End Youth Criminalization By M

Young people of color are often unfairly labeled as “bad” or “dangerous,” a harmful stereotype I’ve personally encountered. These stereotypes do more than misrepresent individuals—they impact entire communities by shaping how we are perceived and how we begin to see ourselves. As an undocumented student in the United States, I’ve faced the unique and difficult challenges that come with that identity, all while navigating a system that is working against me. In low-income communities, these negative assumptions can be so deeply internalized that young people start to believe them, accepting the idea that they are destined to be “troublemakers” or criminals. This internalized stigma can push some into behaviors society is quick to condemn, without ever addressing the root causes or systemic pressures behind them. Young people are being stereotyped as “bad kids” or “dangerous,” which is setting them up for failure through the school-to-prison pipeline.

One of the earliest challenges I faced was being stereotyped as a “bad kid” simply because of where I grew up. The city had been labeled “dangerous” in previous years, and that reputation followed its residents—especially the youth. When I first moved there, I noticed that many of my peers were constantly judged and treated as troublemakers, to the point where they internalized those labels and began acting in ways that aligned with the negative expectations placed on them. I wasn’t immune to this. Despite not believing I was a bad kid, the constant stereotyping and external judgment eventually shaped how I saw myself and how I behaved.

Over time, I came to understand that I wasn’t just dealing with individual prejudice—I was caught in a larger, systemic cycle that affected my entire community. This cycle of systemic oppression fostered low expectations, under-resourced schools, and environments that failed to support or uplift students. My school, like many others in similar areas, lacked the curriculum, resources, and empathy needed to address the real challenges students were facing. Education became difficult to navigate, not because I lacked the desire to learn, but because the system wasn’t built to support students like me.

The system’s failures are complex—it punishes symptoms without addressing causes. Rather than asking why students were acting out or struggling, schools often responded with discipline instead of compassion. This lack of understanding only deepened the cycle. What I experienced wasn’t just about being mislabeled; it was about surviving in a system that seemed designed to limit rather than empower.

I am also an undocumented student who had to survive within a complex and unfamiliar system—one I didn’t fully understand, and one that worked against me from the beginning. When I first entered the U.S. school system at age 14, I was placed in a lower grade than I should have been—7th instead of 8th—simply because I didn’t speak English. Rather than providing the language support I needed, the school placed me in a classroom with other Spanish-speaking students from various backgrounds, assuming we could all communicate. But I couldn’t speak Spanish either, and I was left without a way to connect, communicate, or participate fully. Adding to this, we were expected to read and understand English texts without any meaningful language instruction or accommodations.

Navigating this system became a deeply isolating experience. I had to learn how to survive academically and socially on my own. Most of my peers didn’t want to befriend me because I was from an island and looked different, and even when someone tried to connect with me, I struggled to communicate. On top of the harmful stereotypes I had already internalized, I now faced explicit racism and discrimination for simply being different.

Yet despite these barriers, I continued to fight. I began seeking out new ways to navigate a system that was clearly not built for students like me. While the pain and harm were real, so was my determination. My experience taught me that resilience doesn’t mean ignoring injustice—it means finding ways to move forward while challenging the structures that make survival so difficult in the first place.

Growing up undocumented in a culturally traditional household came with layers of difficulty that often felt overwhelming. My parents held tightly to deeply rooted values—many of which imposed toxic expectations that were forced onto me and my siblings. As the eldest child and the first-generation member of my family, I carried the weight of both responsibility and representation. I was expected to be a role model, a second parent, and a caretaker to my four younger siblings—all while trying to navigate the American education system and adapt to a culture vastly different from my own.

These responsibilities weren’t simply challenging—they were burdensome. I was expected to step into the role of a mother from a young age, often sacrificing my own well-being and emotional development in the process. My relationship with my parents was strained and disconnected. Rather than being seen or supported, I was treated more like an object of obligation, subjected to rigid expectations and constant judgment. Their stereotypical assumptions about me only deepened my sense of isolation. And with no support from school—the one place that should have offered safety and guidance—I found myself lost.

Eventually, the emotional toll caught up with me. I began turning to substances and acting out—not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t know how else to cope. I didn’t have the language or tools to understand my pain, much less process it. I was simply surviving with what I had learned, even when those learned behaviors were harmful. For a long time, I internalized the belief that something was wrong with me. But over time, I came to see that the issue wasn’t me—it was the system of injustice I had been born into, including within my own household.

I never had a safe space to express myself. In fact, showing emotion was often seen as weakness or disobedience. As a result, I adopted harmful coping mechanisms and internalized toxic behaviors, believing they were normal. Now, I’m in the process of unlearning those patterns. I’ve come to understand that healing requires reflection, courage, and the willingness to question the beliefs I was raised with. My journey is still ongoing, but I now recognize that I was doing the best I could to survive in an environment that gave me very few options.

Throughout the years, I never stopped searching for spaces—and people—that could truly support me. Deep down, I knew something in me was hurting, but I also felt a quiet strength that kept pushing me forward, even when I was lost. In 2020, at the age of 16 and still struggling through high school and harmful stereotypes in both my community and the broader system, I found a nonprofit dedicated to creating safe spaces and fostering the personal growth of young people.

Discovering this nonprofit was a turning point in my life. For the first time, I felt seen, challenged in a healthy way, and supported in my development. The journey wasn’t easy, but it was transformative. Within this space, I began to heal, grow, and unlearn many of the harmful beliefs I had internalized—beliefs shaped by my upbringing, by systemic oppression, and by the survival mindset I had carried for years.

This nonprofit became the community and sense of family I had always longed for. What started as a place to receive support soon became a space where I could offer it to others. I entered as a participant and grew through their leadership pipeline. Today, I serve in a leadership position at the organization, mentoring and guiding other young people who, like me, are navigating complex personal and systemic challenges. 

I am deeply grateful for what the organization has given me: a path to healing, purpose, and collective empowerment. It helped me see that my experiences are not just about survival—they are also about transformation, leadership, and building something better for the next generation.

In conclusion, I want to reaffirm my central argument: schools often lack the necessary resources to support young people, particularly when it comes to creating safe environments and developing systems that address students' internal struggles. As an undocumented student, navigating school can feel isolating—especially when you're unable to fully understand the language or the curriculum. This disconnect makes it even more difficult to feel seen or supported. Schools must implement dedicated systems that respond to the unique needs of undocumented students and others who are internally struggling with their identity and sense of belonging. In contrast to my school experience, the nonprofit I work for provided the support, community, and resources I needed to grow. It helped shift my perspective and allowed me to thrive in ways the school system failed to. Rather than working against students like me, schools should be working to uplift us.