregation support spatial patterns in law enforcement harm alongside processes of environmental determinism. Racial segregation means that white residents are largely shielded from the type of policing violence experienced in low-income communities of color. At the same time, communities of color are largely depicted in relation to crime, disorder, and being in need of discipline. The harm in law enforcement is masked, and indeed transmogrified, into a maintenance of order and social benefits for white middle-class communities (Hall et al. 1978; Roberts 2004).

The narratives that attach crime, disorder, and lack of discipline onto communities of color are written onto the bodies of people of color. As such, these bodies are seen as criminally out of place, or as disrupting spatial order (Dikeç 2007) when they are found in areas perceived as orderly or disciplined by a majority population, for example, Black bodies in predominantly white areas, Indigenous bodies in urban space. In the United States, Asian and Latina-o-x bodies are often perceived as perpetually foreign, and particularly Latina-o-x residents, specifically as an unauthorized presence throughout the United States (Lytle Hernández 2010; Visser and Simpson 2019).

The inequity in harm and benefit means that maintaining current patterns and practices in law enforcement increasingly aligns with geographer and critical race scholar Laura Pulido’s (2015) definition of white supremacy. Pulido outlines three main characteristics of white supremacy related to the spatial distribution of harms and benefits in the environment. The first characteristic is an awareness that harm is taking place. The second is the idea of taking, as the harm increases the status, well-being, or resources of dominant communities. The third is an attitude of racial superiority that might not be explicit and that can be expressed through the actions and justifications that perpetuate harm. Pulido argues that one of the strengths of the white supremacy framework, as compared with a white privilege framework, is that supremacy does the work of identifying actors and actions responsible for perpetuating harm. In turn, the white supremacy framework also opens opportunities to identify actions aimed at dismantling systems of supremacy and domination. As we describe in the next section, planning practice has played an important role in constructing and maintaining conditions that support racial inequity in the legal system, but as the articles in this volume demonstrate, there is also an opportunity for planning practice to mitigate against and ultimately support a shift in the system away from patterns of racialized harm.

Planning and Law Enforcement

Planning and land-use regulation are often defined as governance tools that put “everything in its place” by expressing particular values in the physical arrangement of land and the built environment (Perrin 1977). Mustafa Dikeç (2007, 18) defines “the police,” similarly, as “an established form of governance with everyone in their ‘proper place’ in the seemingly natural order of things.” Dikeç (2007, 18) goes on to note that “. . . the essence of policing is not repression but distribution—distribution of places, peoples, names, functions, authorities, activities and so on—and the normalization of this distribution.” Law enforcement and planning play central and intertwined roles in this process of governance and production through spatial distribution. Planning and land-use regulations establish a spatial and social order, and planning and land-use professionals adjudicate transgressions of that spatial order, grant variances to it, and enforce municipal codes that determine who and what goes where.

The intricate interconnection of planning, policing, and white supremacy can be seen in white efforts to exercise control over urban spaces through early efforts at zoning. As the Great Migration of Black Americans to cities began in the early twentieth century, whites responded with violence and then with exclusionary zoning. For instance, when African American attorney George McMechen and his wife Ann, a schoolteacher, moved to McCulloh Street in Baltimore in 1910, their white neighbors organized the “McCulloh Street and Madison Avenue Property Protective Association” explicitly “for the purpose of preventing negroes moving into the neighborhood” (The New York Times 1910, SM2) and petitioned the Mayor and City Council to “prescribe a limit beyond which it shall be unlawful for them to go” (Baltimore Sun 1910, 7). The City Council subsequently enacted, and the Mayor signed into law, what was essentially one of the first zoning ordinances in the United States—a law that made it

unlawful for any colored person to move into or use as a residence or place of abode any house, building or structure situated or located on any block . . . so far as the same are occupied or used as residences or places of abode . . . in whole or in part . . . by white persons.

Section 3 of the ordinance excepted domestic servants who lived with their employers from the preceding prohibitions.

This type of municipal segregation ordinance quickly spread to more than thirty cities across the country (Steil and Delgado 2018). These early zoning ordinances explicitly codified who belongs where and criminalized Black people for being out of place, in the name of protecting middle-class white property values (Herbin-Triant 2019). The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) ultimately succeeded in striking these laws down as a violation of the Equal Protection Clause in Buchanan v. Warley (1917), but these laws set the groundwork in many ways for subsequent land-use planning policies and for developers’ and planners’ encouragement of private racially restrictive covenants that further embedded white supremacy in the built environment (Brooks and Rose 2013; Silver 1997; Thomas and Ritzdorf 1997). The often-recounted history of discriminatory Federal Housing Administration underwriting guidelines and Home Owners Loan Corporation Residential Security Maps (e.g., Jackson 1985; Rothstein 2017) as well as racialized suburbanization, municipal incorporation, and lending practices continued this construction of a white supremacist physical order (Self 2005; Steil 2019; Steil and Delgado 2019).

As the Civil Rights Movement and subsequent liberation struggles called into question white dominance and white spatial exclusion, President Nixon was elected on a “law and order” platform, declared a “war on drugs,” and presided over substantial increases in federal funding for state and local police and prisons. The half-century since 1970 has witnessed deep economic, social, and spatial restructuring focused on restoring elite class power, described instead as individual freedom; reversing civil rights gains; privatizing public goods; weakening organized labor; reducing regulations on finance capital; and strengthening private property rights (Harvey 2005; Marable 1983). The consolidation of contemporary racial capitalism together with increased federal funding for local law enforcement and state prisons fostered a rapid increase in the imprisonment rate between the 1970s and the 2000s. Through the 1980s and 1990s, federal spending on policing and prisons continued to grow substantially, while relative allocations toward education and social supports such as public housing fell behind. The heightened focus on incarceration between the 1970s and 1990s was encouraged by the political rhetoric promising to be “tough on crime.” For instance, President Clinton’s 1992 campaign and subsequent election were marked by hostile language toward the urban poor and accompanied by punitive legislation. The Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act of 1994 created multiple new federal crimes; required mandatory life-sentences for some offenses, including a “three-strikes” provision; expanded capital punishment; and awarded billions of dollars in state grants for prisons, while also increasing funding for community development corporations. As funding for prisons increased, funding for public housing declined and President Clinton passed the “One Strike and You’re Out” Initiative, limiting access to public housing for those with certain convictions. Crime and immigration control were further linked in federal policy through the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996, while punitive social and urban policies and anti-immigrant policies were expanded in the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act of 1996.

The increased funding for policing and prisons from the 1970s to the present had significant impacts on the national level of imprisonment. In 1970, the United States imprisoned approximately 326,000 people, including 196,429 people in state and federal prisons (Bureau of Justice Statistics 1986: Table 3-4, 32) and an additional 129,189 people in local jails (Bureau of Justice Statistics 1986: Table 4-1, 76). The imprisonment rate in 1970 was approximately 159 people per 100,000 in the U.S. population. By 2008, the United States imprisoned more than 2.3 million people, including 1.6 million in state and federal prisons and 786,000 in local jails (Bureau of Justice Statistics 2018). The imprisonment rate in 2008 was approximately 768 people per 100,000 in the U.S. population—an increase in the imprisonment rate of nearly five times in less than four decades.

As discussed above, planning has played a significant role in the production and reproduction of racialized spatial inequality and has been intertwined with the rise of mass incarceration. In many neighborhoods, law enforcement agencies are the primary government actors who interact with residents, and expenditures on policing and prisons outpace other public spending. New York State spends more than $1 million annually imprisoning residents of many blocks in New York City, a per-capita expenditure that dwarfs per-capita education spending in those neighborhoods (Cadora and Kurgan 2006). Imprisonment rates vary dramatically, and durably, within most cities as one representation of the striking spatial inequalities that characterize urban settlements in the United States and beyond (see Sampson and Loeffler 2010). By contributing substantially to racialized spatial inequality, the field of urban planning has contributed to the conditions for the current contemporary spatially and racially concentrated impacts of mass incarceration.

Planning, Smart Decarceration, and Abolition

The articles in this volume are all connected through their attention to racial equity and advocacy planning and their relationship to practices of policing or imprisonment. The articles employ a wide variety of core theories, methods, and methodologies from planning to engage with the relationships between planning and law enforcement. Furthermore, many of the authors engage with ideas or practices related to decarceration or prison abolition.

Social work scholars Carrie Pettus-Davis and Matthew W. Epperson (2015) advocate for a process of smart decarceration, which they characterize as a substantial decrease in the prison population coupled with redress for the racial inequity in the system and a maximization of public safety and health (Pettus-Davis and Epperson 2015, 4). In theorizations applicable to urban planning, they argue for social work involvement in this process through the ethical obligation of social work professionals to support and advocate for marginalized peoples. In addition, they discuss the ways in which social work practices specifically support people in navigating complex systems, such as processes of reentry. In spite of the history of contributing to conditions of racial inequity, there is also a stream of planning focused on ethical obligations toward equity, racial equity, and advocacy for marginalized communities in the planning process (Lung-Amam et al. 2015; Zapata and Bates 2015). Abolition pushes even further, as a move away from the current logics of law enforcement focused on a spatial order defined through surveillance, discipline, and banishment, toward definitions of order and safety that re-center care, economic and racial justice, healing, and community (Davis 2003; Fathers & Families of San Joaquin 2017; Gilmore 2007; NIMMIWG 2019; Palacios 2016).

The collection starts with Stephen Averill Sherman’s examination of historical connections between planning and law enforcement. Sherman employs a case study of three eras in the Hyde Park neighborhood in Chicago, an area adjacent to the University of Chicago. Through the case, Sherman examines both planning and policing as projects of a racial state by analyzing waves of redevelopment in the neighborhood. He highlights the ways in which the implementation and enforcement of redevelopment plans created new forms of policing, which disciplined and excluded poor and non-white citizens. He demonstrates the ways in which these new forms of police work without explicit violence. Finally, he explores the ways in which the enforcement of the redevelopment plan simultaneously provided care and protection for white and privileged residents, alongside the white hegemonic values embedded in the plan.

From another perspective, Janet Garcia-Hallett, Toya Like, Theresa Torres, and Clara Irazábal analyze the history of the relationship between planning and policing through the case study of the Kansas City Metropolitan area. They examine shifts in policing related to the rise of the Latina-o-x population in the region. They trace the ways in which the concentration of the population provides protection for Latina-o-x residents, particularly in terms of social networks and resources. Simultaneously, they examine the ways in which the concentration of the population heightens vulnerabilities in terms of local disinvestment, surveillance, and increased federal pressure through anti-immigrant policies and practices. The piece ends with examples from community development and local actions that directly address these multi-scalar challenges both advocating for and providing material support for immigrant rights, particularly in terms of protections for undocumented residents and in terms of shifting the values and practices of local policing through strengthened relationships.

Courtney Knapp grounds her study directly in the American Institute of Certified Planners Code of Ethics and Professional Conduct to examine the knowledge and actions of planners around the reentry and integration of formerly incarcerated people. Knapp asks specifically about the role of planners in facilitating inclusion and exclusion in housing, employment, and civic opportunities. Surveying Community Development Directors across the United States, Knapp finds large gaps in knowledge around the ways in which planning frameworks translate into the experience of reentry. While many planning agencies play bureaucratic roles that provide housing and employment opportunities for formerly incarcerated individuals, planners are still unaware of how their policies and programs actually facilitate inclusion and exclusion for these populations. In addition, planners continue to engage with carceral state actors, police, and other law enforcement agencies, as opposed to reentry actors, such as non-profit advocacy groups, and the directly impacted population of formally incarcerated people. Knapp identifies important opportunities in planning education to fulfill ethical obligations around social justice, recommending that planners collaborate more with social service providers.

Justin Steil and Aditi Mehta examine the potential of planning education to broaden the production of planning knowledge and, in so doing, to shift planning practices in ways that can democratize both the analysis of social stratification and the creation of alternative visions of justice in the city. The article reports on findings from teaching an urban sociology class inside a medium-security men’s prison with a mix of imprisoned and non-imprisoned students. The course sought to facilitate the coproduction of new insights about urban inequality, drawing from students’ diverse experiences. This approach to teaching in the prison context broadened students’ awareness of their positionality in society and helped them think critically about the interaction of social structure and personal agency in cities. The authors advocate for more planning educators to design courses that push students to co-create knowledge with those at the margins such as those who are currently or formerly incarcerated.

The final two articles in the volume focus on alternatives to planning for mass incarceration, and highlight the struggles of immigrant communities and Indigenous women in relation to the carceral state. Carolina Sarmiento presents a case of sanctuary planning in Santa Ana, California, where immigrant-led organizers pushed the city to end contracts for immigration detention in the local jail. As Sarmiento describes, sanctuary planning connects practices of sanctuary that support the rights of immigrant residents while addressing questions of spatial injustice, including the isolation of people and inequitable distributions of funding. In her article, Sarmiento analyzes sanctuary planning that supported immigrant-led organizing to reject detention contracts and instead develop alternatives for municipal budget shortfalls, and reuse for the large footprint of jails and prisons. The article concludes by exploring assessments of jails and prisons that seriously consider human harm, and argues that while sanctuary cities across the United States vary in their policies, they all embody immigrants’ right to the city and reject current federal policy.

Heather Dorries and Laura Harjo draw on community-based actions to advocate for Indigenous feminist planning that attends to the safety of Indigenous women through a refusal of colonial violence. Dorries and Harjo outline the ways in which settler colonialism has created particular vulnerabilities to violences for Indigenous women. Violences, that as they describe, start with bodies and are connected to the position of bodies in broader political formations, including relationships to land and to more-than-human kin. Dorries and Harjo argue that an anti-colonial stance is needed to address Indigenous women’s vulnerability to violence. To develop their argument, they use examples of collaborative, Indigenous feminist, activist art practices: first, The Green Collective’s Jail Bed Drop, in which a prison bed beaded with incarceration statistics was dropped outside Frank Gehry’s Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles; and second, Walking With our Sisters, a traveling exhibit in which 1,800 beaded vamps (decorative moccasin tops) represented thousand of missing and murdered Indigenous women in Canada. An anti-colonial stance includes addressing the ways in which law enforcement harm is tied into colonial claims to sovereignty over land and territory, de-centering the settler state in favor of practices grounded in Indigenous community, and practices that affirm the authority, strength, and resurgence of those same communities.

Conclusion

Dorothy E. Roberts (2004, 1273) ends her examination of the harm in the law enforcement system by shifting from an examination of empirical evidence to a moral philosophical evaluation. She concludes that given the harm, and specifically the disproportionate harm in African American communities, patterns of mass incarceration are “not only morally unjustifiable, but morally repugnant.” The articles in this special issue extend this analysis to examine the ways in which specific communities are harmed by this system and the relationship to planning theory, practice, and education.

Writing this introductory essay required delving into the “morally repugnant” outcomes of law enforcement systems, and the complicit and active involvement of planning practice in those systems. It required sifting through the damning statistics, mapping and tabling them, reading and re-reading the stories of women, non-binary people, men and children whose lives have been disrupted or ended through this system, rather than reformed, redeemed, or protected. This was difficult work as we kept Michelle Daigle’s (2019) admonishments around the spectacle of reconciliation in mind, where specifically Indigenous suffering and trauma is paraded about to enable settler performances of recognition and remorse. We do not want to contribute to this practice, to have the stories of Indigenous, Black, and brown bodies be another opportunity for performative sorrow. The work of sifting through this harm is also difficult because we all have our own loving attachments (Porter et al. 2012) to different communities and people impacted by mass incarceration. We understand the harm in this system as real—material, spiritual, bodily—and so we know that our responses, resistances, refusals, and care need to be just as real.

Planning, by putting “everything in its place,” has played a central role in putting people in place in unequal social and spatial orders. In particular, planning’s contribution to the creation of durable spatial stratification in the built environment implicates planning in the class and race disparities that structure law enforcement systems. The field of planning research, education, and practice have a responsibility to address these inequities and to begin to create systems of safety and care beyond mass incarceration. The articles in this volume, offer us moments of fierce hope in seeing the methodologies and theories of planning employed to identify past and present harm, to envision, report on, and embody the type of practices needed to support a planning practice beyond mass incarceration. Some of the characteristics of this planning practice include acknowledging and examining the ways in which planning and racially inequitable law enforcement have been and continue to be intertwined. To do this, there is a need to take an advocacy stance that engages with and amplifies the voices, experiences, and theorizing of people and communities that have been most impacted by the harm in law enforcement, and supporting policies that increase safety and well-being while decreasing the number of people in jails and prisons. In addition, being aware of the ways in which we utilize data, what stories we attend to and what unit of analysis we use in our calculations, is always essential to responsible research. Finally, engaging the most impacted communities as primary stakeholders in questions of land and resource distribution and management, and prefacing community life and thriving in our calculations around the best and highest use in contrast to individual profit, is an essential starting point for planning practice beyond mass incarceration. We hope the articles in this collection will be the spark for further research, teaching, and practice aimed not just at softening the edges of this morally repugnant system, not even just dismantling it, but replacing it with a system of care grounded in imaginaries of safety beyond mass incarceration.