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“Opponents are quick to blame Raise the Age for remaining violence, but the real failure isn’t the law—it’s the reality that our neighborhoods have been systematically stripped of resources.”
As a teenager, I carried a gun. Not with the intention to hurt anyone—I knew it was dangerous—but because I was scared of being jumped, robbed, or killed—things that had already happened to people I knew.
But it wasn’t just fear. I felt lost. I didn’t see a future—only threats. There weren’t people around to show me something different, just other kids trying to figure it out, too.
In wealthier neighborhoods, kids walked home past community centers, parks, and after-school programs. Where I lived in the Bronx, it was liquor stores, fast food joints, and police. There was no safe place to ask questions. Whether it was needing help getting out of a gang or just someone to talk to after a fight at school, we had no trusted adults or services to turn to.
When I was 22, I was arrested for gun possession and sent to Rikers. At Rikers, my fear only intensified, turning into anger and leaving me more disconnected.
After spending eight months on Rikers, what finally gave me a new way forward was an alternative-to-incarceration program (ATI) run by the Fortune Society that I entered as part of a plea deal.
When I first started the program, I was skeptical and detached. I showed up late, arms crossed, thinking it was just another box I had to check to stay out of jail. Most of us don’t trust the help of these programs at first. But Fortune’s goal with the program wasn’t punishment—it was to teach skills that would allow me to take accountability and correct course. After so many systems let you down, it takes time to believe someone actually wants to see you do better.
As the mentors in the program showed me care—not judgment—I soon realized this was my positive path forward. They provided me real guidance and opportunities, including a job as a community navigator that was flexible enough for me to fulfill my court-mandated program hours while also earning a paycheck.
The program helped me own what I did, understand what led to it, and determine what I’d have to do differently moving forward. Jail never gave me that.
I’ve seen the same story play out with kids I grew up with. Just as I eventually got through an ATI program, the ones who received support—a mentor, a safe space, an opportunity—moved forward. The ones who didn’t often ended up dead or incarcerated with records that shut doors before they got a chance.
After completing the program, I became a certified peer mentor, working to help other system-involved young people learn and grow like I did. I’m also now a member of the Youth Justice Council (YJC) convened by the Legal Action Center, using my experience to push for smarter, more humane justice policies at large.
Recently, during an exercise with the YJC, I was asked what would make my neighborhood feel safe. I didn’t hesitate: youth drop-in centers with credible messengers, mental health clinics, after-school art programs, paid internships, and summer jobs—safe spaces run by people who truly care.
But, despite proven benefits of investing in supports, we are once again witnessing calls for increased surveillance and harsh punishment of Black and brown youth. In the past, such punitive approaches didn’t stop violence, but instead devastated our already under-resourced communities and further eroded any trust in law enforcement.
For instance, Raise the Age—a law based on the understanding that young people are still developing and need guidance, not jail—is under attack. Since New York State enacted Raise the Age (RTA) in 2018, youth arrests for violent crimes have gone down significantly: felony assault arrests dropped from about 15 percent in 2006 to just 4 percent in 2022.
Opponents are quick to blame RTA for remaining violence, but the real failure isn’t the law—it’s the reality that our neighborhoods have been systematically stripped of resources. Since RTA passed, lawmakers have set aside $1.7 billion to fund community programs, mentors, and alternatives to incarceration. But now, years later, less than 40 percent has been spent—and of the dollars used, the majority has covered detention and administration costs, not the community-based services we were promised. And New York City isn’t even eligible to receive these funds from the state.
Looking back on my journey, it’s clear to me that real safety means investing in young people. Community-based programming helped me grow into the leader I am today. Now, I work to help others and expand the programs that I know from firsthand experience are key to transforming lives, improving public safety, and building strong communities. That’s what keeps all of us safe.
Corinthian Black is a community navigator with the Fortune Society and a member of the Youth Justice Council at the Legal Action Center.