WP3: Love Ethics & School-to-Prison Pipeline on the South Side of Chicago

By Raven Thomas

Growing up on the South Side of Chicago is not only a geographical heritage — it’s a spiritual, emotional, and psychological formation of who you identify as and how you interact with the world. Its playing in my grandmother’s neighborhood park and 30 mins later hearing gunshots in that same park. It’s being taught how to speak to police officers before you’re taught how to multiply. It’s watching your classmates disappear — not because they moved, but because they were suspended, arrested, or simply never given a second chance. When people reference the school-to-prison pipeline, they sometimes speak in statistics. I speak in names and memories.

It took me years to understand that the thing I was craving in my schools and in my neighborhood was love — not in a romantic sense, but in the way bell hooks described it: as “the will to extend oneself for the purpose of nursing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.” She wrote that love is an action, an ethic, and ultimately, a healing force. I see now that the school to prison pipeline thrives not just on discipline and surveillance — but on the absence of love, care, and belief in our worth.

The school-to-prison pipeline is not just a phrase — it is a reality for so many minority youth, especially on the South Side of Chicago. From the zero-tolerance policies that treat children like criminals, to the underfunded schools with more security guards than counselors, to the school curriculum that erases our history and a grading system that punishes trauma responses, to the police stationed at school entrances and metal detectors replacing warm welcomes, to the way Black boys and girls were labelled “aggressive” before they ever got the chance to be understood. These are all normal and expected behaviors for the quality of education for these children. I have seen it before my own eyes, and I have seen friends — brilliant, sensitive, creative — be mislabeled, misjudged, and ultimately misled into system that was never built for their flourishing. A direct example of this can be found at my high school, Kenwood Academy. They had a “no white t-shirt” rule as a way to deter gang activity on school grounds — even though white is supposed to be the one color that is neutral, but I digress. The punishment was rather severe for its offenders; it included of Saturday school detention, in-school suspension, and in some cases, out-of-school suspension — all for a piece of clothing.

In WP2, I interviewed Jakobe Gilmore, another South Side of Chicago native. In our podcast we discussed multiple topics surrounding the school-to-prison pipeline systems including how it is reflected in minority communities quality of education, school policies and how they affect students, the historical impacts on the Black community and how the trauma has been inter-generationally transmuted, home-life and its impacts on schooling, policies set in place pushing the youth toward jail cells, and a plethora of other foundational issues that is causing this pipeline to flourish. Jakobe shared specific examples of seeing friends being labelled as “disruptive”, pulled out of the classroom, and even entered into juvenile detention — all because teachers and faculty did not make the attempt to understand them and the reasons why they are misbehaving. Everything has a reason behind it and with deeper investigation, you can find the answers you are looking for. Thus, these children do not need punishment — they need mentorship, patience, care, and abundant opportunities that allow them to expand their knowledge.

My work is rooted in love. Love as radical, political, ancestral, personal. My goal is to creat safe spaces where young people can be seen, celebrated, challenged, supported, stimulated, and heard. I know what it is like to have ideas but no outlet, dreams but no guidance. I did not get here because the system supported me — I got here in spite of it. Because of my community’s resilience, knowing that systems were built to see our demise, and the deep belief that our lives matter, it fuels my rage and passion for the strive for change and improvement for education in minority communities.

Spiritually, this work is sacred to me. I carry the prayers of grandmothers and great-grandmothers who marched, of uncles who served time, of cousins who still try yo make sense of a word that policies their every move. I speak not for them, but with them My impact lied in giving language to pain, and also to joy. Be cause we are not just trauma — we are laughter, style, rhythm, brilliance, groove, soul. We survive in the most beautiful of ways.

When there is no love, there is no curiosity, no patience, and no room to grow. But when I look at my own life — when I trace the line from who I was as a young girl to who I am now — I see moments where live broke the pattern. A counselor who actually asked me how I was doing instead of dismissing me and labeling me another “lazy” kid. A teacher who encouraged me to write what I felt, not just what was assigned. My village who picked me up and fed me when my mom worked late. These moments weren’t just kind — they were radical. They told me: you matter. And that reminder helped me push against the pull of systems designed to erase me.

The love ethic bell hooks speaks of isn’t soft or sentimental — it’s disciplined and requires intention. It means choosing to see the humanity in people even when society doesn’t. It means recognizing that our children’s outburst are often cries for help, that their defiance is often defense, and that their silence is often sorrow. Without a love ethic, schools become carceral spaces. With it, they become sanctuaries. In order to build schools based in love, care, and support for these children, that would mean replacing suspension with restorative justice, replacing SROs (School Resource Officers) with therapists, social workers, and community elders, and teaching the youth emotional literacy — and not just algebra. The impact of a love ethic on the school-to-prison pipeline would be seismic. It says, “ I see you. And I care enough to understand you.” A school infused with love does not need to rely on punishment to maintain order. Instead, it creates a culture where students are responsible for one another, where harm is acknowledged and repaired, and where the youth feel safe enough to dream.

Emotionally, this work breaks me and builds me. I cry for those we have lost. I rage at the continued and increasing violence. But I also smile at the ways we continue to create, to resist, to shine. For example, a friend of mine, Cohen Waters, started an organization called D.A.P.S. (Displaced Alliance 4 Pan-Afrikan Socialists; @daps4thaland on Instagram) where he focuses on the uplifting of the Black community by educating his audience on Black Chicago history, hosting community clean ups in minority communities, posting mutual aid emergencies funds due to employment issues to his social media accounts, and a plethora of other community-based and driven opportunities.

This is not solidarity — it is accountability. The school-to-prison pipeline is a result of intentional policies rooted in white supremacy and anti-Blackness. Dismantling it required more than just reform — it requires reimagining and acknowledging the broken foundation it was built on. I contribute to that reimagination but showing what is possible when we center joy, believe in young people, and listen to understand and not just to respond. I partner with educators, community organizations, and artists to build bridges between healing and justice.

I know that changing the system is a long road. But I also know that every story told, youth believed in, and policy challenged adds to the overall ripple of change. My contribution is one drop but it is apart of the rising tide — a tide of young people who know their worth, fight back, write their own futures, and forge paths for future generations.

To those reading this: Don’t look away. Don’t see the South Side of Chicago as a statistic, see it as a source. A source of creativity, culture, and revolution. And when we talk about the school-to-prison pipeline, let’s not just talk about what is broken. Let’s talk about what we are building instead: safe schools, restorative justice, curricula that reflect our truths, and communities that raise children with care, not cages. I am part of that movement. I speak, write, create, mentor and advocate. And I will relentlessly persevere because every young person deserves more than survival — they deserve liberation and peace.