Abstract
This article explores the nuanced connections between homelessness and incarceration as told through life stories of homeless men in Trenton, New Jersey. A recurrent theme in the stories was the experience of incarceration. This cycle of male homelessness and incarceration has its origins in the structural conditions of poverty, discrimination, and unemployment in Trenton. It is self-replicating because of a cultural process in which people learn and repeat how to engage with the world. Men copy other men; this is how they learn gender. If fathers or other positive male role models are absent, men are prone to learn gender from idealized, hypermasculine images that feed into the cycle of male homelessness and incarceration. When incarcerated men leave prison and return home to fatherless families and impoverished inner city neighborhoods, this has an adverse impact on them, which has an impact on the dynamics of those families and neighborhoods.
This study examines the life stories of homeless men in Trenton, NJ, who have been previously incarcerated. It finds that the two statuses: homelessness and incarceration, are intimately related. Based on the work of Gowan (2002), this dynamic is conceptualized as a feedback loop–a nexus in which lower-class male marginality is germinated and perpetuated. The narratives told by our respondents revealed how homelessness and incarceration are profoundly interconnected. After presenting the research methods employed, I provide an overview of the history of Trenton and then explore how homelessness and incarceration are interrelated for these men. I conclude with a discussion of the impact that fragmented families, especially absent fathers, have on the lives of the men interviewed.
This work examines the phenomenon of male homelessness not because inner city women are immune to homelessness but, rather, because men experience the world in a gendered way that is distinct from how women experience it, and, accordingly, have vulnerabilities that are unique to them. Men, when they are not overlooked altogether by policy makers and in public discourse, are often maligned as the cause of the problems of women and children in the inner city. Indeed, the very language that is used to discuss urban poverty takes on a gendered dimension that assigns male culpability. Hatcher argues that the ideas of the “feminization of poverty” and “deadbeat dads” are both problematic insofar as they either explicitly or implicitly blame men for poverty (Hatcher, 2013). Yet this obscures the fact that men, especially poor minority men, are themselves in a precarious position, which is evident by looking at such things as health disparities. Men, on average have shorter lifespans than women (Crimmins et al., 2019; Salzman & Wender, 2006) and this differential is due, in great measure, to premature death of men of color (Bruce et al., 2015). The life expectancy of White women in the US in 2015, for example, was 81.3 and for men it was 76.6. For Black women in the US the life expectancy was 78.5, whereas for Black men it was 72.2 (Center for Disease Control [CDC], 2017). Men and boys also are more vulnerable to violence and, correspondingly, experience trauma as a result of operating in male spaces. The murder victimization rate is higher for US men than it is for women, and the rate for Black men is higher than the rates for men in all other racial and ethnic categories (Redelings et al., 2010; Widra, 2018). Therefore, when looking at either homelessness or incarceration, which are both correlated with poverty, it is important to understand the ways that men qua men experience them.
The cultural idealization of hypermasculinity in the inner city, where men are expected to exhibit physical strength, aggression and dominance through violence, is pervasive in the literature about urban neighborhoods in the US (e.g., Anderson, 2000; Ferguson, 2001; Rios, 2011). This intensifies as men interact with law enforcement on the street or in prison, as the hierarchal interaction with other men sets up the conditions for a competition for manhood (Rios, 2011). Hypermasculinity leads to the acceptance of practices that jeopardize the futures of men, for it encourages them to participate in criminal behavior that puts them at risk of incarceration, where they are exposed to and given further tuition in violence. Meanwhile, scholars have found that family engagement, something at odds with hypermasculinity, can prevent recidivism and improve outcomes of men who were previously incarcerated (Datchi, 2017; Lee et al., 2015; Visher et al., 2013). Strong families offer men social support in the form of both emotional and economic resources and create a mechanism of social control through attachment, commitment, involvement and belief. The family can be protective, leading to desistance on the part of formerly incarcerated men (Lee et al., 2015). In fact, the Latino family—one that traditionally includes strong father figures as well as other male role models—plays an important role in positive health and social outcomes (Davila et al., 2011; Finch & Vega, 2003; Shaw & Pickett, 2013). The tension between the ideals of hypermasculinity, which are tailored to survival in the streets, and the ideals of manhood, which are rooted in dedication to family, is crucial for understanding the perpetuation of the nexus between homelessness and incarceration.
Methods
Together with a team of student research assistants, I conducted life history interviews at a shelter that serves homeless adults in Trenton (Atkinson, 1998). Our team visited the shelter and completed the interviews during the fall semester of 2017. Based on the work of another team of anthropologists who did oral history work with the homeless in Milwaukee, we asked each participant to provide an overview of his or her story of homelessness; we allowed the interviewee to tell the story with as little interruption from the interviewer as possible. We guided the interview by asking each participant to respond to the same four prompts (Lackey, 2018):
Describe your life before you were homeless.
Describe the path that led to your homelessness.
Describe your life while you were homeless.
If you had periods when you were not homeless, or if you are no longer homeless, describe the way you got off the streets.
Interviews were tape-recorded and later transcribed and cleaned by the team. In total, we collected 52 life history interviews, 39 were men 13 were women. This work examines the stories of the men, 19 of whom were Black, 13 White and 7 Latino. The ages ranged from 28 to 68. The transcribed interviews were analyzed and coded for recurrent themes.
The Story of Trenton, NJ
Trenton, still famous today as a Revolutionary War landmark, has seen better days. The golden years of Trenton, according to Cumbler’s social history of the city, was in the late 19th century. It was then that Trenton was an industrial center with a healthy economy based on manufacturing pottery, iron, rubber and machine tools. The golden age ended in the 1920s, as civic capitalism was overcome by national capitalism, otherwise known as bureaucratic corporatism (Cumbler, 1989). This change affected not only Trenton, but also all other aspects of American society, including the ideological, political, demographical and social spheres of life. That is, rather than capitalism being locally grounded in the community via local entrepreneurs, it became something controlled by outsiders. Cumbler says that the process began in 1904 when Trenton Iron Works was purchased by US Steel, and continued into the 1920s with locally owned companies that produced pottery and rubber to big corporations. In 1952, the local flagship company, John A. Roebling’s Sons Company was sold to Colorado Fuel and Iron.
From the end of the war until about 1950, Trenton was still a manufacturing city. At that point, however, manufacturing began to decline and there was a growth of the service sector and of government employment. Between 1950 and 1960, Trenton had a sharp rise in the number of state workers. But this was not just a Trenton phenomenon, because across the nation, state and local non-school employment jumped 80%. And since Trenton is a capital city, by 1961 one out of every five people there was on either local, state or federal payrolls. The city was one of the national leaders in industrial decline as the manufacturing sector crumbled and the service sector took hold. A cadre of older, male workers employed in factories now faced unemployment. At the same time, Black migration to the city began, which incited racial tensions and ethnic entrenchment. By the 1960s, abandonment of the city, predominantly in the form of “White flight,” had become routine. The new industrial jobs were in the suburbs and it was hard, if not impossible, for inner city residents to get to those jobs without a car. As the manufacturing jobs and middle classes left Trenton, the inner city began to decline. Even the government jobs in Trenton were held by people who lived outside the city (Cumbler, 1989).
Trenton’s housing stock was antiquated even by the standards of 1950. Most of the housing was multiple family (only 18% was single family) and, additionally, almost all of the housing was already two to four decades old or older. At that time, the American cultural ideal was the single-family house, with a yard. Therefore, Trenton’s multi-family housing was not attractive to young families who could qualify for home loans in the new suburban developments that were popping up throughout New Jersey. Real estate values in Trenton plummeted (Cumbler, 1989).
In the meantime, Trenton adopted a new three-pronged program. This was aimed at revitalizing the business district by constructing new office buildings, a highway program that would facilitate transportation into Trenton, and redevelopment in the form of building new industrial parks and parking lots and tearing down existing homes and shops. The project entailed leveling the homes in a low income Black community; this correspondingly created a shortage of affordable housing for these residents. Four hundred families were forced to find housing elsewhere but they had neither the economic means nor the skin color to do so in better neighborhoods. The new development, not surprisingly, was not economically successful and the uninhabited new spaces attracted vandalism and other criminal activities (Cumbler, 1989).
This troubling situation in Trenton was a powder keg waiting to explode; the spark that set it off was the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. in 1968, which resulted in horrific riots. Racial tensions that were tucked away prior to the riots were now on full display. The unrest, which resulted in 2.5 million dollars in damages, initiated a new pattern of conflict between black residents and the police, who responded to the black rioters with a massive show of force. These tensions caused even more White flight from the city (Cumbler, 1989).
Trenton Today
Trenton is a city of contrasts. On one hand, as the state’s capital it has a beautiful gold domed capitol building with administrative offices that house the bureaucracy. But these bureaucrats are weekday commuters, and, therefore, the city has a remarkably different feel on weeknights and weekends, in their absence. There is evidence of poverty everywhere you look in Trenton. From abandoned buildings, to the plethora of pawn shops and liquor stores, to the gang graffiti, to the unemployed of working age hanging out in the streets in the middle of the day, in Trenton a brooding omnipresent hopelessness, caused by neglect and despair, is palpable. And yet at the same time, there is also evidence of a community refusing to give up. The nonprofit sector is vibrant, and this mobilizes people to help solve some of the problems facing the city. A community garden here, a brightly colored mural there, a federally funded health center over there—there are forces determined to revitalize the city of Trenton.
A brief overview of census data shows a picture of a diverse, poor city. The population of Trenton in 2016 was 84,056 (US Census Bureau, 2017). About half (48.4%) of the population is female. Almost 25% of the population is foreign born and 38.6% of households speak a language other than English at home (US Census Bureau, 2017). The 2010 census counted about 13.5% White non-Latino, 50% Black and 35% Latino. The median age is 33.7 (US Census Bureau, 2017). 23.5% of people under 65 are without health insurance and 27.6% are living in poverty. About 60% of the population over the age of 16 is in the civilian labor force. The median household income in Trenton in 2016 was $34,412 and per capita income a low $17,130 (US Census Bureau, 2017).
The housing data for Trenton provides another tool that can help understand the municipality’s plight. The median value of an owner-occupied housing unit from 2012-2016 was $100,000. Median selected monthly costs for homeowners with a mortgage was $1449, median gross rent was $964. Only 36.8% of the 33,035 housing units were owner-occupied and 20.5% vacant. A plurality of structures (49.8%) were built in 1939 or earlier, and 25% of the remaining structures were built since 1959; these statistics, then, testify that the housing stock is aging (US Census Bureau, 2016).
In the entire state of New Jersey, 10 out of every 10,000 people were homeless in 2017. Of the 5,433 individuals counted as homeless at the time of the survey in 2016, 3,103 of them were people in families with children, 492 of them were unaccompanied youth, 583 were veterans and 955 were chronically homeless individuals (Monarch Housing Associates [MHA], 2016). In Trenton, there were 478 homeless persons (HUD, 2017). In accordance with the rest of New Jersey, well over half of Trenton’s homeless population are male (67.5%). But 62% were Black, which is higher than the NJ average. Of the remaining homeless population, 22.5% were non-Hispanic White and 12% were Hispanic. Other relevant characteristics are that 25% are considered severely mentally ill, 25% are chronic substance abusers, 4% are veterans, and 10.8% are victims of domestic violence. About 73% of the homeless in Trenton are individuals without children and the rest are families with children or are unaccompanied minors (HUD, 2017).
The causes of homelessness in Trenton vary (MHA, 2016). Among the general homeless, the primary factor they cited was being asked to leave a shared residence (25.5%). The next most common cause was eviction (14.5%) followed by job loss or reduction in work hours (14.2%) and release from prison (9.5%). Among the chronically homeless, however, the primary factor that people said caused their homelessness was loss or reduction of job income (35%). Loss of benefits, illness and drug/alcohol abuse all contributed 10%. Among the unsheltered homeless, the primary factor identified as causing their homelessness was loss or reduction of job income or benefits (22.7%) and then alcohol or drug abuse (18.2%) being the next most common cause (MHA, 2016).
We see, then, that Trenton is a racially diverse city with a high rate of poverty. It is an example of a deindustrialized city, where non-government jobs are hard to come by and economic development is stunted. Federal and state funding and the non-profit sector provides much of the resources that Trenton residents use to survive on a daily basis.
Incarceration, Homelessness, and Masculinity
There is a strong connection between incarceration and homelessness (Geller & Curtis, 2011; Gowan, 2002; Herbert et al., 2015; Keene et al., 2018; McKernan, 2017). Not surprisingly, the majority of men we interviewed (26 of 39) mentioned, without being directly asked, that they had been previously incarcerated. Why? Because ex-convicts and those facing housing insecurity are often poor minorities from urban areas (Herbert et al., 2015). In fact, housing insecurity is extremely prevalent among ex-convicts. Men who are ex-convicts are twice as likely to be homeless as their counterparts who have not been incarcerated (Geller & Curtis, 2011). As Kerr (2011) points out in his study of Cleveland, homeless shelters and prisons have a close relationship, since shelters were one of the only places where the formerly incarcerated could find housing. Keene et al. (2018) find that the stigma of being an ex-convict is reinforced by the challenges men face finding housing after release from prison. They report that when men cannot access housing because of their history of incarceration, it leads them to believe that they are unworthy.
Thus, the relationship between housing insecurity and incarceration is significant and due, in large part, to limited labor market opportunities for ex-convicts (Geller & Curtis, 2011). The limited opportunities in the labor market do not, however, solely determine the housing prospects for former prisoners. Because even at equal levels of annual earnings, the odds of them experiencing housing insecurity are much greater than they are for their peers who have no history of incarceration (Geller & Curtis, 2011).
Men engage in practices and encounter the world as men, and therefore an examination of how these experiences are gendered is appropriate. In this case, the role of fatherhood is of key significance. According to Baskerville, “virtually every major social pathology has been linked to fatherless children: violent crime, drug and alcohol abuse, truancy, unwed pregnancy, suicide, and psychological disorders—all correlating more strongly with fatherlessness than with any other single factor, surpassing even race and poverty” (Baskerville, 2004, p. 485). The presence of fathers appears to diminish the propensity to engage in criminal behavior in a myriad of ways; it is correlated with higher rates of educational achievement (Garfield & Isacco, 2006; Gillette & Gudmunson, 2014; Manning & Lamb, 2003; Marks, 2006; Newland et al., 2013), lower rates of participation in violent crime (Mackey & Coney, 2000), participation in illegal gun carrying and drug trafficking (Allen & Lo, 2012), juvenile delinquency (Coley & Medeiros, 2007; Manning & Lamb, 2003), illicit drug use (Bronte-Tinkew et al., 2004; Mandara & Murray, 2006), and recidivism among ex-convicts (Datchi, 2017; Lee et al., 2015; Visher et al., 2013). When men do not actively parent their male children, those children are not only vulnerable to the temptations of crime but also, and more insidiously, they replicate the behavior of their absent fathers. Furthermore, there is some evidence that the role of fatherhood itself may be protective against certain social problems. According to one such study, fatherhood acted as an important turning point toward desistance and a motivator for some male gang members because it gave their lives a sense of purpose beyond the gang life (Moloney et al., 2009). Thus, when investment in the male role of fatherhood is eschewed, a vicious and destructive circle is generated.
The issue of fatherlessness has a history of controversy because of the Moynihan Report (Moynihan, 1965), which some scholars criticize because they claim that it pathologized black culture without addressing structural factors. Other scholars defend it, even calling it “an important and prophetic document” (Wilson, 2009, p. 34). That said, how is fatherlessness related to race in the case of the nexus of homelessness and incarceration? McLanahan (2007) makes the important point that children who grow up without fathers are disadvantaged across a broad range of outcomes, regardless of their race or ethnicity. In fact, they find that race appears to be incidental. Sowell (2011) writes that the social pathologies associated with fatherlessness are felt by Blacks and Whites alike, but the higher rate of fatherlessness among Blacks means that the magnitude of the problem is greater among them. The important point for this study is that absence of fathers has adverse effects on all men, regardless of race or ethnic background.
Homelessness and Incarceration among Men in Trenton
The connections between homelessness and incarceration are manifest and manifold. In trying to make sense of the stories of those men who are currently homeless, the cyclical nature of the causal factors became apparent. That is, it is difficult to establish a phenomenology of homelessness because it is next to impossible to determine precisely which are the effects and which are the causes; and, accordingly, it is challenging to establish a hard and fast causal relationship between homelessness and incarceration. Gowan (2002) conceptualizes this relationship as a nexus; in her words: “the homelessness/incarceration cycle is best theorized as an exclusion/punishment nexus, a racialized space which germinates, isolates, and perpetuates lower-class male marginality” (Gowan, 2002, p. 503). Thus, incarceration leads to homelessness and homelessness leads to incarceration. In the following two sections I shall illustrate the ways that housing insecurity can lead to incarceration and vice versa.
From Housing Insecurity to Incarceration
Our interviews revealed patterns among men experiencing homelessness who are ex-convicts. Most of these men were from broken families in which fathers were absent or only marginally involved in their upbringing. Also, poverty was evident in almost all of the life stories. Consequently, with the absence of a male head of the household, young men turning to criminal activity as a means for supporting the family was a common theme. This activity often started at a young age, which initiated a cycle of criminality, incarceration, and release. Many of the interviews revealed difficult and painful family histories that included violence, abuse, abandonment and rejection.
Our interviewees rarely spoke of positive relations between themselves and their fathers. Their fathers were either absent or were characterized as having a negative influence on their lives. Here is a rare description of a strong father figure among our respondents: My father gets mad when I feel sorry for myself, but he knew the kinda life I had, I didn’t have no good life, as far as what my family said. I be feelin’ sorry for myself sometimes and he don’t like it, so he be like ‘stop feelin’ sorry for yourself, ‘cause that’s not goin’ do nothin’, you gotta just go out there and do it’. (Bob, Black, 45)
What was more common were examples of fathers who were estranged from the family, or who experienced their own struggles with criminality, addiction or both; and, therefore, these young men did not experience fathering in any significant way. John did have a father, but he became a cocaine addict and abandoned the family: He had like four jobs. And my mom really liked that. So they got together, they went to the fair, and they had me in 1986. In ‘86 they went from freebasing cocaine to crack cocaine, and that really got a hold of my dad for the longest time. He moved to Georgia and started a construction company and he literally made a half million dollars in like four or five months, that was in January, and then by December he drove down from Georgia begging my mom to put his name on presents because he had smoked up all his profits. My mom got married to another guy; I ended up having two sisters. (John, White, 31)
Fathers who were violent and abusive also had a negative impact on the lives of some of our respondents. Oscar’s father was an alcoholic, which resulted in him being irresponsible and abusive toward his mother. In his own words, he explains how he did not really have a father: In September, to go to school, we hardly didn’t get no clothes because I had a father and I didn’t have a father. That used to burn me up, he used to come home drunk. “Maria,” Maria is my mom’s name. “Maria, take my boots off.” And that used to bother me, man. Until one day when I turned 15 I was at the house and he come in drunk and wanted my mom to wait on him, I said “Listen that’s your wife. That’s your pride and joy. That’s the woman that gave you us. She should be standing beside you, she’s not your slave”. And I called him a name, I said “Mom, let that bitch take his own boots off.” He was drunk but he got up and knocked me out. I left the house. But then I got introduced to weed, and I started selling weed. My sisters, we never had a Christmas tree, we never had gifts or none of that, but when I started hustling’, I put up a Christmas tree, lot of gifts. (Oscar, Latino, 59)
Some respondents experienced the death of their fathers, which resulted in these young men being lured to the street life, which, correspondingly, impacted their life trajectory: My dad died before I went down to juvie, probably ‘84, ‘85. That’s hard. My mom, she couldn’t really handle me. I was a dude, I was in the streets, rebellious, so. . .. I was caught busy out here in the streets. . .. In and out of prison. I’ve been in and out of prison for more than half my of life. (Carl, Black, 47)
When fathers were absent, young men stepped in to provide for the household. This caused the respondents to participate in crime at a young age; this state of affairs seemed to make crime appear to be normal and thus an ordinary way to make a living, such as in the stories of Gerry and Rafael: We robbed ‘em. That’s what I used to do for money. That’s how my mom supported us, I used to go rob stores, steal cars, all that shit to help my mom support five girls and me. There was only one. It’s her by herself trying to take care of six kids so I was out there selling drugs, stealing cars, doing what I had to do to support my family. To help my mom pay the bills. That’s me being the only man in the house, I thought that was my choice to do ‘cuz I was the only man in the house and there were six women and only me. My job was to take care of them. Puttin’ clothes on my sisters’ backs for school, shoes. . .. I first started helping my mom out with the bills when I was 13 years old. I started selling drugs, weed and then coke and stuff. I started bringing the money in and helping my mom take care of the bills. . .she was working two jobs and trying to take care of us. Most of the time I was at home taking care of my sisters cooking, cleaning, all that while she was at work. My step dad at the time was selling coke, so that’s how I got into it. Until my mom broke up with him. He showed me how to bag it out, how to cook it . . . so I could make money. (Gerry, White Male, 39) My mother and my father are from Puerto Rico. . . I was raised in a single-parent home, my mother raised me, my father wasn’t around until I was roughly sixteen. I went from a poor lifestyle to a kid wanting and having everything he wanted. Change was great, but I started smoking marijuana when I was eight, introduced to drugs at a very young age because my mother sold it, and she was involved with a gentleman who was a kingpin, he manufactured it and sold big quantities of drugs, mainly marijuana because it was the seventies. I started gettin’ involved in illegal activities around twelve, thirteen years old. Sellin’ drugs, stripping cars then sellin’ ‘em, whatever generated money. If it was sellin’ drugs, if it was stealing car parts and sellin’ it. I used to break into houses when I was young. Mainly just jewelry. . .. I started at a young age learning how to take care of myself financially, physically and mentally. I was abused when I was younger by older women, my mom’s friends, my older sister’s friends. I was kind of big for my age, you couldn’t quite tell my age. I had a lot of hair on my face and, I started hangin’ out with the mature crowd, older people, and sellin’ drugs. Sellin’ the jewelry and stuff. I was well connected.” (Rafael, Latino, 48)
In Rafael’s interview, it is clear how crime became a routine and normal way for fatherless boys to earn money to provide for their families. That is, crime is viewed as a moral choice because it is a means of survival. Rafael started selling drugs at 13 years old. Other fatherless boys, like Donny, started a life of crime even younger: I’m really from the projects of Harlem and I used to go out with my Mom to go cop heroin and shit like that at 3 o clock in the morning she’s got a knife I got a knife. I’m fuckin 9 years old and she’s like, ‘if anybody bothers mommy you stab em.’ I’m like ‘alright mommy! I gotcha!’ She’s the one where I learned how to move through the streets and watch yourself. You can’t always trust everybody and you can’t always be friends with everybody and you gotta keep your distance. It’s cool to talk to people and all, but you gotta feed people with a long-handled spoon. (Donny, Black, 50)
As pathological as it may be to have a mother ask her 9-year-old son to defend her with a knife while she takes heroin, other interviewees reported complete family disconnection. Bill, who was literally raised on the streets, described his situation as follows: I ain’t have no mom for one, so I ran to the streets. My mom used to just beat me for nothin’. She ain’t do nothin’ for me. I mean when you young, you around that environment, you see people makin’ money, and you wearin’ these funny clothes? You put yourself right in there, you know what I’m sayin’? You go, ‘I want that, man’ so you go ahead do that. That’s how you get drawn into the streets. I was in the streets all the time, all day, all night. I’m done with that life, man. I’m tryin’ to get a job, I’m tired of that life. (Bill, Black, 45)
In the end, some of our respondents were asked by their extended family to leave the home when they were behaving in ways that the family would not countenance. It is worth noting that the family members with whom they most often lived were women—not men. These women had certain expectations about how the young men were supposed to behave in their homes. When these expectations were not met, they were told to leave; having no other place to go, they oftentimes ended up on the streets. And once they were on the streets, they committed crimes and were arrested. Tito’s case exemplifies this state of affairs: When I got homeless, I used to live with my aunt. She was taking care of me, but she threw me out of her house, so I moved in with my other aunt that lives around the block. . .. But she moved out of her house and I broke in there cause I ain’t had nowhere to stay at. So I put all my clothes in there—in a trash bag—and I had a hamper and . . . and like a week later, I left out of that house, and I got locked up for selling drugs. They caught me with [bags of] dope. . .. I got locked up in Federal Street in East Camden. They caught me out there—the cops.” (Tito, Latino, 30)
From Incarceration to Housing Insecurity
The principal way that incarceration leads to homelessness is through the stigma that is epiphenomenal to being an ex-convict; this stigma is engendered and reinforced at the familial and at the societal levels. Since the men had precarious family situations before prison, it is hardly surprising that they would experience the same after prison. But in addition to that, the men were now ex-cons, a status that leads to stigmatization. Family members looked askance at their formerly incarcerated kin and, even more predictably, obtaining employment and housing was challenging for the ex-offenders. These men are treated as social pariahs. In fact, in 2018, when the overall unemployment rate in the US was around 5%, the unemployment rate of the estimated five million ex-convicts nationwide was 27% (Couloute & Kopf, 2018). Research suggests that employers discriminate against people with criminal records, even when they claim not to be doing so (Couloute & Kopf, 2018). Furthermore, “high unemployment among formerly incarcerated people is not simply explained by the overrepresentation of people of color in the criminal justice system; it’s the status of being formerly incarcerated that sets them apart” (Couloute & Kopf, 2018, n.p.). Housing security is also adversely affected. In our study, several participants told stories of how they lost housing due to incarceration. While they were in prison, changes in their family lives, such as death and divorce, meant that there was no place for them to go when they were finally released. This is what happened to Elmer: I was born in Trenton, NJ, and I became homeless when I was released from incarceration. My family that I was living with was my abuela, my great-grandmother, and she had passed away. Her family had sold the property. So right now I’m struggling to financially afford my own place and I’m going through the situations and the struggles and I’m applying for social services, applying for social security, applying for medication, applying for work. Right now I’m trying to benefit the most I can. (Elmer, Latino, 28)
Having no place to go after prison, some move in with friends and family. This often results in conflict and eventually leads to homelessness, as in the examples of Scott and Lester: When I got out of prison I went back to my ex-girlfriend’s house. I stayed with her for about 5 months. Then her mother came home so I had to get out. Then I went to a buddy’s house that lives in Burlington, New Jersey. I stayed with him for 10 months. You know, basically, friend’s houses. Sometimes I had to sleep outside in the woods, which is not a good thing at all. If I had money, I’d try to get odd jobs. I used to – dad would help me. Cause for like $300 you can get 5 nights. The longest [I was staying in the woods] was a month and a half. I was working. I got out when I went to work, but I didn’t have enough to put down for a hotel or anything like that. So, I had to wait for a month to take the money I got paid. I wouldn’t want anyone to experience [that]. You’re out there laying in grass, weeds, whatever. You don’t know what’s in there. I saw a grey fox one time. I saw racoons. Squirrels. I’m not sure. A big thing. I took off running in the woods. I saw a lot of doe- a lot of deer back there. I brought a tent so I did have a tent. I had a canopy over that. I had two sleeping bags to keep me warm. Some nights did get cold. People were pretty good about getting food. I used to go to ShopRite and they used to give me free food. Same with Wawa, Chick-fil-a. So, there were places that you tell them your story they’re pretty good about that. (Scott, White, 49) At the end of that 4 months when I had gotten out [of prison], I had never even noticed that my mother had sold her home and packed and moved away because my stepfather died on Christmas. And she couldn’t afford to keep up with the mortgage so she just sold the home and she moved to Virginia with my daughter. So I came home to nothing and I stayed on the streets, doing for myself. My family, they just not good to each other. The only stable person I had in my life was my grandmother and I regret leaving her. She wouldn’t have left me in the cold like that but, my mother, I should’ve expected it from her. I grew up where there’s no disposable money. So people are always uptight and gotta live check to check. I understand how edgy they can get because I’ve been through it. I’ve slept on the streets on cold nights. When I had my place, I let them people stay when it’d be cold out, but then when you get out in the cold, you ask them for a place to stay, they can’t help you. Or somebody you helped get out of jail or somebody you helped pay their bills so they wouldn’t be out in the street, when you go back to get it in return, you don’t get it. But for the most part, it’s just I had a bad family. I tried to rise above it and be better than- I ain’t gonna say become better than them, but get my stuff in a better predicament than what they are. Because they put themselves in terrible predicaments and it’s like, the metaphor for the crabs in the basket. They’ll see you about to come up and they’ll do anything to hinder and stop you because it’d be an advancement past them. (Lester, Black, 28)
Other ex-offenders were disowned by their families; consequently, they found themselves homeless upon being released from prison. Oscar experienced the pain of that kind of rejection from family: When you’re in a federal prison, and you’re ready to get parole, they send you to the parole office. She gets on the phone because I put down where I’mma live. In front of me, she calls my sister. I can hear what she’s saying but I can’t speak. And she tells my sister “Hi my name is such and such, I’m from the federal parole board and your brother Oscar gave us your address, that’s where he’s gonna be living when he gets released. He’s gonna be released pretty soon.” And she said “oh no, I don’t want no inmates in my house, there’s a park in front of my house, buy him a tent, put him out there!” I got up and left. I went back to my cell and I cried a little bit. But you know what, weakness, failing, it makes you stronger. That’s just me. A lot of people, they fail, not me. That makes me stronger, So I did another 10 years on top of that. [Then] they had to let me go. And I was over my sister’s house, my other sister, Maria. And the other sister walks in “Oh, Oscar, blah blah blah” and she went to hug me, I sat down. She said “What’s wrong?” I said “Listen, if an inmate can’t live in your house, you can’t hug an inmate”. She said “What are you talking about?” “I was hearing what you told that parole lady 9 years ago, that there’s a park in front of your house, to buy me a tent and put me out there. She started crying. I said “you know what those tears don’t mean nothing to me, for real. Don’t talk to me, don’t say nothing to me” and I walked around and my other sister’s like, they lookin at her and they say “you really did that to him?” I said “yeah the parole board called her she said oh no, she don’t want no inmates living in her house. So, they come up to me “Oscar, please hug her”. Nah, I’m not going to hug her. And I did that on purpose so she could feel like how I felt. Not wanted. Not loved. (Oscar, Latino, 59)
Some men told stories of how they experienced, in a broader sense, the stigma attached to being an ex-convict. Their record of incarceration was like a black mark that barred their entry into both the job and housing markets. Steve refers to this as a “life sentence”: I did my time. But the problem is, after you do time, you still have a life sentence. You still have a record. There are ways to get around that. Like for, I think, $15,000 you can get it blocked after 7 years. After 10 years, for $5,000, you can get it expunged, so you have nothing. But that’s up to the judge. I tried to get it blocked, they said no. So, I got another, what? 3 years to go. I’m gonna see if I can get it expunged. So basically, that’s my life. . .. Some people really don’t want to be bothered. “You’re a criminal.” No, I’m not a criminal. I did what I had to do for a reason. “Well you were in jail. You’re an ex-con.” Well call me what you want. I’ve heard it all. I’m an ex-criminal. An ex-con. I did my time. But it’s a life sentence. I can’t get a job, even if I wanted to. McDonalds turned me down. And they used to hire people like that. But they don’t want a person that’ll cause problems. Which I understand, but they don’t know me. They just know what the paper says and I was honest. “Yes, I’ve been in prison.” What’d you do? I explain what I did and I guess they don’t want that. I’m a liability in these places. (Steve, White, 49)
And even when private sector housing was available to them upon release from prison, some of these new ex-convicts, by force of circumstance, had to reside in the homeless shelter because they did not have enough money to buy food nor to pay the rent and the utility bills. Hank, as is the case with many of our respondents, is a drug addict who routinely uses the shelter even when other housing is available: I was born and raised in Trenton. I was selling drugs and I got locked up. When I came home I couldn’t get welfare anymore because of my drug charge of distribution. I met a girl and she didn’t want me to sell drugs no more so I didn’t return to selling drugs. I ended up getting SSI and I was getting a check from them every month and I had a place to stay again, out on the boulevard of north Trenton, a little room on the side of a store, a couple hundred dollars a month. But in between all of this, I was getting high, smoking weed and drinking. I was staying out there in North Trenton, and still coming here sometimes, if I be in the area, and I didn’t make it home, or I just didn’t want to go home for some reason. I would always come here [to the shelter] and I would sleep, a lot of people they think this place is nasty and there’s a lot of negativity here, but when you come here you always can get something to eat and you always can get you a nice shower. (Hank, Black, 40)
Discussion
The Code of the Street and the Disappearance of the Decent Daddy
It is clear from our interviews that the history and economic structure of Trenton affect the lives of the men who are experiencing homelessness. Limited job opportunities, a lack of affordable housing, and discrimination against ex-convicts are all examples of structural limitations faced by these men. Yet, it is also evident that cultural factors, especially adverse family relationships, contribute significantly to the ensnarement of these men in the matrix of despair caused by the nexus between homelessness and previous incarceration.
Anderson’s (2000) work employs a framework that takes seriously both structural and cultural factors. In a context of limited economic opportunities in poor minority communities, some people develop a rejection of mainstream societal values and instead embrace an oppositional culture that he calls “the code of the street.” That code embodies a hypermasculine ideal, which involves using aggression and violence as tools to acquire respect; accordingly, criminality comes to be viewed as honorable and normative.
In inner city neighborhoods, Anderson finds that there are certain social roles that work against the code of the street. The “old heads” are the elders of the community; these elders try to mitigate against the negative effects of the code of the street by emulating decent behavior and trying to positively influence younger generations. The male variant of the old head is the “decent daddy”. According to Anderson (2000): The decent daddy is a certain kind of man, with certain responsibilities and privileges: to work, to support his family, to rule his household, to protect his daughters, and to raise his sons to be like him, as well as to encourage other young people to demonstrate these qualities too. Today he may be a factory worker, a common laborer, a parking-lot attendant, a taxi driver, or even a local pharmacist, a doctor, lawyer, or professor, striving hard to be a good husband and father. (p. 180)
Anderson shows how this role has persisted through many historical periods. Yet in the face of deindustrialization and the loss of employment opportunities, the role of the decent daddy is withering away. The decent daddy tries to challenge the code of the street, but he is swimming against the tide: Today more and more young men are emerging from socially disorganized home situations, have strongly embraced ‘the street’, and are faced with a high-tech workplace, for which they are usually not qualified, or with the menial-service sector, in which the pay is so low that they are unable to make a living. Many of these young men have had limited or no personal experience with a decent daddy and have little to model themselves on. Hence, they are not at all hesitant to play the role poorly, because they have not been exposed to the original model and thus tend to have a rather narrow perspective on it. (Anderson, 2000, p. 185)
The men interviewed in this study discussed fragmented family relationships, which included, among other things, the absence of strong fathers and other male role models in their lives. In the terminology of Anderson’s work, the decent daddy, is missing for these men. What are the implications of this for them and their futures? Clearly this is related to the nexus between incarceration and homelessness. Without the decent daddy to help them resist the negative influences of the code of the street, they are vulnerable to many of the very factors that that put them in prison in the first place. Also, the absence of the decent daddy perpetuates the cycle of homelessness and incarceration as men are lacking role models to emulate how to be good fathers themselves.
Conclusion: Vulnerable Men and the Crisis of Fatherhood
What to make of the impending disappearance of the decent daddy? Stack’s (1974) seminal work about inner city black families helps us to understand urban kinship networks as adaptive mechanisms that are a response to poverty. Women-centered households and extended networks of kin have become normative in the inner city, and Stack emphasizes how male kin, besides fathers, take on important roles in child rearing. Similarly, Richardson (2009) finds that the role of the uncle is significant and can serve as a social support when the father is absent in the household. But in the case of this study, the men had few male role models in their families, fathers or otherwise. The kin from whom they derived support were female: mothers; aunts; sisters; and grandmothers.
In this article, fatherhood is of utmost concern. But kinship is not the only relevant cultural factor. There is, for example, evidence that when prisoners are released and concentrated in low-income, metropolitan neighborhoods, their “legal cynicism” has a deleterious impact on the culture of these neighborhoods (Kirk, 2016). That is, as ex-convicts tend to have a negative view of the justice system, that view becomes reinforced and pervasive when they are sharing a community with fellow ex-offenders. This means that we must not only look at the significance of family patterns, but also understand relational patterns beyond it, such as the so-called “code of the street” (the shared norms and values) that has its own constructions of gender embedded within it (e.g., Berg et al., 2012; Stewart & Simons, 2010).
There is a male vulnerability present; this belies the dominant narrative that men are to blame for the poverty of women and children, and, therefore, are the unworthy poor (Hatcher, 2013). But, in truth, it is boys who grow up in fatherless households, which are surrounded by other fatherless households, who come to see this state of affairs as normal. It is also boys who grow up learning that to protect their mothers and to assert their masculinity in the household they must participate in behaviors considered masculine in the inner city but that are violent, risky, self-destructive and that may also be illegal. For this they encounter negative feedback, such as excessively punitive treatment, real or perceived, from institutions such as schools and law enforcement (Ferguson, 2001; Rios, 2011). This challenges their masculinity and exacerbates this state of affairs.
Finally, it is important to understand that the nexus between incarceration and homelessness involves not only structural factors such as mass incarceration, housing markets, discrimination, and unemployment—but also cultural ones as well. The origins of these circumstances are not cultural. Indeed, there are multiple historical and structural causes including legacies of racism against minorities in the US, mass incarceration of men of color (e.g., Cooper, 2013), and the effects of the welfare state (e.g., Hatcher, 2013). But once the adaptations to these conditions become normative, they take on a life of their own and are culturally transmitted through family patterns and constructions of manhood. And, therefore, in the inner city, masculinity is in crisis; and this crisis becomes both an effect and a cause of the nexus between homelessness and incarceration.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank The College of New Jersey and the Rescue Mission of Trenton for supporting this research. I am grateful to Winston Lorde for his wise advice and meticulous critique of this article. I also thank David Adler and Malcolm Reynolds for reading and providing feedback, Professor Elizabeth Borland for her sage advice on preparing this manuscript for publication, Mike Lieber for his help recommending sources, Karen Schapira for her thorough copy editing, and David Hamby for his invaluable support at every stage of this project. Finally, a special thanks to the following research assistants from The College of New Jersey: Emma Becker, Brynn Holbrook, Maxine Lopez, Michael Rada, and Carly Teitelbaum. It was a joy and a privilege to work with such bright, talented, and dedicated students. Any shortcomings are mine alone.
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author received the follwing financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: The author received teaching release and administrative support from The College of New Jersey to conduct this research. The author received no other financial support for the research, authorship and/or publication of this article.
