Abstract
Research on drug courts over the past decades has focused primarily on individual predictors of success and/or has examined the effectiveness of various judicial as well as therapeutic intervention strategies. To broaden our understanding of recovery as it occurs within the context of social networks, the following paper discusses the application of a new network-based framework of recovery capital. Participants in a small rural southeastern Adult Drug Court filled out a series of questionnaires and participated in a number of semi-structured interviews that assessed the availability of network-based recovery capital. The findings of this exploratory study suggest that participants possess restrictive resource portfolios and tend to over-rely on therapeutic (artificial) networks for support. Select implications for future research and treatment interventions are discussed.
Introduction
Over the past four decades, the United States has spent more than $1 trillion dollars to incarcerate people for drug-related offences. Nearly half (48 percent) of the inmates in federal prison and 17 percent of the inmates in state prisons are serving time for drug offenses (Carson and Golinelli 2013; Carson and Sabol 2012). In response to the overcrowding of correctional facilities, the rising costs to the taxpayer, and the existing strains within the judicial system, drug courts emerged as a new rehabilitative model. Drug courts share a set of common operating principles that—at a minimum—include intense participant supervision, judicial oversight, frequent drug testing, and intensive substance abuse treatment. In most cases, eligible program participants must agree to successfully complete a 12- to 24-month program. In exchange, individuals typically get their criminal charges or sentences dismissed and/or reduced (Franco 2010). Despite criticism (Hoffman 2000, 2001; Mirchandani 2008; Nolan 2002, 2003; Velázquez 2010; Walsh 2011), drug courts are generally seen as a major innovation in U.S. jurisprudence with substantial rehabilitative potential (Goldkamp, White, and Robinson 2001; Huddleston and Marlowe 2011; Rossman et al. 2011a; Stinchcomb 2010).
Numerous studies and reports have documented that—even though various methodological and conceptual issues remain unsolved—drug court programs can and do work. They have been heralded for positively impacting participants’ lives by decreasing drug use, reducing crime, lowering recidivism rates, providing employment stability, reducing homelessness, improving mental and physical well-being, raising levels of education, decreasing family conflicts, reducing rehabilitation costs, and increasing the participants’ commitment to a non-deviant lifestyle (Belenko 2001; Deschenes, Ireland, and Kleinpeter 2009; General Accounting Office [GAO] 1997, 2005; Gottfredson 2004; Rossman et al. 2011a; Stinchcomb 2010). While scholars have proposed a range of explanations for the effectiveness of these types of problem-solving courts, the majority of these studies have stressed demographic and individual factors (e.g., age, gender, education, employment, drug use history, criminal record, mental health) as well as drug-court-related predictors such as the role of sanctions, treatment modalities, and/or judge-participant interactions (Deschenes et al. 2009; Roll et al. 2005; Rossman et al. 2011a; Stinchcomb 2010). Considerably less, however, is known about the impact of social network dynamics in the recovery process. Moving past individual-level explanations, the following section builds on the existing body of literature on social network dynamics, recovery capital, and social capital in substance using subpopulations to advance a new network-based model that conceptualizes the rehabilitative potential of network-based recovery capital. The paper then discusses the findings of a case study that illustrates the utility of this model for understanding rehabilitation trajectories of drug court participants (and by extension, other recovering addicts).
The Theoretical Utility of Recovery Capital
The recovery capital paradigm grew out of the work on status attainment, social capital, and natural recovery or natural remission. It recognizes multiple pathways to recovery (White and Kurtz 2006) and stresses that coming clean without treatment is not only possible but constitutes the most common route to recovery (Granfield and Cloud 2001a; Groshkova and Best 2011; Klingemann 2001; Smart 1976; Sobell, Ellingstad, and Sobell 2000). 1 Cloud and Granfield (2008:1971) define recovery capital (RC) as the “key personal and social resources [that] individuals are able to access in their efforts to overcome substance misuse.” It consists of “tangible and intangible resources and relationships” (Granfield and Cloud 1999:176), actual or virtual, that reflect the individual’s social relations and structural location within society (Sterling, Slusher and Weinstein 2008). Cloud and Granfield (2008) conceptualize resources on a spectrum from negative to positive and emphasize four primary RC dimensions: cultural capital, human capital, physical capital, and social capital. Although much attention is given to micro-level aspects of personal networks, the RC framework recognizes the importance of “network” recovery capital dimensions that include a range of social and community-based dynamics (Best and Gilman 2010; Lyons and Lurigio 2010; White 2009). Although the theoretical framework acknowledges the importance of social factors, it still blurs the distinction between individual as opposed to network-based aspects of recovery. Many of the existing attempts to operationalize the concept remain disproportionately focused at the individual level (Groshkova, Best, and White 2011; Sterling, Slusher and Weinstein 2008). Because a large body of research on general substance-use patterns, however, has documented the crucial impact of networks on initiation, perpetuation, and cessation of substance use (Bohnert, Bradshaw, and Latkin 2009; Latkin et al. 1999; Litt et al. 2009; Woodall and Boeri 2013), the authors offer a new strictly networked-based conception of RC that shifts the discussion toward network-based structures and resources.
Social Capital: Network Structure
Social capital is a “multi-level analytical framework” (Kawachi et al. 2004:683). Granfield and Cloud (2001a:97) argue that social capital may be “the least understood . . . [but] perhaps the most potent type of resource” for recovery. Social capital definitions, however, can vary considerably from micro- (individuals or households), meso- (communities and organizations) to macro-level formulations (regional and national structures: Brunie 2009; Field 2003; Fine 2001; Portes 1998, 2000). Because social networks can be seen as “social structure without social content” (Moody and Paxton 2009:1495), it may thus be better to conceive of social capital as simply network structures and treat resources as conceptually related but distinct network aspects.
Network resources (capitals)
Building on the insights of the recovery tradition from Cloud and Granfield (2008), the following section supports the relevance of network-based resources (as opposed to individual resources) and discusses four major network resources (capitals) that may be helpful for the success of drug court participants in the program: emotional capital, physical capital, cultural capital, and normative capital.
Emotional capital
Emotional resources are network-specific resources that capture the capacity of the networks to provide positive emotional feedback and support. Emotional capital encompasses a range and quantity of emotional resources that have strong implications for drug court participants’ recovery efforts. It includes resources such as empathy/sympathy, acceptance, willingness to listen, validation, compassion, and the capacity to counsel or give advice. The skill to overcome dependencies and embark on self-change is predicated upon the ability of networks—specifically the members in them—to sustain emotional intimacy (Granfield and Cloud 1999). Networks are needed to provide robust emotional economies that cannot be bankrupted by the demands of a recovering addict. This also means that access to the emotional resiliency of (people in) the network—as the study of natural remitters 2 suggests—can lead to tangible benefits from other resources (Granfield and Cloud 2001b).
Physical capital
Although Cloud and Granfield (2008) define physical capital primarily as an individual phenomenon, there is a network-based dimension that may be equally if not more important. Especially for those drug court participants who struggle financially while in the drug court program (Wolf and Colyer 2001), network-based physical capital may give access to forms of direct and indirect economic support in times of need. These resources range from cash and loans that are accessed through social networks (e.g., friends, family, or banks) to less tangible forms such as free or subsidized housing, child care, and transportation. Research on general substance users suggests that individuals with more physical capital have more avenues for recovery, from being able to pursue alternative treatment options (e.g., detoxification and inpatient or outpatient care) to engaging in a range of conventional activities (Granfield and Cloud 1999). Granfield and Cloud (2001a) also have found that middle-class natural remitters tend to have more physical capital to seek out alternative activities; develop new, clean relationships; and extradite themselves from drug-using or deviant environments when necessary. As prior research has found that financial challenges can pose a significant obstacle to the success of drug court participants (Butzin, Saum, and Scarpitti 2002), understanding network-based physical capital may be particularly relevant.
Cultural capital
Bourdieu (1986:50) sees cultural capital as a reflection of class-specific social fields that exist in three distinct yet interrelated forms: embodied, objectified, and the institutionalized state (also see Bourdieu 1984, 1986; Bourdieu and Passeron 1977). The objectified state consists of “material objects and media such as writings, paintings, monuments, [or] instruments” and reflects the degree of cultural sophistication possessed by the individual or network. Embodied cultural capital, by contrast, includes formal and informal skills alongside social practices and social etiquette. Finally, institutionalized cultural capital includes educational degrees, certificates, and/or titles, and thus constitutes society’s “certificate of cultural competency.” Network-based cultural capital thus helps individuals in general and drug court participants in particular acquire crucial individual cultural capital, develop the know-how to capitalize on other resources (e.g., physical and emotional capital), and thus obtain the acumen to successfully navigate the social landscape out of addiction into a “normal” life (Allatt 1993; Bourdieu 1986). Although the literature on RC and auto-remission provide some evidence for the importance of network-based cultural capital (Sobell et al. 2000), little is known about how this type of resource impacts the recovery prospects of drug court participants.
Normative capital
Network-based normative resources include un-formalized and/or formalized prescriptive and proscriptive norms. At a general level, normative resources provide an interpretive framework for change; at a more specific level, normative characteristics of networks set the parameters for how to “think,” “feel,” “evaluate,” “decide,” and ultimately how to “act.” Social networks impose normative constraints on the individual by sanctioning certain types of feelings, thoughts, and behaviors, and thus act as a form of direct or indirect social control (Portes 1998, 2000, Portes and Landolt 2000). Being embedded in normative environments that stress non-deviant lifestyles can improve recovery prospects for individuals with extensive substance-use histories (especially drug court participants) because they provide a set of incentives for self-change (Cloud and Granfield 2008; Demant and Järvinen 2011; Granfield and Cloud 2001b).
The Study: Network-resource Dynamics of Rural Drug Court Participants
To offer a glimpse at these processes, the study used this new network-based recovery capital framework to better understand participants’ support networks in a small rural southeastern drug court. The descriptive findings of this mixed-methods and exploratory study suggest that there are three interrelated network-based phenomena that could pose a “hidden challenge” to the drug court participants’ recovery prospects: (1) network destruction and limited network (re)-construction, (2) restrictive resource portfolios, and (3) an over-reliance on therapeutic (artificial) networks. Using the results of the study, the paper concludes with a brief discussion of potential implications for future research and treatment interventions. It will be argued that the network-based recovery framework represents a powerful tool to better understand many obstacles that drug court participants may face in their attempts to complete the program. Although the paper is primarily framed toward an audience of drug court treatment providers, administrators, and researchers (especially those focused on rural settings), the authors strongly believe that other treatment professionals and/or substance-use scholars could also benefit from the study’s insights as some of the observed (and theorized) network dynamics are likely to be very similar in other subpopulations that also struggle with addiction.
Method
Study Site
The study involved a small rural southeastern adult drug court that serves 40 drug court participants (of which 34 participated in the study). This drug court program is designed to last a minimum of 24 months, and it is set up as a five-phase post-plea diversion program. Phase 1 is designed as Introduction and Stabilization Phase (a minimum of two months), phase 2 as a Psycho-education Phase (a minimum of four months), phase 3 as an Intensive Treatment Phase (a minimum six months), phase 4 as a Relationship-building Phase (a minimum of six months), and phase 5 as an Aftercare/Transition Phase (a minimum of six months). Participants are required to attend weekly Narcotics Anonymous (NA) and/or Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meetings, hold at least a part-time job, and pay weekly program fees ($33/person). The drug court team consisted of a judge, a district attorney, a defense attorney, two county sheriffs, one surveillance officer, and four counselors in a subcontracted outpatient treatment arrangement. Intervention strategies in this drug court center on individual as well as group formats and were modeled primarily after a 12-step approach (with phase-specific step work) and were strongly shaped by a disease paradigm of addiction (McLellan et al. 2000).
Participants
There were 45.9 percent men and 54.1 percent women in the sample. The drug court’s racial makeup reflects the geographic composition of the region with 97.4 percent being Caucasian. The average age of the drug court population was 30.8 years (standard deviation [SD] = 10.19) with younger cohorts (<34 years) making up 69 percent of the sample. Following the Thompson-Hickey model of social class (Thompson and Hickey 2005), 88.2 percent of the drug court constituents could be classified as underclass or working class, and 11.8 percent as middle class. Although the five phases are designed to be completed in a minimum of 24 months, the data suggest that the average graduation time was 29.8 months (SD = 9.5). At the time of data collection, 16.2 percent of participants were in phase 1, 16.2 percent in phase 2, 29.7 percent in phase 3, 27 percent in phase 4, and 10.8 percent in phase 5.
Procedures
To better understand participants’ social network dynamics, the researchers collected a series of quantitative and qualitative data as well as prior archival data (i.e., from intake forms). Institutional Review Board approval was given for the study, and participants’ involvement with the project was entirely voluntary, confidential, and anonymous. With the invitation of the judge of the drug court, members of the research team spent three to four weeks shadowing the drug court participants during and after their weekly group counseling sessions. After this period of rapport building, participants were given a series of questionnaires that (1) mapped the totality of their social networks, (2) elicited the five support networks they would turn to for help, and (3) measured the perceived resource availability in four of their major networks (see section “Instruments”). To further deepen the understanding, 25 participants were also interviewed to explore perceived network-based resource availability and use. The 60- to 90-minute interviews were recorded and transcribed for later data analysis.
Instruments
Questionnaires
A sequence of questionnaires was created with a series of different modules. Module 1 collected basic demographic, health-related, and drug-court-specific variables. Module 2 aimed to capture affiliation with formal networks (e.g., family, work-based networks, church, NA) and informal networks (e.g., neighbors, fishing buddies, salon friends) as well as identify the five primary networks they turn to for help (helping networks). Module 3 measured perceived RC via four, six-item network resource (capital) indices. The emotional capital index captured the availability of emotional resources in the network (e.g., emotional support or emotional comfort). The physical capital index measured the availability of temporary resources that involve direct or indirect forms of financial support (e.g., willingness to lend money or a car). The cultural capital index operationalized embodied and institutionalized forms of cultural capital (Bourdieu 1986). The normative capital index measured the degree of normative pressures within networks to either use or abstain from substance use (e.g., reactions from the group to visible signs of intoxication). Resource indices were constructed in such a way as to capture both negative and positive aspects of the capital (which gives them a range of scores between −12 and +12) and created items that reflect resource portfolios of a typical middle-class population. 3
Interview protocol
A semi-structured interview protocol was created to elicit responses on the availability and access to network resources. Two thirds of these questions were designed to (1) explore the specific nature of the four capitals available to drug court participants, (2) dive deeper into the perceived obstacles and opportunities for resource mobilization, and (3) corroborate the quantitative data on the major sources of network resources. The remainder of the interview questions centered on issues of program evaluation, perceived challenges, and individual growth or reasons for termination of other program members (the results for these questions are not being reported here).
Analytical Strategies
Data from the network and demographic questionnaires were entered into IBM SPSS 20.0. To allow for a more nuanced understanding of the participants’ network structure, and resources, each participant’s four primary helping networks were grouped into seven different network types: family, drug court, other drug rehabilitation groups (NA/AA), work-based networks, church-based networks, recreational groups (e.g., sports teams, bands, online gaming groups), and “other” groups. These seven network types were then used to inform a descriptive analysis. The initial quantitative analysis centered on an examination of the social ecology of the participants’ network sources of social support (e.g., treatment-specific [artificial] networks vs. treatment-unrelated [natural] networks). Subsequent analyses looked more closely at network resources that are available to drug court participants and/or could be mobilized toward recovery outcomes. Finally, an inductive qualitative content analysis of the interview transcripts was performed using NVivo 10 to obtain a set of emerging themes to further help illuminate network-based resource dynamics of drug court participants.
Results and Discussion
The RC literature—and the findings of this study—underscore that any meaningful, long-term attempts for self-change are contingent upon sustained access to network-based RC. Successful remitters either re-mobilize old social ties or manage to build new ones. The class-nature of average remitters’ social networks not only interjects vital resources at critical junctures of the recovery process but also nurtures a rehabilitative stage on which a commitment or re-commitment to a deviant-free lifestyle can be made (Cloud and Granfield 2004; Granfield and Cloud 1999, 2001b). However, this quest for network (re)-construction may be challenging for drug court participants as substance use often intertwines with criminal histories (Gilmore, Rodriguez, and Webb 2005; May 2008) as well as lower social class and minority status (Belenko 2001; Georgia Department of Audits and Accounts 2010; National Drug Court Resource Center 2013). By taking a broader perspective, this exploratory study offers a cautionary note on exclusively pursuing individual-level interventions. It suggests that in drug court programs with similar demographic and treatment characteristics, participants may have access to only limited amounts of network-based RC. The combination of limited network (re)-construction, restrictive resource portfolios, and the potential over-reliance on artificial forms of RC pose—as the following discussion aims to show—possible challenges to long-term, sustainable recovery in these types of programs.
Network Composition and Support-seeking Dynamics
The surveyed drug court participants possess on average 7.53 (SD = 1.86) networks (with a range of 4–13 networks) and report having access to an average of 4.33 (SD = 0.98) helping networks. Participants are embedded in a range of differently sized networks from fairly large church-based networks (392.67, SD = 1,897.68) to relatively small recreational groups (9.40, SD = 13.93) with a great deal of individual differences. While all participants have at least two support networks, only 94.1 percent of the participants report having a third, 74.5 percent a fourth, and 61.8 percent a fifth network they could turn to for help. Of the perceived support available, 37 percent comes from artificial networks (i.e., 24 percent from NA/AA, and 13 percent from drug court) and 63 percent from natural networks (i.e., 31.5 percent from family, 8.9 percent from church, 6.2 percent from work, 4.8 percent from recreational groups, and 11.6 percent from other networks). Family and artificial networks, in particular, provide 76.3 percent of all perceived support from the first two networks turned to for help (i.e., 44.1 percent from family and 35.2 percent from NA or AA or drug court).
Network support dynamics also show a phase effect and involve a sizable amount of artificial networks. Individuals in the earlier phases (phase 1 and 2), for example, do not report a problem in securing access to network support, while participants in later phases increasingly have fewer networks available to secure resources. For example, 26 percent of participants in phase 3, 12 percent of participants in phase 4, and 20 percent of participants in phase 5 state having fewer support networks than those in earlier phases. A significant portion of the perceived support, however, comes from artificial networks at 38.1 percent. While the percentage of artificial networks that provide support varies by treatment phase (from 30.9 percent to 44.5 percent) and networks turned to (from 20.0 percent to 44.0 percent), more than one third of all support comes from artificial networks. This reliance on artificial networks does not go away as participants approach graduation. While individual variation exists, participants in phase 4 (44.5 percent) and phase 5 (35.0 percent) still seek support from therapy-related networks, as opposed to phase 1 (33.3 percent), phase 2 (30.9 percent), and phase 3 (34.2 percent). Assuming that these patterns hold, these findings may suggest network destruction and the lack of network creation over the course of the program.
Restrictive Resource Portfolios
The average participant seems to be able to draw upon adequate levels of emotional and normative capital but little to no physical and cultural capital (although not all of these resources are associated with networks that are perceived to be supportive). These restrictive resource portfolios may leave participants without network resources crucial for their recovery.
Network-based emotional capital
The findings suggest that with the exception of work, all networks provide intermediate to high levels of emotional capital (i.e., values range from 6.33 [SD = 6.47] for church to 8.85 [SD = 3.79] for NA/AA), although a significant amount of these resources come from artificial networks (also see Table 1 and Figure 1). Interviews with participants further suggest that the people in these networks “really care.” They not only “believe [that they] can change their li[ves]” but also are often willing to “bend over backwards” to “provide support and . . . encouragement.” Many participants singled out administrators and/or counselors in artificial networks as particularly “trustworthy . . . caring people” with “big heart[s].” The following quote captures how many participants felt about the authenticity of these efforts:
[I]t was just all in the fact that they were out for my best interest, they want to see me succeed, they don’t want to see me fail, and once I started realizing that they were actually here to help me, and that this was . . . that this was real, it wasn’t just some kind of front to keep me out of prison . . . it just started clicking, it just worked, it grew on me.
Recovery Capital of Participants (N = 34).
Note. Resource index (capital) scores range from −12 to +12 with negative values indicative of more negative forms of recovery capital. NA = narcotics anonymous; AA = alcoholics anonymous.
Select aspects of recovery capital.
This genuine commitment to the participants’ recovery process is most clearly expressed through the networks’ unconditional emotional support and the capacity to provide safe communicative spaces to work through the emotional challenges associated with addiction. Many participants feel that the people in these networks (i.e., family, drug court, NA/AA, and church) provide unconditional emotional support. These networks either understand the challenges they face because they have been “through the same thing” or they have “seen” how far the participants have come. In the eyes of the participants, this history of shared experiences increases the willingness of the network to “accept” and forgive them. This also makes it easier to renew strained relationships despite a record of recurring relapses that may have emotionally taxed their support networks. When talking about the support she receives from her family, Alice, a 30-year-old working-class female, puts it this way:
My mom and my sister, even though I’ve done a lot of things I shouldn’t have, they’ve never deserted me and they’ve always stood by me. So now that I’m in recovery, they’re that much more behind me.
Being embedded in social networks that really care, and are supportive and available whenever needed, opens up safe venues in which participants can talk about problems and be heard in non-judgmental ways. Although artificial networks are seen as providing an extra layer of “confidentiality and anonymity,” supportive networks in this study help to—like other studies on natural remitters have suggested—externalize coping processes by removing psychosocial barriers, encouraging deeper reflection, and offering constructive feedback (Granfield and Cloud 2001a, 2001b). In these discursive places, participants feel “comfortable” enough to “say anything” without feeling “judged.” The following quotes illustrate this specific aspect of emotional capital:
Whenever I’m having a bad day, I . . . put it out to my group and . . . they will give me feedback on what they think I should do to handle the situation. Well you can talk about anything . . . they always have feedback you know and they care about you. We’re like a family here . . . I feel very confident talking to [the group]. If I need help I can reach out to [. . . them] and I do [it] a lot. I guess [I’ve] been able to share in there and not feel like I’m being judged. . . .
In sum, network-based emotional capital provides participants with crucial resources to cope with stressors in their lives while existing normative pressures nudge them toward a substance-free lifestyle. This type of emotional environment—as other research on substance-use recovery suggests—is a powerful lubricant that eases participants along in their efforts in recovery (Sobell et al. 2000; White 2009).
Network-based physical capital
The quantitative part of the analysis suggests that transitional physical capital ranges from 3.33 (SD = 14.05) for church to 5.68 (SD = 5.59) for family with most other networks providing only negligible amounts of this vital capital. This suggests that only those participants that can rely on their families or church networks have access to intermediate amounts of physical capital. Although the average drug court participant in this program made slightly more than the national estimates suggest (median = $15,000 vs. average incomes from $7,040 to $11,659; National Drug Court Institute 2012; Rossman et al. 2011b), the interviews underscore that participants struggle financially and that they can get access to indirect forms of this capital. The ability to secure more direct forms of physical capital from networks—in contrast—seems severely limited. This puts many participants into a position where they financially struggle to stay and progress in the program.
While some participants’ families have the financial means to “transfer money into [their] account,” pay “for school . . . [and] help . . . out with . . . bills and stuff,” or “draw up the papers” if the person “needed a loan,” the majority of those in drug court do not have that luxury. These participants may be able to get “a little bit of help from friends, [family] and . . . from drug court when . . . [they are] having a hard time” but for the most part have to rely on more indirect forms of physical capital. Christian, a 32-year-old working-class high school graduate, puts it the following way:
Well, I had to have help . . . my mom . . . help[ed] me get a place to live and she has helped me with gas and a part for my car and stuff like that.
Although some drug court participants have found ways to bend the “rules,” the strong self-reliance philosophies of NA/AA and drug court discourage the sharing of financial resources (Wilson and Smith 2013). Participants are aware that they cannot “borrow nothing from . . . people in groups . . . [because this may create] too much conflict” or may threaten the therapeutic elements of the group. As participants progress through the program, they further internalize this need for independence and the rationale for not using networks as a “crutch.”
Because most participants do not have access to substantive amounts of direct physical capital, they strongly rely on more indirect forms to cover their basic necessities and remain in the program. Some reported that they received temporary assistance with housing (e.g., network members let them stay with them for a period of time), help with mental health issues, and consultation with matters including “referrals to lawyers”; however, much of the actual support centered on problems with transportation. Although some participants receive help from their families or churches when they have “trouble [with their] car breaking down,” this is not as common. It is much more likely for “drug court peers . . . [they] know . . . [to] help [them] with transportation.” Since many participants have “been without a ride before,” this creates a sense of being in it together and nurtures an informal support system that—as Sandy, a 27-year-old woman, describes—helps people who otherwise may not succeed in the program.
I have noticed that everybody seems to help everybody else . . . you know . . . with rides or whatever. . . . if you need a ride or something . . . they’re always helping everybody. They’re always there. They . . . hate to see anybody fail in this program.
The existence of this improvised support system is especially helpful as many participants are unable to solicit financial support because many of their networks “ain’t even got it really. They struggle just like [they] do.” The mutual aid arrangement is also important because many participants struggle with paying their weekly drug court fees, as well as finding and keeping a job. Participants stress that not being able to pay the drug court impacts their standing in the program. If they fall behind with their payments, the drug court “won’t phase [them] up until [they] catch up with the money.” This means that “keeping paid up . . . [especially during] bad economic times” can be difficult because “33 dollars a week doesn’t sound like much” but “it just piles up.” This problem is further exacerbated because the drug court confines job searches for participants to one or two counties in this rural and economically depressed region. Many participants emphasize that “there ain’t a lot of jobs out there” and even though they “have put in 60 applications . . . [they] still ain’t got one phone call.” Lucy, a 46-year-old mother who struggled with a range of obstacles, summarized these challenges as follows:
Right now for me, it’s the money. Cause it took me so long to get a job . . . the hardest part is just getting caught up on all the money. . . . I mean . . . everybody that I’ve ever talked to in here their problem has been finances. Even if it’s $33 a week, ya know, I think $33 . . . that’s gas . . . I don’t have money to spare. . . . I know it’s real cheap . . . $33, but . . . I can’t afford it.
The picture that emerges from this quantitative and qualitative analysis of physical capital suggests that participants may not have adequate financial buffers to address temporary stressors. Many of our drug court participants—like other research on drug courts suggests—face serious financial challenges to successfully complete the program (Butzin et al. 2002; Peters, Haas and Murrin 1999). Working in primarily low-paying jobs (or being unemployed) and having access to little physical capital at the individual level, the limited network-based physical capital (in both artificial and natural networks) can translate into a persistent struggle to maintain financial stability, bolster a sense of psychological security, and retain the often fragile commitment to self-change. Given the fungibility of the different forms of capital (Bourdieu 1986; Bourdieu and Passeron 1977), the fact that these participants have neither adequate amounts of physical capital nor sufficient levels of cultural capital seems especially problematic.
Network-based cultural capital
The findings suggest that only drug court (1.88, SD = 3.49) and church networks (0.67, SD = 1.92) provide small amounts of cultural capital. All other networks seem to have no or small negative amounts (see Table 1 and Figure 1): AA/NA (−0.14, SD = 1.45), family (−0.63, SD = 1.92), other networks (−0.73, SD = 3.90), recreational groups (−1.5, SD = 3.44), and work (−1.57, SD = 3.32). The interviews further highlight that participants see their networks as possessing primarily medicalized and therapy-oriented forms of embodied cultural capital.
Participants, for example, spend much of their time talking about how the drug court teaches them new coping skills. Many feel that before entering the program, they “used to . . . run away from [their] problem[s] . . . [and would] just smoke or [do] whatever the drug of choice [was], and . . . the problem would still be there.” Focusing on the importance of changing “people, places, and things” and engaging in different group-facilitated intervention activities (e.g., role-plays), participants stress that drug court helps them “gain the tools” they need to “deal with everyday situations, . . . communications, and . . . emotions.” Although this therapeutic “know-how”—which is commonly used in similar therapeutic settings (Dimeff and Linehan 2008; Morgenstern et al. 2001)—prepares them to more effectively handle their addictions, this drug court—such as other similar drug courts (Leukefeld et al. 2004)—also offers them the knowledge on how to obtain jobs, address prior felonies with employers, and develop important social skills. In their efforts to provide tutelage in the art of a “normal life,” these groups are thus seen as “life coach[es]” that provide “life-changing” information and skills to become—as Thomas, one of the younger participants, put it—“a better person.”
Because many participants lack basic job and interview skills and natural networks that could help them in that area, the drug court becomes a major source of this type of cultural capital. Many participants reported that the drug court not only “stress[es] many things . . . [one] should do when looking for a job” but also emphasizes the importance of job ethics such as to “be punctual, to be truthful, to be honest . . . [and] not [to] lie, cheat, [and] steal.” In addition, the drug court provides foundational interview strategies, job application techniques, and resume-building approaches. While this type of cultural capital can easily be taken for granted, many of the participants in this study seem to be unable to get this know-how from any of their other social networks. Larry, a participant who is employed part time in the service sector, for example, highlights the crucial importance of cultural capital provided by the drug court:
[T]here’s many people . . . here, that wouldn’t know the first thing about [job interviews] . . ., and [the counselors have] been really good about giving people advice on how to dress, how to act, how to talk, how to shake hands . . .
While some of this job-related cultural capital is only available in more informal contexts of the drug court (and thus may not be on the cognitive radar for everyone), the program’s treatment of social skills is much more formalized. In an attempt to give participants “the tools . . . need[ed] to live a normal life in society,” the drug court packages cultural capital lessons focused on social skills in both the participants’ step work and the programs’ group counseling sessions. Many drug courts—and this program is no exception—push for medicalized reinterpretations of substance-use histories (Nolan 2002). As a result, many participants, especially those in the later phases, understand that they “have to learn who . . . [they] are again.” To assist in this “eye-opening” journey toward self-discovery, the drug court attempts to “completely fix the . . . social skills” of the participants. Another nice quote by Larry articulates these therapeutic attempts to provide and transform this aspect of culture capital:
[W]hen I came [to drug court]. . ., I had forgotten how to interact with people, I had forgotten how to talk to people, and I had forgotten how to just function socially, . . . [so] slowly but surely they . . . get you back on track.
Access to network-based cultural capital has been shown to help build individual cultural capital and assist individuals in navigating social landscapes more effectively (Allatt 1993; Bourdieu 1986). It also has been linked to better academic performance (Jæger 2009, 2011; van de Werfhorst and Hofstede 2007; Wildhagen 2009) and higher employability (Smith 2010). The findings of this study, however, suggest that—without the drug court—most drug court participants would lack access to the basic knowledge and skills to function successfully in “normal” society. In the absence of important forms of cultural capital, seemingly simple tasks such as creating a resume, conducting an online job search, or preparing for a job interview can easily turn into major obstacles that could derail the rehabilitative process.
Network-based normative capital
The quantitative data suggest fairly high levels of positive normative capital in families (7.50, SD = 6.47), NA/AA (7.06, SD = 6.99), drug court (8.28, SD = 5.48), and churches (8.00, SD = 8.62) although normative pressures may be lessened in the workplace (3.14, SD = 9.85) or are even negative in recreational groups (−2.5, SD = 18.48; see Table 1 and Figure 1). When drug court participants talk about their normative capital in the interviews, however, they primarily emphasize normative capital that pulls them in two different directions: toward continued substance use or in the direction of self-change.
Participants spent much time discussing how widespread and pervasive drugs and alcohol remain in their lives as well as the struggles that they face to sever ties with these old networks. Many interviewees stressed how “hard [it is for them] to stay away” from old networks because the neighborhood they “live in . . . [is] really bad . . . as far as . . . drugs [go].” They feel that their communities are so “messed up . . . [with] drugs everywhere” that it is “always a possibility” that they will be “stopped at stores . . . [have people] come up to the car and offer . . . [them] drugs” or that “somebody’s gonna be drinking” around them. Pressures to continue on with their old lives range from networks “begging” them to hang out with them—even though they know they are in recovery—to running into old friends “all the time.” They would constantly be asked questions such as: “Hey, where’ve you been man?” “Let’s go party . . .” “I don’t see you these days.” While participants try to apply the newly acquired cultural capital from drug court or other artificial groups by “leaving” or staying away from “people, places, and things,” their networks often undermine their efforts toward self-change. Comments such as “[y]eah [it] won’t be long until you get to drink [or do drugs] again” are very common. To remain true to the recovery process, many participants negotiate these challenges by telling others (and themselves) that they are “living the normal life now.” They either realize or justify via regular self-talk that they “don’t have anything in common [with their old networks] anymore” or try to “pretty much stay to themselves” or only spend time with those “who don’t drink . . . [or] do drugs.”
Many participants, however, are not alone in their journeys toward self-change. Interviewees often state that their networks help them by relaxing negative pressures, providing positive encouragement, or imposing systematic pressures to remove substance use from their lives. When members of substance-using networks realize both the sincerity of the participants’ self-change efforts and the futility to bring them back to the “old life,” some may begin suspending pressures. While many participants mention that “a lot of [their] friends respect what [they are] trying to do,” some have noticed being gradually pushed out of their networks because they are seen as liabilities. Max, a 21-year-old neophyte of the program, puts it this way:
[P]eople don’t wanna hang around me because I got caught for drugs. When you get arrested people think you’re a snitch and damaged goods and I lost a lot of friends because of that. . . .
While the suspension of normative pressures can work for the participants, a more important source for self-change can be found in the positive reinforcement that participants receive. The present study echoes the findings of previous research (Granfield and Cloud 2001a, Velleman 2006) in that people in their networks are often “proud of [them]” and “very supportive of [the] positive change[s]” they are making. Friends and relatives frequently tell them that they are “proud of [them] for staying sober . . . [and for] doing what’s expected.” For many who have witnessed loved ones going down a path of self-destruction, drug court, in particular, is often seen as “the best thing that ever happened to [them].” The power of these positive feedback mechanisms is nicely captured by Alison, a 24-year-old, who is still living with her relatives:
Yes, . . . they [her parents] were trying to get me to turn around . . . I mean they had seen me go to jail, but they saw these [drug court interventions] as a positive. And . . . they were really glad that I was getting my life back.
Commitment and accountability toward long-term recovery and self-change, however, is accomplished primarily through the systematic imposition of normative pressures from artificial networks (especially drug court). Setting up such rehabilitative frameworks constitutes common strategy of artificial networks (Burns and Peyrot 2003; Farabee et al. 2004; Lindquist, Krebs, and Lattimore 2006; Marlowe et al. 2005). They are designed—like this study highlights—to provide an effective conduit through which therapeutic cultural capital can be transmitted. Many participants, for example, point to the ever-present surveillance system of random drug screening, constant supervision, use of sanctions, and pressures for self-reflection (i.e., via weekly journaling) as one of the most powerful external incentives to stay the course. Although the perceived intrusiveness of this regimen tends to wane as participants progress through the program, artificial networks are often seen as highly effective in recognizing when participants become “complacent” and need “a kick in the ass.” Ruth, a 31-year-old, and John, a 29-year-old, highlight how these networks force cognitive and behavioral changes (although it may be unclear the degree to which the participants have internalized these expectations).
[Y]ou can’t have your old buddies all messed up sitting at your house . . . they’re real picky about . . . who is staying with you. And you have to get it approved. No matter if it’s family or what, you have to get it approved, so they know who’s there, and who’s not there. I’ve . . . cheated on every, and any other program that I’ve ever been to . . . I have very bad criminal thinking. I [would] try to find loopholes . . . I would . . . dilute . . . my drug screens . . . [h]ere it don’t work . . . doing that, that’s a fail . . . they drug test me so much, that there’s no way that I can do [drugs]. . . . even if I did find a loophole, I would probably tell on myself for finding it. ’Cuz I’m so scared that . . . I’d mess up.
As the acceptance of conventional norms is particularly challenging for individuals with long histories in criminal subcultures (Waldorf, Reinarman, and Murphy 1992) or dense drug-using networks (Dennis, Foss, and Scott 2007; Groshkova and Best 2011, Weisner, Matzger, and Kaskutas 2003), the participants’ positive normative capital is encouraging. Although relaxed normative pressures in recreational networks raise important questions of long-term viability (discussed in the next section), the total normative structure tends to benefit the participants by acting as an informal social control mechanism (Portes 2000), providing the structure for the “tutelage” in the art of a “normal life” (Cheung and Cheung 2003) and—in some cases—helping to nurture an environment of de-stigmatization (Granfield and Cloud 1999, 2001a).
The “Artificiality Effect”: Over-reliance on Therapeutic Networks
At first glance, the research conveys a sense that the drug court and other artificial networks are remarkably effective. They set up a much-needed rehabilitative backbone that discourages affiliation with substance-using networks and furnishes necessary network resources. And with many participants voluntarily seeking their help, what is not to like? The problem starts when the treatment approach becomes so effective that, as the results of this study hint, participants closer to graduation still remain as dependent upon artificial forms of RC as those just entering the program. Although artificial networks can and probably should play an integral part in the rehabilitative experience of drug court participants, their transitory nature could, in the absence of genuine network creation, actually diminish long-term RC and thus produce—somewhat counterintuitively—unsustainable recovery trajectories.
Drug courts and self-help groups aim to rebuild an addict’s self by providing him or her with a readymade social network and a set of pre-manufactured values, beliefs, and behavioral scripts (Bateson 1972; Denzin 1993). By elevating the “once an addict, always an addict” mantra into a rehabilitative imperative, artificial networks transform substance-use identities into “spoiled identities” that center around a new stigma (Goffman 1963). Participants in their interviews frequently adopted therapeutic language often referring to themselves as “having a disease” or “being addicts.” Seeing themselves as so different from others changes the participants’ perceptions of their interactions with the world around them. Because the drug court has implemented the widely used best practice of encouraging participants to situate new experiences within this medicalized grand narrative (Burns and Peyrot 2003), participants tend to gravitate toward interpersonal encounters that are more consistent with these identities. Participants thus often feel out of place in their interactions with non-users, which may further alienate them from “normal” society. John, a 29-year-old drug court participant, discusses the unease many interviewees seem to experience when interacting with people in natural networks.
[In] my first job . . . it was . . . [all] drama . . . young kids, and that’s to be expected, . . . I gotta hear about what they did every night, . . . The [new] job . . . I love . . . because people from . . . [drug court] work there, and we can actually discuss and talk about recovery, and . . . I’m, . . . around people in recovery, while working there.
Due to the cohesiveness of artificial networks and this medicalized reinterpretation of their personal histories, recovering addicts may thus find it difficult to build new natural networks (Anderson and Ripullo 1996). Many of the participants stressed that people in normal networks “just don’t understand [them] as well” and feel that “being an addict . . . [makes non- users] not want to interact with [them].” These strong in-group and identity dynamics also put some participants into a position where they simply “. . . stay to [themselves] . . . [and] don’t get out much.” Not being able to develop a robust set of “normal” social networks, participants naturally worry that they may not do as well after graduation. Hunter, a 26-year-old participant, puts it this way:
I’m not worried about when I’m in drug court, I’m worried about when I get out . . . no one’s watching and I don’t have any immediate consequences and I’d probably be around old friends that have the old vices that I loved but you know . . . If I quit going to meetings I’d probably end up getting high . . . so . . . I have to [go] to meetings for the rest of my life.
In addition to setting up unintended barriers for network diversification, artificial networks also promote in-group norms that effectively reduce RC (Bufe 1998). Although discouraging financial dependence and promoting self-reliance seems a sensible therapeutic intervention, for substance users who live from paycheck to paycheck, cutting off access to potential network-based physical capital may unintentionally interfere with the recovery process (especially if alternative sources for physical capital are not available). The composition of artificial networks in this rural part of the country, may in part, help explain why participants lack important resources. In more socially diverse areas, self-help groups such as AA and NA may be more likely to offer valuable and diverse sources of RC.
Although it is comforting for participants to know they can count on the resources of treatment-related groups in the earlier stages of their recovery journeys, it is less clear whether this reliance on artificial networks is sustainable or desirable. As Granfield and Cloud (1999:89) put it, alternative forms of community (aka artificial networks) tend to become “considerably more attractive when a person’s natural communities break down.” Many participants talked about not having “friends for a while” and how this experience “sucked . . . [and was a] pretty dark, [and] lonely [place to be in].” Most interviewees felt that the “best part about drug court . . . [and] NA was the new group of friends” that they were able to form. This seems to suggest that the treatment processes and the normative pressures nudge participants toward artificial networks. Peter, a more advanced drug court participant, captures this general sentiment best:
[When] I started working my program and just made some good friends in here. . . . the people . . . that support . . . [me] the most . . . come from . . . here [and] some of them [from] AA and NA, people I[’ve] met through . . . going to meetings and stuff . . . [so we have] become pretty close.
Rather than indicating rehabilitative success, the reliance on artificial networks may thus signal the prevalence of centripetal network processes that not only keep individuals stuck in a perpetual recovery microcosm but may also make it very difficult to establish ties to natural networks. 4
Conclusion and Implications
Putting network dynamics center stage, this exploratory paper aimed to provide a systematic analysis of network-based RC available to drug court participants in a small rural adult drug court. Looking at just the broad strokes, it tried to show that the participants not only have limited amounts of RC but that they seem to be locked into social landscapes with high degrees of artificiality. Should the results be replicated by further research, this artificiality effect combined with impoverished network dynamics may be—at least for some participants—problematic. To overcome this “hidden challenge” and build RC for participants, drug court and other treatment providers with similar characteristics and challenges could therefore benefit from placing a stronger focus on the formation of new and diverse natural networks, while acting as transitional conduits to organizational resources.
By devising innovative group therapies that aim to maximize, facilitate, and diversify natural networks over time, for example, artificial networks (and drug courts in particular) could help participants build more robust and healthy network structures. Connecting participants with established groups (e.g., hiking clubs, movie clubs, or poetry clubs) can link them to networks that are centered on meaningful activities with less focus on substance use. This could provide the recovering addict with new readymade natural RC that could create and sustain a more lasting commitment to a deviant-free lifestyle. Furthermore, artificial networks should not only try to facilitate the formation of natural networks, but they should also attempt, whenever possible, to build stronger relationships with existing community partners, state agencies, and/or federal entities. Especially in the earlier stages of recovery, these organizations could act as temporary sources for RC. In addition to providing network-based cultural and physical capital, these groups could also help participants build individual cultural and/or physical capital by offering different workshops or educational programs (e.g., General Educational Development [GED] classes, job fairs, resume-building, interviewing skills and financial management workshops, outreach programs to alumni groups; White 2009). Although some innovative drug courts and treatment providers are already engaging in these practices, 5 there is still room for improvement.
Whether these interventions work in the unique social settings such as the drug court remains an empirical question. Future research, therefore, should not only embark on studies that help establish the practical utility of these practices but should also focus more strongly on exploring the specific network dynamics in recovery. Using the proposed theoretical framework of network-based recovery, future research could help further tease apart how network structure (e.g., artificial vs. natural networks), network diversity (e.g., homogeneous vs. heterogeneous groups), and network processes (e.g., bridging and linking) impact participants’ program progress and rates of recidivism. Favoring mixed-methods approaches and longitudinal designs, future studies could also try to document the changing nature of network composition and resource availability as participants move through a program (e.g., by collecting data at intake and once at each phase). Distinctions should be made between more rural and urban drug court populations as network dynamics may differ qualitatively (e.g., the degree of stigma involved in new network creation). With this type of data, comparisons could then be made between network characteristics and particular outcome measures (e.g., such as participant progress, frequency of sanctions). Although these studies could offer fascinating insights into issues of network destruction and creation, innovative research designs need to be explored that aim to assess how these very same network processes impact participants after graduation. The proposed theoretical framework for network-based RC could also be extended and used to explore network dynamics in other subpopulations with similar treatment concerns. This may help to establish whether there are consistencies between our sample and other populations struggling with problems of addiction.
Limitations
To help readers evaluate the strength of the arguments, the following discussion briefly discusses potential limitations of the study. The rural nature of this small drug court program and the cross-sectional research design make it difficult to disentangle these fairly complex network-based RC dynamics. This may be further complicated by demographic factors such as age, level of education, and social class unique to this southeastern rural drug court sample. Finally, the reported levels of normative capital may also underestimate the existing normative pressures that participants experience in their social networks. Participants may simply have not disclosed the full extent of network pressures due to the perceived fear of repercussions from drug court administrators.
Given these methodological concerns, alternative explanations—especially for the observed network artificiality effects, seeming network destruction, and the low resource levels—cannot be ruled out. These findings could simply be an artifact of the types of participants and the phases that they happened to be in at the time of data collection. Although the paper neither purports to have captured the full range of recovery dynamics nor does it make any strong claims toward generalizability, the observed network patterns are too interesting and the treatment implications too important to be dismissed outright. With the broader treatment community (and drug court treatment providers in particular) deeply invested in individual-level interventions, it may be time for both practitioners and researchers to—as some have already done—tackle more holistic rehabilitative approaches to substance-use issues.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
The authors would like to extend their gratitude to the administrators and participants of the drug court for their time and willingness to participate in this study. The authors would further like to thank Shama Rainwater, Melanie Alm, Kristie Di Iorio, Stephanie Gentry, Sean Lynch, Keemia Vaghef, Amber Moore, Tim Herrin, and Amanda Wolcott for their invaluable help collecting and analyzing data. The research team is also indebted to Dr. Steven Lloyd, Denise Woodall, Paul Boshears, and two anonymous reviewers for their formative comments on earlier drafts of this manuscript.
Authors’ Note
Codey Collins is an undergraduate student.
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication: Partial funding for this research was provided by the University of North Georgia (UNG) Faculty-Undergraduate Summer Engagement (FUSE) Program and the UNG Faculty Award Grant.
Notes
Author Biographies
References
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