Javier Stauring learned that troubled youths 'weren't so different' from him
| Los Angeles
In 2005, Javier Stauring was giving a presentation about the American juvenile justice system to an international conference in Germany when one of his comments caused a stir.
鈥淚 had said, 鈥業n California we give life sentences to 14-year-olds,鈥� and since it was being translated to everyone wearing headphones, they all turned around to ask the translators for a repeat, as if they had mistranslated,鈥� he says. 鈥淎fter they found out I had not misspoken, they gathered around me dumbfounded to press me, 鈥楬ow can this be?鈥�
鈥淥ne woman said, 鈥榃e live in the land of the Holocaust, and we look to the US as the model of what can and should be achieved in people being able to turn their lives around. How sad that you cannot give your own children that chance.鈥� 鈥�
The story reminded Mr. Stauring of his shock the first time he visited a children鈥檚 unit at the Los Angeles Central Jail in 2001. He found 14-year-olds in isolation in dark cells, almost 24 hours a day, for months at a time.
After having a conversation through a thin hole with a young girl in solitary confinement who was curled up on a bunk next to a stainless steel sink and toilet, he told her he would do whatever it took to get her out of there.
But when he began trying, he found a judicial detention system that for years had been increasing penalties for youths.
In the early 2000s, tens of thousands of children were locked up in youth detention centers in California, and hundreds sentenced to life in prison with no chance of release. For about two decades, practically all new laws regarding children and crime moved toward harsher penalties and longer sentences. The millions of dollars invested in building more and larger prisons far exceeded what went to schools and crime-prevention programs.
The attitude Stauring ran into was 鈥渋f the kids are old enough to do the crime, they鈥檙e old enough to do the time.鈥�
It was Stauring鈥檚 mother who thought that he should visit youths in prison. She volunteered at her church and thought some volunteer work would do her adult son some good. At the time he was working as a salesman in the jewelry business.
鈥淚t didn鈥檛 make much sense to me,鈥� Stauring says. 鈥淕iving up my weekends to go to jail when I could be at the beach or watching football on TV. And I was scared. I had seen those kids on the news, gang members killing innocent folks.鈥�
After his first visit, he told a nun, Sister Janet Harris, that he didn鈥檛 think this work was for him because he wasn鈥檛 religious and he had never been in jail. Sister Harris told him to keep going and see what happened.
Over time, Stauring found that he began to identify with the youths he visited. Born in Los Angeles, he had moved to Mexico when he was 9 after his father died. There he got a good dose of what it felt like to be an outsider. He was the foreigner, the 鈥済ringo,鈥� who didn鈥檛 speak Spanish well. Everybody else at his school had a father.
During his teenage years in Monterrey, Mexico, Stauring started hanging out with older boys who started fights to prove how tough they were. When he was 19, his family moved back to Los Angeles.
鈥淚 think my life on the streets in Mexico helped me understand the children I found in L.A. jails,鈥� he says. 鈥淲hen they told me about feeling alone and vulnerable, I realized they weren鈥檛 so different from how I was as a child.鈥�
But the real eye-opener came when he accompanied youths to court. 鈥淚 had gotten to know them and their stories of loss and pain,鈥� he says. 鈥淭o sit next to them when they got 75 years in prison was shocking. I felt I owed it to them to fight for their rights.鈥�
A few years later, Stauring quit his well-paying job as a jeweler because he felt the ironic contrast of meeting with gem dealers by day 鈥� whose eyes were on million-dollar sales 鈥� and then 14-year-olds at night, some of whom had just been given life sentences.
鈥淚 felt I had to use my time and energy on what felt meaningful,鈥� he says. Now he spends his time accompanying youths in and out of court, meeting with them in prison, and counseling their families.
He also speaks at schools, universities, and churches, where he often brings along former youth prisoners so that his audiences can hear their stories firsthand.
He calls what he does a pastorship of direct ministry.
鈥淲e call it a ministry of presence because it鈥檚 not going into these juvenile facilities and trying to convert them, or see them as broken kids that need fixing, but rather actually going in there understanding that they are exactly what God created them to be, and that we can reflect that goodness back to them,鈥� he says.
鈥淭hey have been told over and over that they are not worth anything and that they are easily disposable,鈥� he says. 鈥淪o coming in and asking 鈥榃hat鈥檚 going on?鈥� 鈥楬ow are you doing?鈥� is showing that people care.鈥�
Being there and listening is 鈥渕ore the expression of God鈥檚 unconditional love than simply handing them a Bible, and saying, 鈥楬ere, read this [chapter and verse] on how God loves you,鈥� 鈥� he says.
Stauring also cofounded a program called Healing Dialogues and Action. It brings together families who have had a loved one murdered with those who have had a family member sentenced to life in prison while still a child.
鈥淭his is an opportunity for folks to share their stories and have their stories listened to,鈥� he says.
It is the act of compassionate listening that gets people to open up to new ideas and healing perspectives they couldn鈥檛 have imagined any other way, Stauring says.
At one meeting held last March a group of six mothers, none of whom spoke English as a first language, consisted of two Koreans, one Vietnamese, and three Latinas. After one of them, Juanita, talked openly about the pain of losing her murdered daughter and granddaughter, another, a Vietnamese named Meina, spoke of her son Chris serving a life sentence without parole for murder.
鈥淵ou know, you deserve to cry, but I feel like I don鈥檛,鈥� Meina says. But Juanita replied, 鈥淵ou not only deserve to be crying because you lost a son as well but should be doing everything you can to get your son out of prison one day. And I will help you.鈥�
Today Stauring is codirector of the Office of Restorative Justice, a part of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Los Angeles, and has received accolades going back more than a decade. In 2003, he was one of three honorees recognized by Human Rights Watch, a nongovernmental organization that investigates human rights abuses worldwide. The group cited his 鈥済reat courage鈥� in being an advocate for juveniles held in adult jails and demanding government reforms.
He also is one of three candidates for the 2015 World鈥檚 Children鈥檚 Prize, selected by a jury of children from 15 countries. The WCP program is the world鈥檚 largest rights and democracy education initiative for children.
鈥淛avier is quite outstanding. The greatest [description] I attribute to him is advocate and peacemaker,鈥� says Sister Mary Sean Hodges, a Catholic nun who runs a network of halfway houses for paroled convicts in South Central Los Angeles. 鈥淗e is passionate in his life in both areas, [and] he is a staunch advocate for youth.鈥�
Stauring has worked closely with interfaith leaders to pass Senate Bill 260, a state law that went into effect Jan. 1, 2014. It gives a second chance to most youths who were under the age of 18 at the time of their crime, tried as an adult, and sentenced to an adult prison sentence.
SB 260 holds young people responsible for the crimes they committed, but it recognizes that youths are not the same as adults and gives them a chance to demonstrate remorse and rehabilitation.
鈥� Learn more about the work of Javier Stauring and the Office of Restorative Justice at
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