I have heard the term all of my life. I have been labeled “institutional” since the age of 14. It was a year before I’d ever seen or lived inside a juvenile prison. Why was I given this label?
I’ll never forget it. I was on the fourth floor of the Queens County Hospital. The floor nurse walked into my room and saw all of my hygiene products neatly aligned in a categorized row. My bed was made tight and tucked on all four corners and sides. All of my clothes (3 outfits) were folded to a precise retail display form: socks folded, not rolled.
I kept to myself mostly, looking down at pedestrians outside the window along the streets. I had already punched another boy my age while awaiting my bed downstairs in the emergency room. The middle-aged African-American woman did one wall-to-wall scan of my room and diagnosed me with the term “institutional.”
Even as a young teenager, I found this word to be offensive. I knew it was completely wrong! Looking back, I think I can agree with this woman in some ways. Being “institutional” begins far before juvenile detention or adult corrections
