Justice for the Poor or Poorer Justice?

An investigation of the “dangers of community” in restorative justice through a class-focused lens.

Roxana Willis

DPhil Candidate in Law St Edmund Hall, The University of Oxford

roxana.willis@law.ox.ac.uk

Word Count: 98, 515 words In fulfilment of the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

Hilary 2017

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Acknowledgements

Corby folk have inspired this work; I would not wish my home to be anywhere else. I would therefore like to start by thanking the many participants who spent time with me during this research, helping me shape the study and discover the narrative. I am especially grateful to my father’s inspirational community, the young people who took part, and the Youth Offending Services and Corby Borough Council. A special thanks to Darren, Gary, Mandy, Mike, Liz, Sandy, Gordon, Snoddy, Rena, Carol, and Mia. I was fortunate to have two stellar supervisors who believed in me, Carolyn Hoyle and Alpa Parmar. Their detailed feedback on my work, and lively supervisory discussions, was invaluable. Carolyn and Alpa’s dedication to the supervisory role, going above and beyond the call of duty for four years, gave me a rare shot at an academic career – thank you both so much. Generous financial support from St Edmund Hall, William R. Miller, and the Leverhulme Trust made pursuing this study possible. I further benefited from educational grants from The Ruby and George Will Trust, The Rowlett Trust, and Soroptimist International. Bodies such as these are essential to diversify participation in academia. My examiners have also been instrumental to the development of this study. I would like to thank my Confirmation of Status examiners, Rachel Condry and David Mills, who provided much needed guidance at a difficult time. And I will always remember the day Shadd Maruna and Ben Bradford awarded me the doctorate (and made my mother cry (with happiness)). I am also grateful to the academic support of Mavis Maclean, John Fitzpatrick, Nick Foster, and Peter Muchlinski, who built up my confidence over the years to pursue the doctorate. Lastly, thanks and love to my family and friends – I could not have done this without you. I was blessed with the most amazing parents and quirkiest siblings: Paul, Nikki, Kit, Jenai, Tamara, Ashley, and Paul-Nicholas. And finally, to the person who has endured the most earache, my partner James – thank you for listening to my endless ramblings and reading bottomless drafts. Hopefully this can be the start of many more ramblings and drafts to come.

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Dedication

In loving memory of Paul on the Van

My best friend, my soul mate, my father.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT....................................................................................................................6

INTRODUCTION ....................................................................................................... 7

CHAPTER 1: COMMUNITY IN RESTORATIVE JUSTICE .................................. 14 1.1. The purist process-orientated definition ......................................................................................... 17

1.1.1. Stakeholders .................................................................................................................................... 17 1.1.2. The restorative justice process ........................................................................................................... 24

1.2. The maximalist outcome-orientated definition .............................................................................. 26 1.2.1. Community of place revisited ............................................................................................................ 28 1.2.2. Walgrave on community .................................................................................................................. 34 1.2.3. The State and Restorative Justice ..................................................................................................... 50

1.3. Chapter summary ................................................................................................................................ 52

CHAPTER 2: A RETURN TO CLASS ..................................................................... 55 2.1. Returning to class ................................................................................................................................ 56 2.2. Bourdieu on class ................................................................................................................................ 60

2.2.1. The scholastic field ........................................................................................................................... 66 2.2.2. The street field ................................................................................................................................. 72

2.3. An intersectional perspective ............................................................................................................ 81 2.4. Chapter summary ................................................................................................................................ 84

CHAPTER 3: RESEARCH METHODS .................................................................. 87 3.1. Choosing ethnography ....................................................................................................................... 88 3.2. The research site: going home ........................................................................................................... 91

3.2.1. Welcome to Corby ........................................................................................................................... 94 3.2.2. The Lincoln Estate ......................................................................................................................... 97 3.2.3. Restorative justice in Corby ............................................................................................................ 100

3.3. Methods .............................................................................................................................................. 103 3.3.1. Observations ................................................................................................................................. 104 3.3.2. Interviews ...................................................................................................................................... 110 3.3.3. Documents .................................................................................................................................... 113

3.4. Data analysis ....................................................................................................................................... 113 3.5. Presentation of data .......................................................................................................................... 114 3.6. The “inside” researcher .................................................................................................................... 118

3.6.1. My Positionality ............................................................................................................................ 120 3.7. Chapter summary .............................................................................................................................. 121

CHAPTER 4: A CORBY LIFE ................................................................................. 124

From schoolyard to factory gate ............................................................................... 125

Starting a family: Decent & street ............................................................................ 139 4.1. Gender roles and parenthood ......................................................................................................... 151

Helping out a mate ................................................................................................... 160

Resolving conflict ..................................................................................................... 172 4.2. Words hurt ......................................................................................................................................... 175 4.3. Violence hurts too ............................................................................................................................. 181

4.3.1. Standing up to bullies .................................................................................................................... 185 4.4. Calling the police ............................................................................................................................... 188

4.4.1. Legal cynicism ............................................................................................................................... 189 4.5. Ethnic outsiders ................................................................................................................................. 193 4.6. Letting go ............................................................................................................................................ 197 4.7. Teenage conflict ................................................................................................................................ 201

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Healthy body, healthy mind .................................................................................... 205 4.8. Concluding summary ........................................................................................................................ 210

CHAPTER 5: THE DANGERS OF COMMUNITY .............................................. 213

Who is involved in restorative justice? ..................................................................... 217 5.1. Offenders: Explored through Drew and Ben ............................................................................... 217 5.2. Victims: Explored through John and Chloe ................................................................................. 226 5.3. Volunteers: Explored through Susan and Harriet ........................................................................ 232 5.4. Section summary ............................................................................................................................... 240

Is restorative justice an arena for symbolic violence? .............................................. 241 5.5. A preference for legitimate cultural capital ................................................................................... 243 5.6. Communication: An unequal playing field .................................................................................... 250 5.7. Section summary ............................................................................................................................... 265

Affirming which norms? .......................................................................................... 267 5.8. Scholastic norms and street norms ................................................................................................. 268 5.9. Bridging social capital ....................................................................................................................... 278 5.10. Section summary ................................................................................................................................ 283

Protecting whose rights? ......................................................................................... 285 5.11. Perceptions of participants: Decent & street ................................................................................ 286 5.12. (Dis)proportional outcomes ............................................................................................................ 296 5.13. Chapter summary .............................................................................................................................. 302

CONCLUDING REFLECTIONS ........................................................................... 305

BIBLIOGRAPHY ....................................................................................................... 312

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Abstract

This study investigates unaddressed claims about the apparent dangers of community

participation in restorative justice. I begin by reviewing the restorative justice literature, and

examining how community has been understood by restorative justice scholars: one view

emphasises the relational community of care, another view emphasises the geographical

community of place, and a third view expresses caution about community due to its alleged

dangers. I suggest that the purported dangers of community are rooted in differential power

relations and exclusion. In order to assess these claims, I develop a conceptual framework

based on the scholarship of Pierre Bourdieu. Instead of determining class only by employment

status, Bourdieu demonstrates that who one knows (social capital), and what knowledge and

skills one has learnt (cultural capital) have important bearings on advantage.

The empirical arm of my project examines the “dangers of community” via a unique,

two-part ethnography of restorative justice in my hometown, Corby, England. This

ethnography begins by providing a class analysis of life and conflict on my estate, incorporating

“offline” observations and a dataset of 4,411 social media exchanges. The second part of the

ethnography builds on data collected through year-long participation in two restorative justice

initiatives in the town, including observations of 13 restorative justice conferences, 35 youth

offender panels, and 77 interviews. Thus, the first part of the ethnography contextualises the

second, giving nuance and depth to my account. By this combination of approaches, I explore

how restorative justice initiatives play out within a working-class community, and both when

and why the dangers of community appear to surface.

To conclude, I argue that while restorative justice has great potential, in its current

state – without adequate legal safeguards – it offers an inadequate form of justice to

disadvantaged members of society.

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Introduction

In the abundant literature on restorative justice, minimal attention has been afforded to

addressing its critics empirically. Much of the literature has assessed the benefits of restorative

justice, in a commendable attempt to find fairer criminal justice responses against a tide of

increasing penal populism, which heavily impacts on the most disadvantaged in society.

However, within this enthusiasm, unintended risks have escaped critical view, and, contra the

claims of Brathwaite, restorative justice may in fact worsen inequality (1996a: 87; Braithwaite

and Parker, 1999a: 108–109). The most pertinent critiques of restorative justice have surfaced

in the debate on the role of community, in which one camp asserts that the “dangers of

community” are too acute, and therefore that greater attention ought to be given to

safeguarding participants’ rights through state involvement in restorative processes. My study

replies to these critics by investigating the “dangers of community” in restorative justice.

Restorative justice is commonly understood as a response to crime that involves

victims, offenders, and community members meeting to discuss the implications of an offence

(Marshall, 1999: 5). Despite its central place in restorative justice theory, what is meant by

“community” is not always clear. A dominant school of thought in restorative justice conceives

“community” as the community of care, which consists of individuals with pre-existing

relationships to the victims and offenders of a particular conflict (Braithwaite, 1989; McCold,

2004; McCold and Wachtel, 1998a; Morris and Maxwell, 2001; Morris and Young, 2000;

Robinson and Shapland, 2008). An alternative approach to community embraces a

geographical understanding, the community of place, which comprises residents from the local

area volunteering to participate in restorative justice processes, alongside victims, offenders,

and the community of care (Bazemore and Schiff, 2001, 2005b; Clear and Karp, 1999).

Understanding community as consisting of volunteers from a particular locale appears to be

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an Anglo-American phenomenon, and it may have limited applicability in continental Europe

(Shapland, 2008). What is common to advocates of both these conceptions of community,

however, is an emphasis on the benefits of community involvement in restorative justice.

Despite this optimism, a third perspective of community takes a much different tone.

Instead of emphasising the virtues of community involvement in restorative justice, the third

approach draws our attention to a range of problems that stem from community per se

(Ashworth, 1993, 2001, 2002; Crawford, 2002; Walgrave, 2002a, 2008). The purported

“dangers of community” include the unrepresentativeness of community volunteers; the

unequal positions of participants involved; fears that relational ties are insufficient to induce

norm enforcement; appeals to the exclusionary and suppressive nature of community; and the

potential for restorative justice processes to deliver unequal outcomes, which neglect legal

safeguards. Arguably, these dangers are rooted in notions of power and exclusion, which are

theoretically and empirically underexplored. Therefore, I fill this gap by examining community

involvement in restorative justice through a class-focused lens.

My conceptual framework for this task is influenced by the work of Pierre Bourdieu,

who uses the notion of class to explain how power, advantage, and dominance are socialised

phenomena (1984, 1986b). Bourdieu demonstrates how class advantage originates from a

stock of resources that social beings acquire over their lifetimes, which includes economic

capital, social capital, and cultural capital. Put somewhat crudely, economic capital relates to

what we have, social capital to whom we know, and cultural capital to what we know and like. Whereas

economic and social advantages are more clearly visible, cultural capital can become embodied

by persons and hence this source of privilege is easily overlooked. Once cultural capital is

embodied, it forms part of who we are, which Bourdieu explicates in terms of “habitus”. Since

capitals have a generative effect, Bourdieu illustrates how they can be employed, and thus the

habitus can operate, to acquire further advantage in different social contexts, or “fields” in his

terminology.

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Building on secondary literature from education, sociology, and criminology, I extend

my exposition of Bourdieu in two ways, first, in relation to the development of “the scholastic

field” (Lareau, 2011), and second, the “street field” (Anderson, 1999). The scholastic field

describes the social sphere of scholarly endeavours, which has its own autonomous normative

structure. Since middle-class capitals and habitus are well-suited to the scholastic field, middle-

class individuals tend to outperform working-class individuals in such environments. An

alternative normative order, however, dominates in disadvantaged neighbourhoods, which I

refer to as “street field”. Working-class persons must navigate these street spaces, and thus

they acquire capitals and habitus that are suited to surviving, and indeed thriving, in these

conditions.

With the aid of my conceptual framework, I argue the following. Restorative justice is

a formulaic and dialogue-strong process, which requires participants to meet standards akin to

those of the scholastic field. Consequently, restorative justice risks empowering middle-class

participants, whose capitals and habitus are well suited to this field, to the detriment of

working-class participants who may struggle to meet what are commonly middle-class

standards.

Following my development of the notions of scholastic and street fields, I can restate

the “dangers of community” extracted from the restorative justice literature in to research

questions. My study accordingly investigates the following:

1. What are the class backgrounds of restorative justice participants?

2. Are restorative justice conferences a forum for symbolic harm? (Do participants’ class

backgrounds disempower them within the restorative justice conference?)

3. Which norms are enforced in the restorative justice conference, and what is their effectiveness?

4. If dangers of community are present during restorative justice, do these dangers contribute to

disproportionate outcomes for the participants?

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To answer these questions, I present a two-part ethnography from my hometown, Corby,

England. The first half of my ethnography describes a segment of a working-class life in Corby,

which is based on my father’s extensive network of friends from our estate and the

surrounding area. Having worked as a mobile grocer for 37 years, serving some of the most

disadvantaged individuals by national standards, my father developed a rare and useful

resource. My access to his network put me in a position to understand the experiences of a

hard-to-access population, who are often disproportionately represented in the criminal justice

system as victims, offenders, or both. Accordingly, the ethnography builds upon a wealth of

observational data I recorded during year-long fieldwork, which entailed returning to live with

family on the Lincoln estate in Corby. I recorded “offline” observations by accompanying my

father during his mobile grocery rounds on our estate and the surrounding areas. Additionally,

I recorded 4,411 “online” interactions on my father’s Facebook newsfeed, 834 of which

involved an element of conflict. My father had 3,307 Facebook “friends”, most of whom lived,

or had at one point in time lived, either on our estate or in the surrounding area. Further, 18

semi-structured interviews with members of my father’s network complemented and refined

my findings.

The second half of the ethnography benefits from the richness of the first. Here, I

introduce data obtained from participating in two restorative justice programmes which

functioned in Corby during my fieldwork year. The first programme was initiated by the local

council and police, and operated at the town level, particular to Corby. The second programme

was countywide, run by the Youth Offender Services, which is the statutory state body in

England and Wales responsible for noncustodial young offenders. Through these initiatives, I

recorded observational data of 13 restorative justice conferences, 35 youth offender panels,

and 59 interviews with victims, offenders, and community participants. With its two-part

structure, my ethnography is well positioned to capture the social meaning and significance of

interactions within the restorative justice forums, in detail that goes much beyond surface-level

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descriptions. To use the terminology I later employ, this method permits the use of “thick” as

opposed to “thin” descriptions.

My ethnography indicates that “dangers of community” are apparent in restorative

justice. First, I demonstrate the differential skillsets and abilities of participants involved. While

community volunteers tend to exhibit a wealth of scholastic-cultural capital (i.e. the kind of

cultural capital well suited to the scholastic field), offenders notably lack such capital, and

victims fall in-between – some have excess scholastic-cultural capital, others very little. Next,

I demonstrate how restorative justice is an institution which privileges scholastic capital (by its

similar normative structure to the scholastic field). As such, restorative justice risks being an

arena for “symbolic violence”, a phenomenon which occurs when one group inevitably fails

to meet standards which it nonetheless is committed to meeting. In this case, symbolic violence

would be exemplified by a system in which working-class participants struggle to meet required

standards, while middle-class participants are able to flourish.

Importantly, unlike traditional criminal justice, restorative justice has not developed

mechanisms to safeguard against the differential power imbalances of its participants.

Consequently, I demonstrate how, within restorative justice processes, the social position of

participants may lead to disproportionate sentencing; i.e., the weaker members of a power

hierarchy may experience worse outcomes than dominant members of society.

These findings lead me to conclude that in its present state, restorative justice offers

an inadequate form of justice for disadvantaged members of society. However, encouraged by

restorative justice’s potential, in my conclusion, I suggest ways that restorative justice can

become a source of justice for all.

This work is presented in three parts. Part I is the theoretical backbone of the thesis,

consisting of three chapters: In Chapter 1, I present a literature review of restorative justice

and community; in Chapter 2, I develop my class conceptual framework; and, in Chapter 3, I

outline my research methods. Part II of my thesis comprises the first half of an ethnography,

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which examines life for members of my father’s working-class community. I present the

second half of my ethnography in Part III of the thesis. Part III first analyses how restorative

justice was situated within my father’s community, and then conducts a qualitative

investigation of the dangers of community in restorative justice. In the final part of the thesis

I offer my concluding reflections on the dangers of community in restorative justice.

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Part I

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Chapter1: CommunityinRestorativeJustice

Restorative justice emerged in the 1970s as an alternative to traditional criminal justice.

Though, with respect to reservations about romanticising pre-modern society (Daly, 2002a;

Roche, 2003), Braithwaite claims that “[r]estorative justice has been the dominant model of

criminal justice throughout most of human history for perhaps all the world’s people” (2002b:

5).1 According to this view, families historically resolved conflict without state interference.

Yet, over time, in countries such as Britain, the state transformed conflict from a matter

affecting those directly concerned into a symbolic violation against the sovereign’s peace,

thereby making adversarial court proceedings the dominant form of criminal dispute

resolution (Van Ness, 1993: 255–257). Thus, Christie describes states and lawyers as having

“stolen conflict” from the parties involved (1977). Such claims, coupled with feminist

influences, encouraged the growth of the victims’ rights movement, which ushered in the first

wave of contemporary restorative justice in the form of victim/offender mediation in places

such as Kitchener, Canada in the 1970s (Bottoms, 2003: 103; Daly and Immarigeon, 1998: 21;

Mackay, 2007: 79). The second wave of restorative justice, in the 1980s, introduced community

into the framework, as apparent in New Zealand’s family group conferencing and Canada’s

circle sentencing (Mackay, 2007: 79; Young and Hoyle, 2003: 202). Since then, contemporary

restorative justice has appeared in a variety of forms throughout the world, with theory

developing in its trail (Braithwaite, 2002a: 150).

1 Braithwaite acknowledges that neither a pure restorative nor a pure retributive system has been discovered (1996b: 89).

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“Restorative justice” is a problematic concept to define. It is generally agreed that

restorative justice achieves justice after an admission of guilt, and is usually (although not

always) effective at the sentencing stage of an offence. Yet, there is limited consensus about

what the definition ought to include (Daly, 2006: 335). Johnstone, for example, outlines at

least five variant approaches to explain restorative justice: as a process, as a set of goals and

methods, as a set of values, as a spiritual approach to criminal justice, and as a theory of social

justice (2003). For the present study, which evaluates the role of community in restorative

justice, it will be useful to consider two definitional strands of thought. The first strand, held

most notably by McCold (2000), defines restorative justice by process (the so-called purist

model); the second strand, developed by Bazemore and Walgrave (1999), describes restorative

justice by outcome (the so-called maximalist model). In this chapter, I show that underlying

perceptions of community fundamentally affect opinion about the form restorative justice

ought to take, and I do so by considering the role of community in process- and outcome-

orientated definitions of restorative justice.

I identify three perspectives on community in restorative justice, which I refer to as

the “community-of-care” approach, the “community-of-place” approach, and the “danger of

community” perspective. Restorative justice scholars often use “community of care” to

describe communities in terms of individuals having pre-existing relationships with victims

and/or offenders. I associate the purist scholar McCold (1998, 2000), among others, with this

relational approach to community. Alternatively, McCold and Wachtel present “community

of place” as a geographical understanding of community, consisting of residents who reside

within some delineated place (1998a). In my exposition of the maximalist model of restorative

justice, I suggest Bazemore and Schiff (2005a), alongside community justice scholars, are most

open to community-of-place involvement in restorative justice. However, in contrast to the

first two approaches, the “danger of community” perspective does not take community

involvement in restorative justice as something positive per se, and instead highlights potential

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harms that fall under the rubric of community. I associate the maximalist scholar Walgrave

with this view (2000, 2008), incorporating additional critiques of community made by other

restorative justice scholars where relevant.

To gain a better view of how restorative justice scholars deploy the concept of

community, I draw on pertinent wider theoretical debates on the concept. Indeed,

interpretations of community as a place, as relational, and as dangerous are far from new. I

suggest that the community-of-care approach draws parallels with sociological research which

stresses the importance of relational ties and networks (e.g. Wellman, 1979; Wellman and

Berkowitz, 1988). Likewise, the community-of-place approach appears to be influenced by

communitarian emphasis on the value of communal living (Etzioni, 1993, 1996; Putnam,

2000), and as describing an “imagined community” (Anderson, 1991). The “danger of

community” perspective, highlighting a darker side to community, seems rooted in

postmodernist critique (e.g. Derrida, 1978, 1989; Nancy, 1991). This critical perspective raises

important concerns about the potentially exclusionary nature of community in restorative

justice, which, indeed, will come to shape this present study.

The literature review I present in this chapter serves three aims: to outline what

restorative justice is by presenting an overview of the literature, to clarify how restorative

justice scholars view and discuss community, and to add depth to my analysis by incorporating

wider debates on community.

I have structured the chapter in two main sections: the first section outlines the purist

model of restorative justice, and the second details maximalist accounts. In my exposition of

the purist position, I introduce the distinction between community-of-care and community-

of-place approaches and then examine the former in more detail; the purist approach also

prompts consideration of restorative justice processes in greater depth. Next, the second

section of the chapter explores the maximalist model of restorative justice, which opens into

a discussion of the community-of-place and danger of community perspectives. Finally, in the

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concluding section, I outline the main findings from my review of the literature and the

intellectual gap that this study sets out to fill.

1.1. Thepuristprocess-orientateddefinition

McCold is a prominent advocate of a process-based definition of restorative justice. He adopts

the following oft-cited definition from Marshall: “Restorative justice is a process whereby

parties with a stake in a specific offence collectively resolve how to deal with the aftermath of

the offence and its implications for the future” (1999: 5). In McCold’s view, a central

component of this definition is that restorative justice requires face-to-face active involvement

of primary stakeholders (2000). On account of this requirement, McCold describes this as the

“purist model” of restorative justice. To grasp McCold’s framework, I first explore his

distinction between primary and secondary stakeholders, which is where I begin to tease out

McCold’s understanding of community in restorative justice. Next, I consider the components

of McCold’s ideal process, finishing with a review of practices that make their way into

McCold’s “fully restorative” categorisation.

1.1.1. Stakeholders

McCold begins from the premise that crime injures individuals and relationships, and therefore

stakeholders must be central to restorative justice (2000: 363; see also Zehr, 2002: 19). To

identify the “parties with a stake in a specific offence”, McCold takes Van Ness and Strong’s

approach (1997): primary stakeholders are those with a direct stake in an offence, and

secondary stakeholders are those with vicarious interests in resolving the offence. In McCold’s

view, primary stakeholders ought to be directly involved in the restorative justice process,

whereas secondary stakeholders should not be. I will now present each of these primary and

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secondary stakeholder kinds, and in turn introduce, respectively, the community-of-care and

community-of-place approaches.

1.1.1.1. Primary stakeholders: community of care

Victims and offenders are primary stakeholders in McCold’s typology (2000: 364–365).

McCold distinguishes between primary offenders who accept full responsibility for an offence

and secondary offenders who accept partial responsibility. Similarly, McCold differentiates

between direct victims such as those against whom a crime is committed, and indirect victims

who experience financial or other indirect losses because of an offence. A further important

category of indirect victims identified by McCold are persons belonging to the

“microcommunity”, or as I will refer to it, the community of care. McCold describes the

community of care as composed of those who have close, personal relationships with either

the victims or offenders. McCold, building on his earlier ideas about community as greater

than place, maintains that these are the crucial communities for restorative justice to embrace.

McCold and Wachtel developed the “community is not a place” thesis in response to

what they saw as misguided understandings of “community” in discussions of community

justice and restorative justice (1998b; McCold, 1998). They deem community justice research

to equate community with place, and restorative justice to fail to distinguish between

community and society. Instead, McCold and Wachtel propose the following non-

geographical definition of community for restorative justice: “Community is a feeling, a

perception of connectedness – personal connectedness both to other individual human beings

and to a group” (1998b: 72). Thus, the community of care comprises “meaningful inter-

relationships” that can create “a sense of belonging” within persons (McCold and Wachtel,

1998b: 73). McCold, however, does not completely dismiss the community-of-place notion,

which he refers to as the “macrocommunity”, further addressed below.

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McCold and Wachtel’s interpretation of community as relational, rather than

geographical, is well-supported beyond restorative justice. Notably, Weber referred to

“community without propinquity” (1963), and if Hillery’s study of 94 “community” meanings

unearthed any common thread, it was that they all dealt with social relations in some way

(1955; Blackshaw, 2010). Further, ways of viewing community as independent of local areas

emerged in response to the view that community is lost in contemporary settings (Tönnies,

1955). For example, urban studies scholar, Fischer, recasts debates about the inevitable

alienation of urban life, or urban estrangement, in terms of public and private networks (1981).

Fischer suggests that urban estrangement only weakens public networks, referred to as those

between strangers, and not intimate ties, described as forming private networks. Eventually,

such appeals to personal networks, as groupings distinct from the neighbourhood, developed

into a network analysis method which invokes relationships, rather than territory, as the unit

of inquiry for studying community (Wellman, 1979; Wellman and Berkowitz, 1988; Wellman

and Wortley, 1990).

The community-of-care approach has been central to leading theories about why

restorative justice seems to work. Take, for example, Braithwaite’s seminal reintegrative

shaming thesis (1989). Braithwaite describes reintegrative shaming as a process which involves

those closest to an offender (i.e. the offender’s community of care) meeting with the offender

to communicate their disapproval of a criminal act. In turn, this paves the way for apologies,

forgiveness, and repentance (Braithwaite, 1993). Braithwaite claims his theory, which builds

on ideas of informal social control, works on two levels: first, it deters criminal behaviour by

fostering offenders’ desire not to lose social approval in the eyes of those they most care about;

second, reintegrative shaming can encourage feelings of remorse and the development of

consciences (1989: 75). Braithwaite suggests that victims’ communities of care are most able

to support the shaming process, while the offenders’ communities of care ensure that

respectful reintegration takes place (2003).

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Despite the prevalent influence of Braithwaite’s theory, there are some noteworthy

reservations about reintegrative shaming. For example, Maxwell and Morris warn that shame

intended to be reintegrative may nevertheless be interpreted by offenders as stigmatising

(2004). Therefore, they recommend striving for feelings of “empathy” or “remorse” instead

(see also Bazemore and Schiff, 2005a; Robinson and Shapland, 2008). Scholars such as Dignan

(2005), see reintegrative shaming as too offender-focused, detracting from the chief aim of

restoration. Moreover, Hoyle and Noguera’s research indicates that parents of young

offenders, attending conferences as supporters, may experience feelings of shame on account

of their children’s behaviour, which could have a negative impact on offender reintegration

(2008). Indeed, this resonates with Cohen’s observations that certain persons may be

considered particularly “shameworthy”, such as single mothers, wayward fathers, or gang

youths, leading to offender humiliation instead of reintegration (2001: 219).

More recent micro-level analyses, which use emotional psychology to explain why

restorative conferences appear to work, have yet again recognised the important community-

of-care role within restorative conferencing (Rossner, 2011, 2013). Rossner’s work asks why

some restorative justice conferences appear to be successful and emotionally intense, with

pivotal “turning points”, while others fall “emotionally flat” (2013: 75). Other scholars

describe these so-called emotional turning points as “magical” moments during restorative

conferences when participants can relate to one another and express “understanding”,

“forgiveness”, and “empathy” (Bazemore and Schiff, 2005a: 65–67; Harris, 2008: 556;

McDonald and Moore, 2001). Rossner finds that communities of care play an essential role

during the conference, especially to help communicate the victim’s harm. According to

Rossner, the most successful conferences had on average two supporters present, often on

both sides, whereas the least successful conferences lacked this community-of-care presence,

particularly on the victims’ side (2013: 91).

21

Braithwaite and Rossner both stress the need for community-of-care involvement but

seem to differ over how strong social ties must be to form such communities. For example,

Braithwaite emphasises the voluntary aspect of participants’ communities of care (2002a;

Crawford, 1999: 196), which might imply loose degrees of attachment. Braithwaite’s notion of

chosen communities aligns well both with the restorative ideal that restorative processes

primarily ought to be voluntary and with feminist perspectives, such as Friedman’s, which call

for “communities of choice” over allegedly communitarian appeals to “communities of place”

(Friedman, 1989). Communities of choice, per Friedman, comprise the networks into which

individuals voluntarily enter, such as friendships and clubs.

Rossner’s findings, on the other hand, suggest that community-of-care supporters are

likely to be most effective when they have significant relationships with participants; the

stronger bonds, she argues, will contribute to the emotional intensity of the restorative

conference (2013: 93). In my view, Rossner’s suggestion, while not necessarily at odds with

Braithwaite’s, calls to mind the communitarian emphasis on the importance of constitutive

communities. Communitarian philosophers distinguish constitutive communities from other

forms of association, such as neighbourhood committees – the kind which a person can easily

leave at will (Bell, 1993: 94–103). Unlike fleeting associations, constitutive communities form

a person’s background way of being. For example, the type of community persons might cite

in response to the question “Who are you?”, such as their family, nation, religion, or ethnicity.

That is, not the kind of “relationship they choose (as in a voluntary association) but an

attachment they discover, not merely an attribute but a constituent of their identity” (Sandel,

1982; cited in Friedman, 1989). Thus, communitarians see individuals as unable to strip

themselves easily of their constitutive communities, at least without experiencing an acute

form of disorientation in the process (Bell, 1993: 100). In these terms, then, Rossner’s work

shows how constitutive ties are perhaps more conducive to supporting an emotionally

significant conference than are associational relationships, which are easier to leave.

22

Returning to McCold’s purist theory, McCold maintains that stakeholders are central

to restorative justice, and the primary stakeholders come from participants’ communities of

care. But McCold also recognises secondary stakeholders, which I turn to in the next

subsection.

1.1.1.2. Secondary stakeholders: introducing community of place

McCold identifies two groups of secondary stakeholders, namely macrocommunity

(community of place) and society or government (2000: 365–372). The state/government in

McCold’s framework refers to the entire society and government agents who represent it.

McCold understands community of place as a geographical perspective of community, which

includes localities, neighbourhoods, and townships that are not directly or personally

victimised by a specific offence, but may be vicariously victimised through a loss in a “sense

of safety” or “sense of community”. I will examine McCold’s community-of-place notion a

little closer.

I think that McCold describes the community-of-place conception in some respects

too simplistically. McCold proposes that the community of place can stretch to a geographical

area that includes townships. However, this interpretation risks oversimplifying how certain

sociologists apply “community of place”. Friedman (1989: 281), for example, in outlining the

communitarian thesis of Macintyre (1981) and Sandel (1998), describes communities of place

as consisting of the family, neighbourhood, school, and church, which thus transcends a purely

geographical conception. Bell, on the other hand, distinguishes between three types of

constitutive communities, one of which is the community of place, more narrowly conceived.2

2 In addition to community of place, Bell refers to psychological communities, and communities of memory (1993). Psychological communities are described as communities of face-to-face interaction, governed by sentiments of trust, a prime example being the family – perhaps the ultimate community of care (1993: 182). Bell

23

Like McCold, Bell describes community of place in geographical terms, but the locality Bell

envisions is the “neighbourhood . . . the place we call home, the place where we’re born and

bred” (1993: 104), and even this evokes more than geography.

Localities stretching beyond the neighbourhood level, such as townships, might more

accurately be described as an imagined community (Anderson, 1991); referred to as community

of memory in Bell’s thesis (1993: 125). “Imagined community” describes communities

consisting of large groups of strangers, many of whom will never have a face-to-face

interaction. Yet, through a shared interpretation of history and commitment to traditions, the

members of these large groups may imagine and form a community (Anderson, 1991).

Anderson’s prime example is the modern nation state; whether or not a town has a strong

enough shared history to count as an imagined community will depend on the place. Despite

the problematic application of McCold’s version of community of place, I will continue to use

“community of place” in this study as synonymous with the geographical conception since

this is how it appears to have been understood in practice, explored below.

McCold emphasises that the community of place and the state/government suffer

abstract injuries, in contrast to the more concrete injuries of the community of care and other

primary stakeholders (2000). And because of this abstract nature of secondary stakeholders’

injuries, McCold thinks they should not be involved in the restorative process. Instead,

McCold wants disputes to be as concrete as possible, which is apparent throughout his

discussions on restorative justice. This is McCold’s way of heeding Christie’s warnings that

incorporating abstract terms or recognising abstract harm in restorative justice risks paving the

way for the state to “steal the conflict” (Christie, 1977). Likewise, it is for this reason that

McCold (2000) prefers Marshall’s essentialist definition of restorative justice, free of abstract

describes community of memory as linking strangers by a shared history that is expressed in their everyday lives and ideas (1993: 125).

24

terminology such as “harm” and “community”. Instead, McCold covers these apparently

ambiguous concepts in the main body of his work, which is most apparent in his discussion

on process. It will be helpful, then, to round off this section by detailing some variants of

restorative justice processes in operation, so as to situate clearly the restorative justice

programmes that are included in this study.

1.1.2. The restorative justice process

Face-to-face discussion with primary stakeholders about the effects of an offence is of central

importance to McCold’s vision of restorative justice. The value of such dialogical and

participatory process is also emphasised by other restorative justice advocates (Braithwaite,

1996b; Braithwaite and Parker, 1999b; O’Hear, 2005; Zehr and Mike, 2003). Roche, for

example, suggests that allowing citizens, instead of professionals, to decide how best to repair

harm caused by crime enhances accountability and empowers those involved (2003: 226).

Similarly, Barton describes a successful restorative conference as one that empowers

stakeholders by giving them a voice (2000: 70). Wachtel and McCold refer to such a restorative

method as working “with” stakeholders, instead of doing things “to” or “for” them, as other

justice models do (1998b: 124). McCold claims that it is only through dialogical process that

harm caused by crime can truly be addressed (2000: 379).

McCold’s model limits the types of programme included in the restorative justice

paradigm (2000). In McCold’s typology, only programmes that include all three sets of primary

stakeholders (victims, offenders, and communities of care) can classify as “fully restorative”.

Other practices are described as “partially” or “mostly” restorative, depending on the degree

of stakeholder involvement. While the concept “restorative justice” is said by McCold and

Wachtel to be confined to “fully restorative” programmes, in their view, “restorative practices”

25

can encompass mostly or partially restorative interventions (1998b). Wilcox with Hoyle outline

the different programmes falling under these distinctions in the following matrix (2004):

I will expand on two restorative justice practices, which are most relevant to this study because

of their inclusion in my empirical dataset; namely, restorative conferencing and community

conferencing.

Restorative conferencing involves victims, offenders, and their community-of-care

supporters meeting to discuss the harm caused by an offence (O’Connell et al., 1999). These

conferences might be facilitated by a range of individuals, including criminal justice agents,

teachers, work colleagues or peers, and community volunteers, among others. The facilitator

of the restorative conference usually follows a restorative script, such as the one developed by

Terry O’Connell, an Australian police officer, which asks each participant questions about the

offence and its effects.3 This form of restorative justice is gaining currency in the UK, being

the primary form of restorative justice advocated by the national charity, Restorative Solutions,

which trains community groups in restorative justice and scripted facilitation.4 The two

programmes included in my empirical study used this restorative conferencing model.

3 For an example of the script see Wachtel (2015: 6). 4 See http://www.restorativesolutions.org.uk/.

26

Community conferencing, otherwise known as community reparative boards, aims to

enhance informal social control through community-of-place participation on panels (Karp

and Walther, 2001: 199). These panels ordinarily comprise a coordinator (such as a probation

employee), voluntary community-of-place representatives, offender, offender’s supporters,

and, on occasion and where possible, victim and victim’s supporters (Bazemore, 1997).

Gaining prominence in Vermont, community conferencing was legislatively introduced for

juveniles across England and Wales under the Crime and Disorder Act 1998, and the Youth Justice

and Criminal Evidence Act 1999 (Crawford and Newburn, 2002b: 476). These legal reforms

established a number of local Youth Offender Panels. The Panels consist of at least two

community-of-place volunteers, who have decision-making authority; the volunteers assist

with the formation of repatriation agreements for the majority of youth cases referred to Youth

Offending Teams through referral orders from youth courts (Crawford and Newburn, 2002b:

478–479). Youth Offender Panels were the second type of restorative justice process I was

able to observe in the course of this study.

My exposition of McCold’s purist theory has introduced how purist scholars define

restorative justice, the types of restorative justice interventions included in this study, as well

as categories of stakeholder for such programmes. Maximalist scholars, however, propose an

alternative definition of restorative justice to the one so far outlined. Moreover, maximalist

scholars afford primacy to stakeholders classified as secondary under McCold’s typology.

Accordingly, the next section details this alternative approach to restorative justice.

1.2. Themaximalistoutcome-orientateddefinition

Walgrave asserts that defining restorative justice as a process without referring to its goals is

as effective as “peddling in the air” (2002b: 193). Instead, Bazemore and Walgrave opt for a

so-called maximalist position, defining restorative justice principally by outcome: “restorative

27

justice is every action that is primarily orientated toward doing justice by repairing harm that

has been caused by crime” (1999: 48). Whereas the purist approach views restorative justice

as a dispute resolution system running parallel but separate to the state legal system (McCold,

2000: 348), maximalists envisage restorative justice as capable of transforming the entire legal

system to respond restoratively to crime, hence described as the “maximum integration”

approach by Willemsens (2003: 24–25).

Like the purist model, maximalist scholars prefer participatory processes over formal

procedures (Bazemore, 1999: 156, 2000: 465; Walgrave, 2000: 418). However, in circumstances

where face-to-face meetings are not possible – when the victim wishes not to be involved or

where the offender cannot be found – Bazemore and Walgrave maintain that criminal justice

interventions that seek to restore harm are preferable to retributive alternatives (1999: 50). By

removing strict requirements for face-to-face encounters, maximalists permit a much wider

range of activities to fall under the restorative justice umbrella. Walgrave, for example,

recognises community service as a form of restorative justice due to its symbolic effect of

healing communities’ and victims’ harm (2000: 421, 2008: 153). On Walgrave’s view, while

some forms of community service are punitive, when community service aims to repair harm

by compensating, restoring peace, or enhancing society’s sense of safety, it is a form of

restorative sanctioning (1999).

Like McCold’s distinction between fully, mostly, and partly restorative processes,

Bazemore and Walgrave also consider restorative justice along a continuum (1999: 50). Rather

than aligning this continuum, as McCold does, with levels of stakeholder participation,

maximalists scale restorative interventions according to how effective they are at restoring

harm, which tends anyway to coincide with levels of stakeholder participation (Bazemore and

Schiff, 2005a: 57; Walgrave, 2005: 4–6). For example, Walgrave contends that although

coercive restorative sanctions may not be as restorative as purist or “fully restorative”

approaches, they can still be “moderately” or “slightly” restorative (2000: 242). Likewise,

28

Bazemore notes that voluntary and informal face-to-face meetings are more restorative than

coercive court-ordered reparations (2000: 471; Bazemore and Umbreit, 2001: 16), and

differences along this continuum will be subtle, varying according to the “intensity and type

of participation” (Bazemore, 2004: 147). Interestingly, Braithwaite is open to combining the

maximalist and purist approaches, weighing both process and outcome using a common

metric to assess levels of restorativeness (2000a: 435; see also Van Ness, 1993: 275). In any

event, it seems that how restorative justice is defined directly narrows or widens the types of

practice properly deemed restorative, and so the definition one settles on is potentially

significant.

One especially forceful critic of the maximalist position is McCold; he argues that

maximalist scholars fail to distinguish between community-of-place needs and state needs

(2000: 391). In McCold’s view, the maximalist definition entails that offenders cause abstract

harms to an abstract community, and this paves the way for the state to “steal the conflict”.

Since Bazemore and Walgrave have divergent ideas about community and the state’s role in

restorative justice, to capture the measure of McCold’s critique, it will be useful to consider

each position in turn. Notably, both of these maximalist approaches endorse McCold’s

secondary stakeholders in restorative justice – the community of place and the state. But while

for Bazemore community is positive and vital for the long-term success of restorative

practices, Walgrave expresses fundamental reservations about the concept. Instead, Walgrave

recommends involving the public element (i.e. the state) in restorative justice.

1.2.1. Community of place revisited

Similar to McCold, Bazemore recognises both communities of care and communities of place.

However, unlike McCold, for Bazemore both types of community are vital stakeholders in

restorative justice. The crucial importance of community of place is apparent in Bazemore’s

29

acceptance of non-face-to-face deliberative sanctions, such as community service and victim

reparation, because these measures, he suggests, attempt to repair relationships damaged by

crime (1997: 203). Bazemore and Schiff contend that professionals and judicial agencies need

to transfer greater decision-making authority to local communities and increase community

participation in decision-making processes; these steps, they argue, will build community

capacity to respond better to crime (2005a: 68–74; Bazemore, 2004: 144; Bazemore and

Umbreit, 2001: 15). Thus, they claim community is the moral authority responsible for

maintaining peace, and the government is the legal authority responsible for maintaining order

(2005a; see also Van Ness and Strong, 1997: 35; Pranis, 1996: 37).

When restorative justice processes include the community of place, it is often in the

form of community volunteers who purportedly represent the wider community (Etzioni,

1993, 1996). Not all models of restorative justice include volunteers, and in the programmes

that do, volunteers play a number of roles. For example, volunteers can be symbolic

representatives, who directly participate in the restorative process as a party harmed by an

offence, such as occurs in sentencing circles (Cohen, 2001: 229). Alternatively, volunteers

might participate as conference facilitators, guiding the conversation for other participants

(Karp et al., 2004: 205). Moreover, volunteers may act as peers, mentors, supporters, and

monitors (Bazemore and Schiff, 2005a: 53–54; Schiff, 2007: 230). Bazemore and Schiff note

that whereas many programmes, such as the family conferencing model in New Zealand, settle

for the community-of-care approach, the UK, the US, and Canada appear to be the only

countries where there is widespread use of volunteers (2005a).

Bazemore affirms the value of volunteer, community-of-place involvement in

restorative justice by pointing to Rodriguez’s empirical investigation of how community

characteristics influenced Arizona’s restorative justice practices (Bazemore, 2005b; Rodriguez,

2005). Although Rodriguez classifies the practices she observed as family group conferences,

Bazemore offers “reparative boards” (or “neighbourhood accountability boards”) as a more

30

accurate description. The boards comprise between two and four community volunteers,

victim, offender, family members, and juvenile offenders (Rodriguez, 2005: 108). Analysing

official juvenile court data from 1999 through to 2001, Rodriguez found (among other things)

that irrespective of community characteristics, participating offenders on reparative boards

were less likely to reoffend than those on standard supervision programmes (2005: 121). In

response to these findings, Bazemore calls for more theorising on community-of-place value,

in addition to Braithwaite’s reintegrative shaming perspective, which according to Bazemore

pushes discussion in the direction of communities of care (2005b: 140–141).

Beyond Bazemore and Schiff, there is community-of-place support throughout

criminological theory. Wilson and Kelling, for example, have a geographical focus in their

(much contested) “broken windows” thesis, which predicts that a broken window left unfixed

signals lack of care, leading to additional broken windows, and an eventual downward spiral

of social disorder and decay (1982; see also Clear and Karp, 1999: 45; Kurki, 2000: 289; Lanni,

2005: 365–367). Moreover, Powell’s work shows the significance of neighbourhoods and

estates for those bound to them (1987, 2007). Even Friedman, in her efforts to promote the

value of community of choice, concedes that the community of place is the most relevant

community for persons when they are younger and becomes the one on which most rely when

they experience sickness or old age (1989). Neighbourhoods also form a fundamental part of

many influential criminological theories sprouting from Shaw and McKay’s seminal social

disorganisation thesis, which suggests that informal social networks are able to prevent

delinquency (1942). Sampson et al.’s collective efficacy thesis, for example, uses the

geographical conception of community as the unit of analysis (Sampson et al., 1997, 2009). I

return to these ideas shortly.

In the following subsections, I review the potential benefits of community-of-place

involvement, as proposed by Bazemore and Schiff. I introduce them under what Bazemore

31

and Schiff describe as “three dimensions of community building”: norm-clarification,

collective ownership, and collective efficacy.

1.2.1.1. Norm-clarification

In Bazemore and Schiff’s view, crime leads to, and is caused by, weak relationships, the

weakening of shared behavioural norms, and breaches of community trust (2005a: 77). As

such, they claim that restorative conferencing presents an opportunity for community

members to clarify the parameters of acceptable behaviour, and (re)build social capital in the

process (2005a: 78; see also Cohen, 2001: 211). Further, Bazemore and Schiff argue that

“norm-clarification”, which refers to the capacity of communities to ascertain and

communicate shared norms, is theoretically supported by the notion of social capital (2005a:

77). Portes describes social capital as “the ability of actors to secure benefits by virtue of

membership in social networks or other social structures” (1998: 6). These networks are

formed of reciprocal relationships (those in which members do things for each other),

resulting in informal social control (Kurki, 2003: 308). Further, Portes explains, in contrast to

economic capital found in banks, and human capital stored in individuals’ heads, social capital

is found in the structure of individuals’ relationships (1998: 7; see also Coleman, 1990). By

means of building social capital, then, restorative conferencing is thought to allow norm-

clarification.

In reviewing the social capital literature, Portes outlines three functions of social

capital: “(a) as a source of social control; (b) as a source of family support; (c) as a source of

benefits through extrafamilial relationships” (1998: 9). Extended family and friends can

exercise social control in a private form, while neighbourhoods and community collectives can

exercise it in the form of parochial control (Bazemore and Schiff, 2005a: 76). Thus, private

control stems from close or strong relational ties, such as those envisaged by McCold’s

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community-of-care conception, and parochial control stems from more distant or weak ties,

which we could associate with community-of-place relations. Whereas the second function of

social capital noted by Portes, a source of family support, exclusively relates to community-of-

care ties, the third function, a source of extrafamilial benefits, concerns both community-of-

care and community-of-place relationships.

In contrast to McCold’s emphasis on community-of-care ties, Bazemore thinks the

wider community-of-place connections are essential for socialisation (or building social

capital), because these relationships, he argues, lead to enhanced opportunities, such as job

offers or training (2005b; Bazemore and O’Brien, 2002: 36). In harmony with this, Putnam

suggests that bridging social capital (i.e. creating weak social ties between strangers) may be

more valuable than bonding social capital (i.e. expanding existing strong social ties) because, in

Putnam’s words, “bridging social capital can generate broader identities and reciprocity,

whereas bonding social capital bolsters our narrower selves” (2000: 22–23). Common, then,

to the social capital theorists so far mentioned – Putnam, Portes, and Bazemore and Schiff –

is an emphasis on the benefits of social capital, one of which is that it leaves room for norm-

clarification in restorative conferencing. This positivity contrasts with a critical view of social

capital I address in the next chapter.

1.2.1.2. Collective ownership

Collective ownership, the second element of Bazemore and Schiff’s community building

thesis, emphasises changing professional roles and actively involving community members in

restorative decision-making processes (2005a: 80–84). Bazemore explains that instead of a

“government hands-off approach”, the intention is to create a “community hands-on approach”, where

the government maintains an active, albeit reformed, role (1999: 130). The sense of community

implicit here again seems to be the community of place. For Bazemore and Schiff’s motivation

33

for collective ownership derives from Christie’s worry that professionals “steal” conflicts from

communities (1977); allegedly, this theft erodes communities’ capacity to respond to crime,

and so now communities must reclaim their disputes (Bazemore and Schiff, 2005a: 82). Thus,

Bazemore and Schiff’s interpretation of Christie contrasts with McCold’s: for McCold, primary

stakeholders own the dispute to avoid theft by state professionals; for Bazemore and Schiff,

community of place is the metaphorical owner.

Despite referring to “collective ownership”, Bazemore does not address McCold’s

calls for a clear definition of the community which does the owning. Instead, Bazemore’s

definition of “community” is open-ended and context driven, identifying “instrumental

communities” according to a given situation and type of restorative practice (2005a: 307,

1997). In residential treatment facilities, for instance, Bazemore et al. identify three types of

community: the residential facility itself, the local community surrounding the facility, and the

residential communities into which residents eventually reintegrate (2005). Bazemore and

Schiff propose that a flexible approach to defining community accords with the approaches

of practitioners whom they interviewed (2005a: 276).

1.2.1.3. Collective efficacy

“Collective efficacy” refers to the willingness of neighbours to intervene in and control

unwelcome behaviours, thereby fostering a belief that other residents will do the same.

Sampson et al. predict that neighbourhoods with high collective efficacy will experience low

levels of crime; therefore, they propose that for reducing crime, collective efficacy is more

important than social capital, and corresponding social control (1997, 2009). Since they are

open to community-of-place involvement, Bazemore and Schiff propose that restorative

justice can develop collective efficacy (2005a). That is, skills developed during restorative

sessions can be applied to other areas of community life and thus enhance collective efficacy.

34

For example, they suggest that affirming community norms in a restorative justice conference

helps to develop mutual trust, which they regard as essential to collective efficacy (Bazemore

and Schiff, 2005a: 86). Again, it is the community-of-place which is central here.

In summary, Bazemore and Schiff advocate community-of-place involvement in

restorative justice because it poses a number of benefits: increased opportunities for norm-

clarification, the development of social capital, taking ownership of the conflicts, and

enhancing collective efficacy. Walgrave, however, is altogether doubtful about concepts of

community.

1.2.2. Walgrave on community

In contrast to Bazemore and Schiff’s enthusiastic accounts of community, Walgrave cautions

against the notion. The dual-sided nature of community is aptly described by Abel in the

following way: “Although community is an essential ingredient of social life, it is also morally

ambiguous, excluding as well as including, oppressing and fulfilling, degrading and elevating”

(1995: 114). On account of the several dangers he lists, Walgrave argues for state involvement

in restorative justice instead of community. Walgrave’s reservations about “community” seem

linked to postmodernist critique, while his proposal for state involvement seems rooted in

liberal ideas about the importance of individual rights, over and above the communitarian

emphasis on responsibilities. These theoretical influences become more apparent in the

following discussion.

I begin by outlining dangers associated with community, drawing on both Walgrave

and other restorative justice literature. Next, I discuss how Walgrave’s alternative vision

demands state involvement in the restorative justice process, thereby positioning itself in stark

contrast to McCold’s purist account.

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1.2.2.1. The dangers of community

The community critique in restorative justice begins from a postmodernist assertion that

community does not, in fact, exist (Derrida, 1978, 1989; Nancy, 1991). Indeed, Blackshaw

points out that the notion “postmodern community” appears to be an oxymoron because

postmodernists claim that there is no one special way of being together, and yet “community”

signifies the very antithesis of difference (2010: 41). In a similar vein, Walgrave begins his

assault on community by claiming that although “community” as a notion may be

pragmatically useful, it cannot be delimited (2008: 76–77). Thus, Walgrave questions whether

community actually exists or, like a Fata Morgana, represents a desireable but unreachable area

of mutual support in current fragmented societies (2002b; see also Deleuze and Guattari,

1987).

Weisberg demonstrates the “danger” of assuming there is such a thing as community,

able to replace state institutions (2003). According to Weisberg, the deinstitutionalisation of

mental asylums in the US assumed there was “some independent social phenomenon called

the community” which could care for patients; however, it transpired that no such community

existed, so those living with mental illnesses were ostracised in disadvantaged ghettos without

help (2003: 363). Yet, the absent community in this example seems to be geographical;

communities of care may avoid this pitfall since, Braithwaite claims, “few are devoid of anyone

who cares” (2000b: 121).

However, several scholars doubt whether the chosen nature of relational ties in

Braithwaite’s community-of-care conception allows for rule-making or the norm-enforcement

required for a successful restorative process (Bottoms, 2003: 107–108; Crawford and Clear,

2001: 135–136). Crawford, for example, argues that Braithwaite’s communities of care seem

more like bilateral relations of trust than a dense series of networks (1999: 196). Accordingly,

were persons unwilling to abide by some community-of-care norms, they could detach from

that community. This fear echoes the “liquid modern” critique, which warns how community

36

only pulls together in times of victory and quickly dissipates when community pressures or

demands overwhelm individual members (Blackshaw, 2010: 32; see also Bauman, 2000, 2001,

2006). However, understanding relational communities in terms of unchosen constitutive

communities, as communitarians do, mitigates this worry, since on this account the self is

constituted by these communities. Withdrawal, while possible, will lead to “damaged human

personhood” in the process (Bell, 1993: 182); accordingly leaving such deeply relational

communities is likely not something one could “opt” to do.

The community of place contrasts, too, on this point. For many residents, crime is in

their localities, and moving from the area is often not possible, especially for the most

economically and psychologically disadvantaged (Walklate, 2008: 280; Strickland and Lang,

2004: 88). Braithwaite concedes that members may leave some communities of care more

easily than communities of place, yet points out that this is not always so. For example, if a

person’s behaviour causes disapproval within a professional environment, it cannot be

overcome by moving house (Braithwaite, 1993: 14). In this instance, it seems to me that a

person’s professional community can partly constitute their identity, the sort of community a

person mentions in response to the question “who are you?” (Bell, 1993). Likewise, perhaps

those who lack employment, work skills, or training opportunities can more easily detach from

unconstitutive communities of care than from their community of place. Conversely, wealthy

professionals may leave their community of place easily, but not their professional

communities of care. Thus, to my mind, critiques about which communities are easy to

withdraw from should be wary of generalising: communities are context-dependent and

influenced by socioeconomic positions.

Other critiques, again influenced by postmodernism, focus on community’s

exclusionary nature. For example, some restorative scholars argue that communities are not

always the homogeneous havens they are claimed to be (Walgrave, 2008: 77; see also Cunneen,

2005: 186; Weisberg, 2003: 361; Crawford and Clear, 2001: 136; Pavlich, 2001: 60–62; Delgado,

37

2000: 753; Abel, 1995: 114). Rather, they argue, communities are shaped around the “us” who

are in, and the “them” who are not, thereby distancing outsiders (Crawford and Clear, 2001:

136; Cunneen, 2005: 186; Pavlich, 2001: 57; see also Derrida, 1973). Indeed, Pavlich traces the

etymology of the word “community” to find that as well as meaning “common”, it also means

“to defend” (2001: 58). Putnam, too, acknowledges communities’ exclusionary tendencies and

so encourages the inclusionary bridging of social capital between weak ties, rather than the

exclusionary bonding of social capital between strong ties (2000: 21–22).

Further, as Crawford argues, presenting communities as internally homogeneous risks

suppressing and concealing internal conflict, which in turn infringes individuals’ rights for so-

called community gain (1999, 2002; in relation to Aboriginal communities see Blagg, 2001).

Internal conflicts may stem from differential power relations, and discrimination of personal

characteristics such as ethnicity, class, gender, and age (Abel, 1995: 114; Crawford, 1999: 163;

Crawford and Clear, 2001: 137). One example of how community conceals and subsumes

minority voices is found in the build-up to, and the emergence of, intersectionality perspectives

in feminist theory (Crenshaw, 1989, 1991). Women of colour pushed the influential theory of

intersectionality, having been silenced in feminist discourse, which primarily advanced the

interests of white, middle-class women, and then similarly in racial discourse, which advanced

the interests of black men (Burgess-Proctor, 2006; Daly, 1997; Potter, 2013, 2015). Rather than

striving for conformity and “sameness” within any given community, intersectionality

acknowledges differences.

A final danger of community is espoused by liberal scholars: community involvement

in justice processes risks violating individuals’ rights. Ashworth, for instance, warns that

redressing neglected victims’ rights should not be pursued at the expense of rights of

defendants and offenders (1993: 287). Article 6.1 of the European Convention on Human

Rights affords defendants the right to a fair hearing by an independent and impartial tribunal

(Ashworth, 2001: 171). Yet, Ashworth claims, victims’ input into the determination of how to

38

respond to criminal offences interferes with this requirement because victims and their

supporters are more likely than state prosecutors to be influenced by personal motives (1993:

297). Similarly, perhaps community volunteers, as supposed representatives of the community,

struggle to meet this impartiality requirement (Crawford, 2007a; Rosenblatt, 2015).

Moreover, Ashworth worries that community involvement may undermine sentencing

uniformity because different standards will be implemented by different communities (1986,

1993, 2001: 164–170). Although, in practice, judicially adjudicated cases may lead to

inconsistent sentences, Ashworth emphasises that traditional criminal justice at least strives

for proportionality, so that two defendants equally culpable of comparable offences in

principle face the same consequences. Restorative justice, however, intends for decision-

making to reflect the divergent standards of various communities, making no provision for

proportionate sentencing or clear criteria for working out the quantum of community

reparations. Accordingly, Ashworth claims that restorative justice pursues a subjective

standard of satisfaction for victims and their communities. He concludes, then, that permitting

such variant standards fails to safeguard against discrimination on grounds of class, race,

gender, and so on (Ashworth, 1993).

One potential way to counter power imbalance during restorative conferences is to

encourage wide community involvement. Braithwaite and Parker argue that the more persons

present from each of the respective communities of care, the more likely someone will

intervene on another party’s behalf to prevent stigmatisation or name-calling (1999b: 110–111;

Braithwaite, 2000b: 124). Whereas Braithwaite and Parker focus on community-of-care

involvement, Aertsen et al. suggest that community-of-place participation could additionally

safeguard against over-dominant participants (2004; see also Bazemore and Schiff, 2005a: 54–

55). Common to these approaches is the assumption that including many participants in

restorative justice is sufficient to mitigate domination.

39

In order to see more fully the potential for domination within restorative justice, in the

following subsections, I critically assess research which takes account of power and

powerlessness in relation to gender, ethnicity, and class in restorative justice.

Gender

Gender receives a fair amount of attention in restorative justice literature, especially in relation

to victim roles in domestic violence and sexual offences cases, and whether restorative justice

is appropriate in such instances, given prevalent power imbalances.5 Assumed gender roles

may, for example, lead to expectations for women to be forgiving and to play the part of the

“ideal victim” in these cases (Hudson, 2002: 624; Stubbs, 2007: 178). Or gendered assumptions

about being strong and “manning up” might affect male victims in such cases (Connell and

Messerschmidt, 2005; Messerschmidt, 1993; Newburn and Stanko, 2013). Moreover, families

and communities involved in restorative conferences could support male domination and

control over women in cases of domestic violence and sexual violence, leading to the further

subordination of the victim (Coker, 2002: 129). Gaarder and Presser suggest that well-planned

and well-facilitated conferences will avoid these problems and eventually even result in

transforming community perceptions about gender roles (2006: 488). Nevertheless, due to

reservations about using restorative justice in such contexts, limited empirical data is available

to extensively assess the debate (Condon, 2010: 499).

Research into the impact of gender roles on offenders is limited. Pepi proposes that

restorative justice might counter the inadequacy of traditional criminal justice to assist female

offenders (1998), and Failinger suggests that the relational character of restorative justice is

5 For reservations about using restorative justice in sexual assault or domestic violence cases see: (Condon, 2010; Cossins, 2008; Daly, 2006; Hudson, 1998, 2002; Stubbs, 2007; Young and Hoyle, 2003).

40

well suited to widening female offenders’ relationships of care, in line with Gilligan’s ethics of

care thesis (2005; challenged by Daly and Stubbs, 2007). Conversely, after noting potential

benefits of restorative justice for female offenders, Alder highlights some risks, such as holding

conferences with girls who may have been abused, and unwittingly inviting an abuser within

their communities of care to participate in their sentencing (2000: 121; see also Weijers, 2002).

Again, these concerns stem from potential power imbalances within restorative forums.

Further, community expectations of girlhood could impact restorative processes and

outcomes. Alder, for example, warns that community members may find it worse for girls to

commit offences since it challenges their status as women (2000: 118–199). Indeed, a study by

Maxwell and Morris comparing girls’ experience to boys’ in New Zealand found differential

standards of behaviour expected of girls compared to boys, even from girls themselves (2000).

A similar comparative study by Maxwell et al. found that while there were many resemblances

between boys’ and girls’ experiences, boys were more likely to report being treated fairly, as

trustworthy, and as feeling they had been given another chance than girls who were more likely

to report negative experiences such as feeling unable to say what they wanted, and as feeling

culpable (2003; Alder, 2000: 120). Accordingly, on account of how girls respond differently to

boys during conferencing, they may make seem less compliant and more difficult to work with

(Alder, 2000: 120–122; Daly, 2008: 114–115; Gaarder and Presser, 2006: 487). Moreover,

parents may exhibit different expectations, with sons encouraged to be assertive, and girls

praised for being compliant (Elis, 2006: 382–383).

The parental role is particularly interesting since Cook’s study indicates that

community members may allude to expectations of parents by praising what is perceived as

good parenting (2006: 115). Indeed, research suggests that mothers may feel responsible for

their children’s behaviour, whereas fathers, when they attend, seem to be quieter (Cook, 2006;

Hoyle and Noguera, 2008). These examples indicate that women, from girlhood into

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motherhood, may be particularly vulnerable to hegemonic expectations during restorative

justice processes.

Beyond victim and offender perspectives, gender roles may also affect community

members. Studies show that although female offenders in restorative conferences are fewer

than male offenders, community volunteers tend to be female, and offenders’ mothers are

more likely to attend than their fathers (Cook, 2006: 115–117; Daly and Stubbs, 2007: 157).

This raises concern that the community responsibility for restorative justice, both as volunteers

and carers, could disproportionality fall to women (Stubbs, 1997; Weisberg, 2003), meaning

that women take on additional unpaid care work in the reproductive economy (Rittich, 2002).

Rossner’s recent study adds weight to these fears since she found that it is often female

supporters in the conference, usually on the offenders’ side, who spark the necessary

emotional “turning point” for restorative justice to be successful (2013: 95).

Thus, gender may play out in at least two ways. First, it may affect participants’

positions in restorative justice, empowering some while oppressing others, which legitimates

concern over legal safeguards. Second, the weight of restorative justice may disproportionately

fall and, indeed, rely upon the unpaid services of women.

Ethnicity

Early restorative justice literature considered ethnicity in relation to family group conferencing

and circle sentencing. Maxwell and Morris, for instance, extensively researched Maori

experiences of the family group conference in New Zealand (Maxwell and Morris, 1993, 1996;

Morris and Maxwell, 1998; Tauri and Morris, 1997). Similarly, Aboriginal experiences of family

group conferencing in Australia (Daly, 2001; Nancarrow, 2006), and black, Latino, and East

Asian experiences in the United States were documented (Baffour, 2006; Choi and Severson,

2009; Van Wormer, 2003). Sentencing circles in Canada and the United States also reportedly

42

produced a number of benefits for Native American families encountering the criminal justice

system (Bazemore and Umbreit, 2001, 2004; Lemley, 2001). Further, feminist scholars

examined the benefits of restorative justice for ethnic minority women who became victims

of domestic violence (Baffour, 2006; Condon, 2010; Daly, 2002b; Hudson, 2006; Payne and

Welch, 2013). In these examples, then, scholars treat restorative justice as a mechanism to

counter the harmful impact that traditional criminal justice has on ethnic minority

communities.

However, there are also critical accounts of ethnic minority experience in restorative

justice that I must be cautious of. For example, Blagg argues that Western scholars’ claims

about restorative justice reflecting the traditions of neo-colonised societies themselves lead to

a form neo-colonialism whereby restorative justice risks replacing authentic indigenous

practices (2001). Similarly, Cunneen discusses the potential for restorative justice to become a

“colonial force” (2005). Moreover, Maxwell and Morris found that the processes and

outcomes of family group conferencing in New Zealand often failed to accord with Maori

philosophies and values (1996: 95–96). On the other hand, arguably restorative justice overall

is more in line with indigenous practices (Crenshaw, 1995), and thus is less a form of colonial

imposition than traditional criminal justice (Gavrielides, 2014). Still, Hudson reminds

restorative researchers that oppressed groups, such as women and ethnic minorities, have

fought for offences against them to be taken seriously, and thus that restorative justice ought

to tread carefully in these areas (1998). These critiques are again rooted in observed power

struggles between ethnic minority communities and the state, as well as power struggles within

ethnic minority communities themselves.

Worryingly, there may be ground for concern that ethnicity impacts access to

restorative justice. For example, in the US, Rodriguez found that ethnicity appears to impact

prosecutors’ decisions whether to refer a case to restorative processes, more so than

socioeconomic factors such as unemployment (2005). In a smaller-scale qualitative study,

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Baffour further found that African-American victims and offenders declined to engage in

restorative justice much more commonly than Caucasian or Latino study participants (2006:

572). And Payne and Welch, looking at restorative justice in US schools, found that a greater

percentage of Black students enrolled in the school decreased the likelihood of the school

using restorative methods, opting for more punitive responses instead (2013: 16).

Despite these findings about access to restorative justice, studies in the US (Baffour,

2006) and the UK (Shapland et al., 2008) show ethnicity to have no effect on the success of

restorative justice when measured in terms of recidivism. Accordingly, one cannot justify the

disproportionate access to restorative justice for ethnic minority offenders on account of

reduced efficacy.

When cases involving ethnic minority participants reach the restorative justice process,

there may be additional issues about communication and disproportional outcomes.

Gavrielides (2014) builds on the work of Davidheiser (2008), to raise a concern that divergent

communication styles, as well as language barriers, might affect the flow of conversation in

restorative justice processes (see also Albrecht, 2010; Choi and Severson, 2009). Indeed,

Albrecht found that different participant cultural backgrounds seemed to complicate

communication in restorative justice conferences, well-illustrated through an example of a

conference between a Norwegian man and a Somali woman (2010):

while the male Norwegian participant talked very calmly and factually, the Somali participant talked much faster and livelier, using more gestures. This led the Norwegian participant at times to withdraw from the conversation and to become silent, which again provoked the Somali participant to speak even faster and in a higher timbre and volume (Albrecht, 2010: 10).

Clearly, culture influences communication styles, and thus ethnicity may advantage or

disadvantage participants within restorative justice, depending on how well, perhaps,

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participants have mastered the style of communication required by the restorative justice

forum itself.

Gavrielides highlights a drastic need for further research in the area of ethnicity and

restorative justice. In Gavrielides’s words, “the relationship between restorative justice and

race remains largely unexplored both normatively and empirically [. . .] Race-related matters

within the context of restorative justice have never been explored in their own right”

(Gavrielides, 2014: 217, 219). Indeed, in light of endemic discrimination of persons from

ethnic minority backgrounds throughout the criminal justice system (Parmar, 2014; Bowling

and Phillips, 2007; Bowling, 1999; Hood, 1992), ethnicity is a pressing area for restorative

justice scholars to tackle. Especially so in relation to my research focus, on the potentially

exclusionary and suppressive effects of community in restorative justice.

Class

Discussion of class is strangely absent throughout criminology. When class is discussed in

restorative justice literature, it is predominantly in relation to class differences between

participants, and the power imbalances or exclusion that these differences produce during the

restorative process. Delgado, among others, suggests that restorative justice participants that

offenders will tend to hail from disadvantaged class backgrounds, that victims will come from

both middle- and disadvantaged walks of life, and that volunteers will be middle class (Delgado

2000, 766; Dyck 2000, 257; Crawford and Newburn 2002, 483, among others). Meanwhile,

research into community volunteers in England and Wales indicates that, aside from the higher

ratio of female to male volunteers, volunteers are more or less representative of the population

with regards to census data (Biermann and Moulton, 2003; Crawford, 2007b; Souza and

Dhami, 2008). However, when compared with the participants involved, volunteers are

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notably unrepresentative of class backgrounds (Crawford, 1995: 117), potentially even more

so when only the most active volunteers are taken into account (Rosenblatt, 2015: 167).

The literature suggests that some class-based power imbalances derive from the

community-of-place notion in particular. Whereas members of relational communities, i.e.

those with a pre-existing relationship to victims and offenders, are selected because of their

connection to an incident, members of a geographically delineated community are often

volunteers randomly assigned to the case because of where they live. Crawford cautions that

selecting volunteers from a particular locality risks permitting the recruitment of volunteers

from informal circles of relative socioeconomic advantage to the exclusion of disorganised,

troubled, or less powerful groups (1999: 168–172). Since these volunteers symbolically

represent a geographical space, Crawford notes that it is difficult for volunteers to fully

represent the diverse interests of the community living within these spaces (1999: 182).

Moreover, recruiting volunteers from higher socioeconomic groups may further benefit these

participants, to the exclusion of disadvantaged groups; by generating in-groups of volunteers

who take the benefits of restorative justice as “club goods”, they thereby do not generate

“public goods” (Crawford and Clear, 2001: 140).

The scholarship also indicates subtler ways in which restorative processes involve

class-based power imbalances. Similar to the communication concerns of the ethnicity

literature, Levrant et al. warn that the dialogue-heavy nature of these processes may favour

those with stronger verbal skills, such as (typically) the socioeconomically advantaged (1999).

As the authors point out, community volunteers in restorative conferences may treat affluent

participants (specifically offenders) more favourably than disadvantaged participants who

struggle to express and present themselves (1999: 16). Indeed, by observing 12 restorative

conferences with young male offenders, Cook found that class and ethnicity did appear to

impact on community volunteers’ assumptions about participating offenders (2006; see also

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Cohen, 2001). Examining the link between communication skills and the outcomes of

restorative justice conferences is therefore warranted.

Another aspect of restorative justice which may mask important socioeconomic

differences is its purported aim: to restore. Restoring an unequal status quo does not seem to

be in the interests of socioeconomically disadvantaged groups. Gil, for example, describes how

restorative reparation agreements require offenders to engage in secondary-sector labour

market activity to demonstrate their commitment to dominant norms and values (2008; see

also Schehr 2000: 151-152). Moreover, Cook’s aforementioned study took examples from

restorative forums to show that volunteers transmit their standards to offenders, which were

heteronormative, traditionally masculine, and associated with the white middle-class (2006).

Finally, in a similar vein to Gil’s account, Koen’s Marxist critique of restorative justice

highlights the fact that in classed societies, although the bourgeoisie (theoretically, volunteers

and victims) may be interested in protecting their property, the proletariat (expected offenders)

have no interest in restoring the equilibrium; according to Koen, restorative justice, therefore,

“requires the community to condone the structure of capitalist exploitation and oppression”

(2007: 263).

Indeed, restorative justice scholars recurrently express unease about existing

inequalities, albeit described in less class-loaded terms (see Delgado 2000: 764; Polk 2001: 282-

283). On account of prevailing socioeconomic inequalities in society, transformative justice

scholars even call for restorative justice to go beyond restoring, and actually to improve or

transform structural inequalities (Harris, 2006; Morris, 2000). While many restoratively-

inclined scholars are sympathetic to this view, there is also a sense that social justice activism,

and the wider issue of resource redistribution, falls outside the remit of restorative justice (e.g.

McCold, 1998: 26). For instance, Braithwaite suggests that rather than promoting social good,

which may be a fortunate by-product of the process, restorative justice should at least be

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expected not to worsen existing inequalities (Braithwaite, 1996b, 2002b; Braithwaite and

Parker, 1999b).

It is not only within restorative processes that class differences might reflect power

imbalance: scholars suggest that the class characteristics of whole communities may lead some

to be excluded from accessing programmes altogether. Crawford, for instance, argues that

relying on volunteers to maintain programmes fails to account for interlocking institutions and

external forces – such as poverty, unemployment, and housing amenities – which affect

whether communities can develop such programmes and skills (1999: 154). Accordingly, some

researchers predict that community participation will be higher in middle-class communities,

which are well-organised and have low crime rates, than in working-class communities, which

have fewer resources and higher crime rates (Crawford, 2002: 110; Graef, 2000: 33–39;

Robinson and Shapland, 2008: 135). Indeed, studies on community policing indicate that the

benefits of community programmes tend to go to white, middle-class, and well-educated

communities (Hoyle, 2006: 33; Kurki, 2000: 234, 290).

Beyond these identified sources of difference, the restorative justice literature has not

especially focused on class issues, and only limited empirical research in this area has been

carried out. Further, the microscope has not been turned onto conceptions of class itself.

Rather, the literature has tended unreflectively to adopt a way of looking at class (often through

participants’ employment status) which lacks explanatory power. I propose that this

conception of class is insufficient to fully explore how class differences play out in restorative

justice. Instead, a more nuanced approach is needed – one that explores the cultural and

normative aspects of an individual’s social position – to address the community critics.

Developing such an approach is the central purpose of the next chapter.

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The“Etc.”

Intersectionality theorists cite the profound difficulty faced by scholars who attempt to

inclusively consider different forms of power imbalance and privilege, due to the number of

multiple aspects of identity that a study could include. Butler, for example, notes that a long,

potentially never-ending list could be drawn, including gender, sexuality, ethnicity, class,

impairment, and which inevitably ends with the infinite and “embarrassed etc.” (1990: 143;

Davis, 2008; Henne and Troshynski, 2013). I wish to acknowledge wider identities in this study

beyond gender, ethnicity, and class, but I face a problem common to intersectional scholars: I

cannot do justice to all aspects of a person’s interconnected identities, those which come into

play at the intersection of oppression. In trying to cram an “etc.” into this small section, I

inevitably afford the most silenced voices only a limited space. Nevertheless, I wish to remain

open to other sources of oppression, and so I will here discuss literature that has considered

wider identity aspects within restorative justice.

There is limited research of restorative justice in relation to sexuality. Sexuality has

primarily been addressed in studies on hate crime, which have additionally included gender,

racial, and disability hate crimes. A prime example is the work of Walters, whose studies

include homophobic, racist, and disablist motivated offences (2012, 2014, Walters and Hoyle,

2010, 2011). Coates et al.’s earlier research on hate crime also included an offence against a

transgender victim (2006). As Daly and Stubbs note in relation to gender (2007), it is important

for sexuality to be considered beyond sexuality-based crimes, for example, considering the

experiences of lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans and queer offenders. Since queer criminology is still

in its infancy (Woods, 2014), this area of restorative justice will hopefully develop in tandem

with these wider developments.

Another emerging area of identity criminology is that of impairment (Dowse et al.,

2009; Steele and Thomas, 2014). It is surprising that impairment studies is underdeveloped,

given the high numbers of mentally disordered offenders recorded to be incarcerated

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worldwide (for a review see Steele and Thomas (2014)). In the UK, for example, 72 percent

of male offenders, and 70 percent of female offenders are suggested to have two or more

mental disorders (Talbot and Riley, 2007). Restorative justice is being touted as a replacement

for more punitive forms of justice for offenders experiencing mental disorder, such as in

mental health courts in the United States (Burns, 2013; Garner and Hafemeister, 2003;

Hafemeister et al., 2012). Moreover, some research analyses the efficacy of restorative justice

for victims suffering mental health conditions such as post-traumatic stress following an

offence (Angel et al., 2014; Herman, 2003; Mendeloff, 2009). Since restorative justice

inevitably features participants with experiences of mental disorder, due to the high prevalence

of mental disorder within the criminal justice system, examining the potential dangers of these

interactions and assessing relevant safeguards is paramount.

An increasing body of work reflects on the difficulties which participants on the

autistic spectrum, in particular, have with the dialogue-heavy process of restorative justice

(Littlechild, 2011). For example, research on restorative justice in schools and care homes

highlights challenges faced by young persons with language impairments, autism, and other

communication disorders (Snow and Sanger, 2015). Indeed, Littlechild and Sender suggest

that the value of restorative justice is limited when used for young persons with

communication difficulties, short attention spans, and attachment disorder (2010: 14). Snow

takes a class-based approach to examine differential levels of language development in young

persons, some with undiagnosed language impairments, in the restorative process (2013; Snow

and Sanger, 2015). Again, communication is at the forefront of concern. Beyond language

issues, autistic offenders also risk being seen as less empathetic in the conference, as struggling

to communicate the harm of an offence, and as not responding in an expected way during the

“emotional rituals” restorative justice invokes (Browning and Caulfield, 2011). Indeed,

Umbreit notes that participants uncomfortable with face-to-face talking may be intimidated or

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face aggression in the restorative conference (2006), which could be especially problematic for

participants who struggle to read social cues.

Despite the risks involved for participants on the autistic spectrum, and for those with

experiences of mental disorders, disability does not necessarily negatively affect the outcome

of restorative justice processes. In fact, Holland’s research into the Cognitive Behaviour Therapy

Exploring Feelings programme indicates that young persons living with autism can greatly benefit

from well-planned restorative dialogue (2015). Thus, it is imperative for disability not to act as

a barrier to participation in restorative justice.

Reviewing prior research on a range of identity traits of restorative justice participants

suggests that they may experience a range of oppressions within restorative justice. Some

research indicates that restorative justice may offer an enhanced form of justice for powerless

groups encountering the criminal justice system, yet other research warns of potential risks.

Several the concerns relate to power imbalances. Moreover, it is plausible that differential

communication abilities among various groups will affect their participation within restorative

dialogic processes. The breadth of ways in which restorative justice participants may be

disadvantaged indicates that the dangers of community are pertinent, especially for those less

powerfully positioned. It is because of concern for these wider societal conditions that

Walgrave insists on state involvement in restorative justice. Accordingly, I complete this review

by reflecting on Walgrave’s position on the role of the state.

1.2.3. The State and Restorative Justice

To safeguard against the numerous problems associated with the idea and implementation of

community, Walgrave recommends state involvement in restorative justice (2008). Like other

scholars, Walgrave emphasises the social aspect of crime: when crime is committed, society is

harmed, and this must be addressed to prevent public retaliation and to distinguish crime from

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torts (1999: 133; see also Ashworth, 1986; Duff, 2003). Therefore, in contrast to McCold, in

Walgrave’s eyes the public or state element is crucial. Without state involvement, Walgrave

argues, there is no restorative justice.

Given that he requires state involvement, Walgrave rules out some practices which

others classify as restorative justice. For example, Walgrave does not consider “mediation and

conferencing in schools, in neighbourhoods, in welfare work and so on” to be restorative

justice practices because they do not deal with criminalisable matters (2008: 147), quite unlike

many other scholars (Bazemore and Schiff, 2005a: 268; Karp and Breslin, 2001; Roache, 2006).

Moreover, in Walgrave’s opinion, community practices which deal with non-serious offences

such as vandalism and theft – cases which are referred to or proactively sought by community

groups – also fall outside the scope of restorative justice (2008: 145–155). Walgrave accepts

that these services are valuable and form an important basis from which restorative justice can

develop, but because they lack the public element, they are excluded from his definition.

Besides Walgrave, many other restorative justice scholars contend that the state has an

important role to play in restorative justice (Ashworth, 1986; Gil, 2008; Robinson and

Shapland, 2008; Zedner, 1994), contra the purist vision where restorative justice is state-

independent. For example, in Daly’s recent efforts to clarify what restorative justice is, she

reminds the restorative justice community that so-called traditional criminal justice

mechanisms are much needed to undertake the fact-finding part of criminal cases, and that,

more generally, the state has an important role to play (2016; Daly and others, 2000). Indeed,

Hoyle and I have argued that the state must be involved in order for restorative justice to

branch further into “the deep end” of criminal justice; that is, to be extended beyond

diversionary low-level offences to offences of a more serious nature (2016; Hoyle, 2010b).

This literature review has taken us from the early days of restorative justice in the

1970s, when restorative justice was encouraged as an alternative to traditional justice, through

to the present day, where scholarly thought increasingly contends that the state ought to have

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a more prominent position within restorative justice. Scholarship inspired by Christie’s seminal

claim that the state “steals the conflict” (1977) inevitably affords a restricted role to the state.

McCold’s purist model, for example, views restorative justice as something separate from the

state, so that primary stakeholders may “own” the conflict; and Bazemore and Schiff’s

maximalist account requires the state to take a step back so that community of place

“ownership” may arise. Investigating the dangers of community also allows us to examine,

empirically, the effects of limited state involvement within restorative justice.

1.3. Chaptersummary

This chapter has explored three approaches to community in restorative justice, which develop

from two definitional strands of thought. On McCold’s purist account, restorative justice

ought to involve a face-to-face process between primary stakeholders. Primary stakeholders

for McCold are victims, offenders, and the community of care, the members of which are

those with pre-existing relationships to victims and offenders involved in a dispute. Secondary

stakeholders, such as the state and the community of place, do not have a central place in

McCold’s purist model. By contrast, Bazemore and Walgrave’s maximalist definition defines

restorative justice by outcome, and thus any initiative which aims to restore harm caused by

an offence qualifies as restorative. Under this wider understanding of restorative justice,

Bazemore emphasises the significance of community of place, as well as the community of

care. And finally, for Walgrave, community per se is dangerous, and thus he advocates for the

state to have a central role instead.

During these discussions, several potential benefits of community involvement in

restorative justice have come into focus. Per McCold, community-of-care involvement lets

primary stakeholders take ownership of the dispute, instead of the state “stealing the conflict”.

Moreover, Braithwaite suggests that communities of care support the process of reintegrative

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shaming, which he deems the crux of why restorative justice works. Similarly, Rossner regards

community-of-care members as crucial for invaluable emotional “turning points” in a

restorative conference. Bazemore and Schiff, however, cite further benefits of community-of-

place involvement in disputes. These include the potential to bridge social capital, by

developing weak relational connections between strangers, and the potential to develop

collective efficacy so that residents feel confident that their neighbours will intervene on their

behalf. Finally, Bazemore and Schiff argue that collective ownership of the dispute can occur

when the community of place own the conflict instead of the state.

In contrast to the positive accounts of community, however, Walgrave and others

locate several potential dangers of community involvement in restorative justice. The dangers

begin from the postmodern assertion that community does not in fact exist, and expand to

the worry that the nature of community is exclusionary to outsiders while suppressing

differences of the least powerful insiders. Worse, community involvement seemingly risks

undermining offenders’ rights to a fair trial with proportional sentencing. Other dangers relate

to the conceptions of community adopted. For example, some relational communities from

which withdrawal is always possible may be insufficient to induce norm-enforcement. Or

community-of-place volunteers may never truly represent the interests of the community.

Further, due to fears that community is potentially discriminatory and unrepresentative, I also

reviewed the research on the experiences of less powerful groups taking part in restorative

justice, because of gender, ethnicity, class, sexuality, and impairment. Intersecting identities

such as these, may place individuals at an increased risk of the “dangers of community”.

Empirical study has examined the benefits of community; however, at present, the

“dangers of community” remain largely theoretical. Accordingly, my study investigates the

dangers of community in restorative justice, with a view to deepening understanding about

how differential power relations may surface during these dialogue-strong processes. The first

deeply philosophical danger I discussed, which questions the existence of community

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altogether, is beyond the scope of this thesis. The remaining dangers, however, will be refined

into research questions in the subsequent chapter. These dangers appear rooted in power

imbalances and the potential discriminatory effects that of a participant’s identity traits.

To begin to fill this gap in the restorative justice literature, my study focuses on class,

while remaining mindful of intersectionality. My theoretical framework for this task is inspired

by the work of Bourdieu, to whom I now turn.

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Chapter2: AReturntoClass

In the previous chapter, I examined three approaches to community in restorative justice, each

of which either claimed benefits or warned about risks of community involvement. Proposed

benefits centred on notions of informal social control (Kurki, 2003; Shaw and McKay, 1942).

According to some restorative justice scholars, pre-existing relational ties of the “community

of care” matter most, since these relationships are suggested to induce “reintegrative shaming”

(Braithwaite, 1989), and “turning points” (Rossner, 2013: 75) within a conference. Other

scholars, however, emphasise how developing weaker ties during the restorative process, such

as those between residents of a geographical area, may enhance collective efficacy (Bazemore

and Schiff, 2005a). Yet as well as noting collective and supportive aspects of community, a

number of scholars have warned of a darker side to community (Ashworth, 2001; Crawford

and Clear, 2001; Cunneen, 2005; Delgado, 2000; Pavlich, 2001; Walgrave, 2008). Critics of

community involvement draw attention to the exclusionary and controlling tendencies of

community, and the power imbalances generated, concealed, and maintained by it. Since these

critiques of community are both theoretically and empirically under-researched, the purpose

of this chapter is to develop a conceptual framework through which the dangers of community

participation in restorative justice can be explored in more depth.

The dangers of community I identified in the previous chapter primarily relate to

power imbalance and exclusion. Accordingly, I wish to hone in on class as a source of

exclusion and power imbalance, while being mindful of other intersecting social factors, such

as ethnicity, gender, sexuality, disability, and so forth (Potter, 2015). Largely, the restorative

justice literature has not focused on class issues, and has conducted only limited empirical

research in this area. Similarly, there is little criminological literature that can be drawn upon.

For, despite rising rates of inequality and the overrepresentation of lower socioeconomic

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groups in the criminal justice system, class is surprisingly absent from the criminological

agenda (Gillies, 2005; Newman and Massengill, 2006; Wacquant, 2008). When class is

mentioned in such literature, it is given cursory consideration and conceptions of class are left

unexamined. Rather, the literature has tended uncritically to adopt a way of looking at class,

often focusing on participants’ employment status, which lacks explanatory power and depth.

In this chapter, I demonstrate how affording attention to the complexities of class is essential

for us to understand the intricacies of power imbalance within restorative justice conferences.

This chapter will be structured as follows. In the first section, I closely examine the

apparent absence of class in criminology, and argue that the time is ripe for class to be brought

back into view. In the second section, I lay the foundations for my conceptual framework,

which is based on the work of the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu. Here, I introduce

Bourdieu’s terms “habitus”, “field”, and “capital”. Next, I expand on this terminology to

develop two key notions relevant for my analysis of class, the “street field” and the “scholastic

field”. In addition to the work of Bourdieu, I draw extensively on the empirical work of

Annette Lareau and Elijah Anderson to support my analysis of the scholastic and street fields.

In the final section, I recognise the necessity of an intersectional framework to fully appreciate

the complexities inherent in both power and exclusion. In the chapter summary, I use my

theoretical findings to refine my conception of the dangers of community as identified in the

restorative justice literature.

2.1. Returningtoclass

Class and culture were central to early explanations of delinquency and crime. Shaw and

McKay’s social disorganisation theory, for example, initially had two branches, the first

focusing on the role of informal social networks that could prevent delinquency, and the

second exploring the role of culture (1942). In relation to culture, Shaw and McKay suggested

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that low delinquency neighbourhoods exhibited homogeneous values and attitudes, in contrast

to disorganised neighbourhoods that appeared to host both “deviant” and conventional

values. Soon after, Cohen explicitly brought class to the forefront by hypothesising that

delinquent subcultures emerge as a group response to individuals’ shared failure to meet

dominant middle-class ideals: “[t]he hallmark of the delinquent subculture is the explicit and

wholesale repudiation of middle-class standards and the adoption of the very antithesis” (1955:

129). Furthermore, it was common during this period to merge theories of culture and class

together, as found in the work of influential British class theorists such as Thompson (1963),

Goldthorpe (1968), Dennis (1956), Hoggart (1957), and Williams (1983).

But then class disappeared. Within criminology, throughout the social sciences, and

even in the mass media, the end of class had apparently dawned (Bauman, 1998; Beck, 1992;

Pakulski and Waters, 1996). There are a number of explanations for why class dropped from

the academic perspective on society. In criminology, for instance, early cultural theories of

delinquency endured harsh criticism. Kornhauser notably criticised cultural explanations of

delinquency for failing to give adequate attention to the structural causes of inequality, and not

distinguishing values from behaviour (1978). She accused the emergent “culture of poverty”

thesis, associated with the work of Lewis (1963) and Moynihan (1965), of effectively blaming

the victims (see also Ryan, 1971). For, according to Kornhauser’s reading of the thesis, all that

was required to counter poverty was for the residents of disadvantaged neighbourhoods to

change their ways. Indeed, it is not hard to imagine how Cohen’s (1955) account of delinquent

boys rejecting middle-class standards could be construed as working-class boys electing their

future.

Criminology’s retreat from class and culture was symptomatic of a wider trend

throughout the social sciences. Since cultural explanations of class struggled to distinguish

social values from structural conditions (Kornhauser, 1978; Savage, 2000: 26), many scholars

across the social sciences refrained from class discussion altogether. Meanwhile, the main work

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on class during this period was of a quantitative character, such as Goldthorpe’s class schema,

which was derived from an individual’s employment status and “rational action theory” (1998;

Goldthorpe et al., 1980). Later, however, a postmodern paradigm shift exposed Goldthorpe’s

“employment aggregate” approach to new lines of criticism, such as that the schema reduces

class to mere occupations, and fails to take account of intersections between ethnicity, gender,

and class (Crompton and Scott, 2005: 187–188). Accordingly, with the paradigm shift, the

notion of culture began to show promise in class studies.

The above accounts partly explain why class formerly dropped out of view, and later

re-emerged, but other explanations can be found in British cultural studies. Scholars such as

Kirk suggest the departure from class also coincided with the rise of identity politics (2007:

67). Feminist literature had legitimately criticised the absence of thought about gender in

cultural discourse, and efforts were made to address this. Moreover, other aspects of identity,

such as ethnicity, sexuality, and disability, have since gained recognition. One way of

understanding these aspects is to see them as reflecting individuals: persons of such-and-such

gender, say, or ethnicity. Conceived in this individualistic fashion, identity politics may conflict

with the collective focus on class. However, it need not be so: we are moving toward

understanding aspects of identity as socially constructed categories, rather than biological or

innate traits, which naturally complement structural understandings of systems of oppression.

(For example, consider Butler’s account of gender (1990), Bowling and Phillips’ discussions

of ethnicity (2007), and Hughes and Paterson on disability (1997).) With this move, categories

of identity which formerly were understood in atomic fashion are now recognised to have

meaning, or to generate power and oppression, because of their socially constructed nature.

Thus, within this framework of thought, class as a relevant aspect of identity can find a footing.

Moreover, it is not just that we are once again in a good position to study class; in

today’s political and economic climate, there is in fact strong incentive to do so. Contemporary

narratives about social goods and ills are influenced by the rise of neoliberalism, and the penal

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turn which has displaced once popular beliefs in rehabilitation with a growing punitive

sentiment (Garland, 1985: 7; Simon, 2012). Indeed, explanations of inequality in this climate

have become increasingly individualistic, in ways that appeal to dubious notions of meritocracy

and American Dream (McNamee and Miller, 2004); without considering the collective nature

of class, the assumption that anyone can succeed has dangerous implications. For example, it

has led conservative scholars to explain why groups or individuals do not succeed on the basis

of their apparent failings or inadequacies, rather than reflecting on societal, structural

deficiencies (notably, see Murray, 1984; and Saunders, 1996). Popular media narratives reflect

this tendency to blame the poor for failing to better themselves, thereby laying all of the

responsibility on individuals to change their ways, while exculpating many of those responsible

for the society-wide structural deficiencies that cause poverty (Jones, 2014: Ch. 3). Even worse,

perhaps, is how these same depictions of the poor as irresponsible have fed into the continual

disintegration of state welfare, replaced by programmes that emphasise control and

responsibility, while doing little to address inequality (Garland, 1985: 7). The result: we are

experiencing larger scales of inequality than ever before.

In this climate, a return to the narrative of class is crucial, and with it the recognition

that inequality is a collective, rather than individual, phenomenon. There are at least two ways

the return to class in the social sciences appears to be taking shape: one focuses on theories of

hegemony (e.g. Kirk, 2007, in cultural studies; and Paton, 2014, in urban studies), and the other

is heavily influenced by Pierre Bourdieu (e.g., in education, Lareau, 1987; and Reay, 1998; in

sociology, Savage et al., 2013; and Skeggs, 1997b). It is the Bourdieusian approach to which I

am drawn, since it helpfully guides our attention to unseen power dynamics at play, which are

of key concern to criminologists.6 Indeed, Shammas and Sandberg have proposed that there

6 Bourdieu’s theory of symbolic violence and Gramsci’s theory of hegemony bear similarities, and yet there may be fundamental differences in the nature and role of consent in each of these theories (Burawoy, 2012: 51–66).

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is something of a “Bourdieusian moment” occurring in criminology (2015: 2), influenced by

the work of Anderson’s influential ethnography, The Code of the Street (1999), and traced to the

work of Sandberg and Pederson (2011), and Wacquant (2002). In addition to a “Bourdieusian

moment”, criminology is also experiencing something of a “cultural turn”, in which culture is

resurfacing in explanations of offending behaviour (Berg and Stewart, 2013; Harding et al.,

2010).

My effort here is to contribute to these much-needed criminological developments by

developing a conception of class which is sensitive to intersectional concerns. Accordingly, I

begin with an exposition of Bourdieu’s theory of class.

2.2. Bourdieu on class

Bourdieu’s work is about power and dominance. Instead of viewing class as a purely economic

phenomenon (e.g. as in Goldthorpe et al., 1980), Bourdieu recognises its complexity by

identifying different sources of advantage. In particular, Bourdieu highlights the economic,

relational, and cultural advantages with which some individuals are endowed by virtue of their

circumstances. Moreover, he illustrates how those advantages in turn engender further kinds

of benefit which are inaccessible to those without such resources. Importantly, Bourdieu

shows us how various forms of advantage are context dependant, and can benefit the

individual who holds them to a greater or lesser extent. In this section, I outline Bourdieu’s

terminology and expand on his theory of class. I then draw on secondary literature from the

Seemingly, the theory of hegemony holds the oppressed classes to be conscious of their domination; however, in Bourdieu’s theory of symbolic violence, the consent of the oppressed in their own domination is much more tacit. Some critiques of Bourdieu, such as those found in Kirk (2007: Ch. 5), claim that this unrecognition denies agency to the oppressed. I am of the view that Bourdieu’s theory does not deny agency; rather, it recognises the limited fields within which agency can be expressed. Moreover, I find Bourdieu’s theory accurately captures the individualised nature of class; in contemporary conditions, class is arguably better described as a series of hierarchical distinctions made by individuals than theorised as class conflict and class consciousness (Bottero, 2004).

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fields of education, sociology, and criminology to examine in more depth how class differences

may surface in restorative justice.

Bourdieu introduced three central concepts to explain the nature and effect of class:

those of capitals, habitus, and field (1984). Bourdieu’s capitals can be seen as the multiple

sources of advantage that social beings acquire over the course of their lifetimes: namely,

economic capital, social capital, and cultural capital. Economic capital embraces a wider

understanding of economic advantage than Goldthorpe’s “employment aggregate” approach

by including money and credit, which may be institutionalised in the form of property rights,

in addition to personal income (Bourdieu, 1986b). However, Bourdieu’s focus on individual

capital in some respects still does not go far enough, since macroeconomic structures, such as

interest rates, corporate decisions, and welfare programmes, have a significant bearing on

individual employment opportunities, living costs, and savings (e.g. Wilson, 1987, 2011). While

Bourdieu does not dwell on these structural factors, they are nonetheless crucial. However,

such considerations are not counter to Bourdieu’s approach, and, indeed, can complement it.

Accordingly, I shall draw attention to macroeconomic factors in this study where relevant.

Social capital comprises the relational networks on which persons can draw (Bourdieu,

1986b: 286). Recourse to social capital, and the absence of social ties leading to a loss of social

control, has been a central tenet of criminological explanations of delinquency (Shaw and

McKay, 1942). Indeed, in the previous chapter we saw how scholars, such as Bazemore and

Schiff, think of social capital as a benefit that can emerge from the implementation of

restorative justice (2005a: 77). Bourdieu, however, offers an alternative perspective on social

capital to theorists who have been persuasive in criminology, such as Putnam (2000), Etzioni

(1993), and Coleman (1988). To recap, Putman, while recognising potentially negative forms

of social capital, for the most part describes social capital as an ultimate good, as always

beneficial (DeFilippis, 2001; Putnam, 2000). On account of this positive view of social capital,

Putnam proposes that developing social capital, especially through voluntary associations, can

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counter individualised fragmentation in modern-day society (2000). Etzioni also emphasises

voluntary associations, and views the formation of these social ties as good in itself (1996).

Finally, Coleman defines social capital as something functional: “Like other forms of capital,

social capital is productive, making possible the achievement of certain ends that in its absence

would not be possible” (1988: S98). Accordingly, Coleman too views social capital as a

resource, or at least something neutral (DeFilippis, 2001: 784).

However, in contrast to these positive accounts, Bourdieu draws our attention to social

capital’s exclusionary properties. To demonstrate this, reflect on a key distinction drawn by

the above social capital theorists, between weak ties and strong ties. Putnam (2000) describes

strong ties as those between close family and friends, and the generation of such ties is referred

to as bonding social capital; in contrast, weaker ties are between more distant acquaintances,

and their generation is referred to as bridging social capital. Social capital theorists themselves

recognise these two types of social capital are not of equal “exchange value”; the literature

often emphasises that weak ties specifically are more advantageous and should be developed.

Granovetter, for example, highlights how weak ties are important in employment

opportunities (1973: 1378), and Putnam sees weak ties as key to overcoming the exclusionary

tendencies of community (2000). However, the types of tie which individuals generate appear

to be affected by class. Coleman’s work, for instance, demonstrates how close, tight bonds are

those more commonly found among working-class communities (1988, 1990; Hagan, 1993;

Horvat et al., 2003). Likewise, other studies have shown that middle-class individuals tend to

draw on weaker networks (Horvat et al., 2003; Newman and Massengill, 2006: 436). Moreover,

Bourdieu demonstrates that this push to develop weak ties is ill-fated, since the generative

value of these weaker networks lies precisely in their being exclusive and out of reach to those

external to the networks (1986b; Gauntlett, 2011). That is, if all are able to access the scarce

opportunities that weak network ties provide, then such networks would cease to provide

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advantage. Hence, social capital cannot be seen only as neutral or beneficial; it is a source of

distinction (Bourdieu, 1986b).

Another key concept developed by Bourdieu is “cultural capital”, which comprises an

individual’s tastes and dispositions. These tastes can either be embodied, and hence form part

of an individual’s personhood (e.g., the enjoyment of art); objectified, in the form of books,

pictures, instruments, and other cultural goods (e.g., the purchase of a surrealist painting); or

institutionalised through educational qualifications (e.g., the achievement of a first-class fine

arts degree) (Bourdieu, 1986b: 82). Since cultural capital can be embodied in persons (and

thereby become part of the habitus, which I will explore below), unlike some forms of

economic wealth it is present in a subtle way, and can therefore be easily overlooked as a

source of relative advantage.

As we can see, Bourdieu’s notion of cultural capital presents culture as a resource or

asset, rather than something one simply chooses to adopt, which overcomes earlier critiques

that cultural explanations tend to victim blame (Kornhauser, 1978). Further, Bourdieu’s

approach to culture accords with current developments in criminology, primarily influenced

by the work of Swidler (1986) (see also Berg and Stewart, 2013; Harding et al., 2010). Instead

of viewing culture as a chosen course of action, in which persons have the power simply to

change their way of being and thus their situation, Swidler conceives culture in the mould of

skill. Swidler explains that culture is “more like a style or a set of skills and habits than a set of

preferences or wants” (1986: 275). As such, she offers an analogy of culture as “a ‘tool kit’ of

symbols, stories, rituals, and world-views”, which actors can then select from, to direct action

and solve problems (Swidler, 1986: 273; cf. Hannerz, 1969: 184). Swidler’s analogy is clearer

by use of an example: if I am trying to put a nail in the wall, but I do not have a hammer in

my toolkit, I might use a screwdriver (less effectively) instead. It is pointless to advise to me

to use a hammer, since I do not have a hammer (the skills) in my toolkit. Instead, I will be

creative with the tools I do have, even though it may seem an inappropriate course of action

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to an observer. Notably, Swidler’s approach is also in keeping with Lareau and Weininger’s

interpretation of Bourdieu, in which cultural capital is understood as including skill and ability

(Lareau and Weininger, 2003: 569).

The last Bourdieusian concepts to introduce here are those of field and habitus.

“Field” and “habitus” are intricately related concepts which Bourdieu develops to elucidate

how our capitals can generate further forms of advantage. Bourdieu uses the concept “field”

to describe different autonomous social spaces, such as the field of education and the field of

the arts, each of which operates with its own internal logic. Imagine, for instance, the norms

(both formal and informal) that govern how one ought to behave in school, and the types of

skill that are required in this environment. Then imagine how one should behave at a football

match between long-term rival fans. Clearly, then, each of these fields is autonomous, with its

own particular constellation of rules and standards which affect how participants are expected

to act.

“Habitus” is a somewhat ambiguous concept, and one that overlaps with Bourdieu’s

notion of cultural capital. In an exposition of Bourdieu, Maton describes habitus as “a property

of actors” (2008: 51), referred to by Bourdieu as a “structured and structuring structure” (cited

in Maton, 2008: 51). That is, as Maton explains, Bourdieu perceives habitus as structured by

an individual’s past experiences and present circumstances, primarily in the family and the

home; as structuring because it helps to shape a person’s present and future practices; and

finally, being systematically arranged, as itself a structure:

Simply put, habitus focuses on our ways of acting, feeling, thinking and being. It captures how we carry within us our history, how we bring this history into our present circumstances, and how we then make choices to act in certain ways and not others. (Maton, 2008: 52)

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A comparable concept, “frames”, is used in criminology to explain how persons’ actions will

be shaped by their perception of past activities, their present and future expectations, and how

they construe the world and their place within it (Goffman, 1974; Harding et al., 2010: 14–15).

As we can see, then, akin to frames, habitus conditions what we come to aspire to, expect, and

think of as reasonable, and our beliefs about “natural” ways to act (Bourdieu, 2000; Maton,

2008: 57–58).

Bourdieu argues that both the habitus and the field are related structures, albeit each

with their own internal logic and history (Maton, 2008: 57). This means that participants in a

given field will engage in struggles with unequal strengths, depending on the body of capital

they have to mobilise (Bourdieu, 1984: 107, 1993: 88). The more well-matched the economic,

social, and cultural capital field participants have, the better they will perform in the field.

When their stock of capital and habitus are well suited to a field, they will take to it seemingly

naturally, like “fish to water”, in contrast with those whose behaviour fails to match the social

context (Maton, 2008: 57ff). Bourdieu repeatedly turns to these mismatching phenomena

throughout his work, to explain why children from advantaged backgrounds are continually

able to outperform their working-class peers in the field of education.

For the current investigation, it will be helpful to distinguish between, and focus on,

two contrasting fields, which I refer to as the scholastic field and the street field. “Scholastic

field” refers to the social space of academic endeavours, from school through to higher

education. In keeping with Bourdieu, I suggest that middle-class skills and abilities – i.e.

middle-class cultural capital and habitus – are those which flourish in the scholastic field.

Conversely, a different set of skills and abilities is required for survival in the “street field”.

Whereas the concept of scholastic field is widely developed by Bourdieu and in the education

literature, “street field” is a concept in early stages of development, though of potentially wide-

reaching benefit for criminology. Street field is described by Shammas and Sandberg as a social

space in which criminal and deviant activities can take place (2015: 7; see also Matsueda, 2006).

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I advocate adopting “street field” to refer to environments that disadvantaged

individuals are likely to navigate. These spaces are tough, consisting of a number of structural

hurdles, ranging from economic hardship, poverty, limited public services, high rates of crime,

and so forth; think of the “ghettos” described in American scholarship (Rankin and Quane,

2000; Wilson, 1987, 2011), and “sink estates” in British writings (Hobcraft, 2002; Lees, 2014).

Because these places are primarily reserved for disadvantaged individuals, I suggest that

working-class skillsets evolve toward ways to exist, and even thrive, in these spaces. Such ways

of being form an individual’s “street capital”. Although working-class habitus will be

orientated towards surviving in tough environments, street capital is not exclusively working

class; indeed, many middle-class parents will try to instil an element of street wisdom in their

children (Ball, 2003). Similarly, scholastic capital is not exclusively middle class; working-class

children will aspire to succeed in school and try to develop skills to do so. Thus, street capital

and scholastic capital can be found within both middle-class and working-class repertoires,

and are not binary categories. Nevertheless, I propose that middle-class habitus is orientated

to success in the scholastic field, whereas working-class habitus is primarily directed toward

survival in the street field. To fully explain these, I will first expand on what the scholastic field

and street field comprise.

2.2.1. The scholastic field

There are certain skills that enable a child to perform well in school – negotiation, verbal

reasoning, forming evidential arguments, among others – however, these skills are not equally

shared (Lareau, 2011: 19). Lareau’s research demonstrates the classed nature of differential

skillsets, when she extends Bourdieu’s theory to the parenting practices of middle-class and

working-class families. Although her work was based in the United States, educational scholars

have found value in applying Lareau’s insight to the United Kingdom context, identifying

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similar patterns (Gillies, 2005). Likewise, I find Lareau’s work can shed light on the type of

dangers that may arise within the restorative justice conference. Accordingly, I map out the

terrain characteristic to the scholastic field in light of Lareau’s findings, and my ongoing

exposition of Bourdieu.

In Unequal Childhoods (Lareau, 2011),7 Lareau uses portraits to demonstrate that while

both middle-class and working-class parents support their children’s development, the ways

in which parents do so are dissimilar. Lareau observed a tendency among middle-class parents

to engage in continual discussions with children, prompting their descriptions of events,

encouraging their opinions and choices on household decisions, and providing them with

explanations for adult directives given (2011: 96–103). As a result, middle-class children were

noted to acquire greater verbal agility, extended vocabularies, abstract concepts, and

confidence to converse with professionals, in stark contrast to the limited skills developed by

working-class children in these areas (Lareau, 2011: 19). Lareau calls this middle-class style of

parenting “concerted cultivation”, which develops a “sense of entitlement” in children that

advantages them in the scholastic field (2011: 16).

Put in Bourdieusian terminology, Lareau is describing a process whereby middle-class

children are exposed to a particular form of cultural capital, which they come to embody, and

which thus forms part of their habitus. The process of embodying cultural capital takes place

during the early, formative years of life, when children of advantaged parents will receive

extensive exposure to highbrow culture in the family, such as a taste for certain types of art,

performance, and food (Lareau and Weininger, 2003). Bourdieu highlights how, once cultural

capital is embodied within an individual’s habitus, it can be used as a powerful resource in

relevant fields. For example, middle-class habitus can be used in the scholastic field to obtain

7 Lareau’s initial study was conducted in 2004, and revisited for this second edition in 2011.

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academic qualifications, which can in turn be used to access employment opportunities, and

eventually be transformed into economic capital:

Even in the classroom, the dominant definition of the legitimate way of appropriating culture and works of art favours those who have had early access to legitimate culture, in a cultured household, outside of scholastic disciplines, since even within the educational system it devalues scholarly knowledge and interpretation as “scholastic” or even “pedantic” in favour of direct experience and simple delight. (Bourdieu, 1984: 2)

Thus, the classroom favours children who are seen as naturals, and it may be overlooked that

such “naturals” possess cultural capital which helps them engage in this way (Maton, 2008:

57ff). Educational institutions are thus prime places where scholastic-cultural capital can work

to the advantage of those who have it, and to the detriment of those who do not (Lareau and

Weininger, 2003: 568). Accordingly, Bourdieu asserts that the reason middle-class children

achieve higher rates of education attainment than working-class children is partly due to the

stock of cultural capital that they inherit and embody at a young age (1986b). Indeed, as Radnor

et al. remind, “[i]n Britain today a bright child born into a poor family will still do worse at

school than a child with low intelligence but rich parents” (2007: 294).

In addition to cultural capital, middle-class families benefit from a stock of other

capital that enables them to secure their children’s advantage. In our discussion of social capital

above, we saw how weak ties, more often found in middle-class groups, are particularly

advantageous for securing benefits, such as employment opportunities (Ball, 2003: 80;

Granovetter, 1973, 1974, 1976, 1988). Moi, for example, posits that the “relational power” of

social capital can help the advantaged outdo comparably good students from disadvantaged

backgrounds (1991: 1025):

If persons from disadvantaged social groups require all the educational capital they can obtain if they are to advance in society, members of more favoured

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classes can get further on less educational capital, simply because they have access to large amounts of other kinds of capital. (Moi, 1991: 1024)

Moreover, different forms of economic capital can have an accumulation effect; for instance,

money can be used to access superior schooling and housing (Savage et al., 2005). This claim

finds support in Ball’s research, which focused on middle-class parental decision making in

the UK. Ball reveals a complex process undertaken by middle-class parents when deciding

between state (free) and private (fee-paying) education, whether to provide children with

additional private tuition, and, at times, securing training for children to navigate elite

university application processes (2003). Similarly, Lareau noticed a pattern where middle-class

parents fill their children’s time from a young age with an assortment of organised activities

that formalised interests and talents, but at times required considerable expenditure (2011: 42).

Thus, economic capital can be used substantially to enhance both cultural and social capital.

Of particular relevance to this study is how scholastic capital is employed in the context

of problem solving. Lareau discusses how middle-class children are encouraged by their

parents to adopt the same techniques as they learnt in the home with professionals, in order

to secure their interests (2007). In these situations, extended vocabularies and verbal agility

nurtured in the home provide a form of linguistic advantage (Bourdieu and Thompson, 1991).

Indeed, as Bourdieu et al. state, “[l]anguage is the most active and elusive part of the cultural

heritage which each individual owes to his background” (1996: 8). Thus, the sense of

entitlement cultivated in the home, with negotiation and linguistic skills to match, powerfully

positions middle-class children to overcome problems in the school environment.

In addition to endowing their children with verbal and negotiating advantages, middle-

class parents remain active in their children’s interactions in the scholastic field. Research

indicates that middle-class parents are likely to intervene in school matters, and push educators

to ensure the best outcomes for their children (Gillies, 2006: 285–287; Lareau and Weininger,

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2003: 589–590). Since schools are claimed to be institutions that command middle-class

standards (Cohen, 1955; Lareau, 2011), middle-class parents’ own habitus and capitals are well-

suited to successful intervention in this field. Indeed, schools’ expectations for parents to

adopt a partnering role alongside teachers is more in tune with the cultural capital embodied

by middle-class parents, who might feel much less discomfort than working-class parents when

assuming a role on par with teaching professionals (see Dunne and Gazeley, 2008; Gazeley,

2012: 299; Lareau, 1987; Radnor et al., 2007: 293). Thus, advantages in childhood can be

reproduced by subsequent generations.

The struggle which takes place in the scholastic field between middle-class and

working-class families is encapsulated by Bourdieu’s term “symbolic violence”. In the present

context, symbolic violence describes how working-class children both evaluate themselves

against middle-class standards, and fall short of those standards, due partly to the limited stock

of economic, cultural, and social capital they embody and possess (Bourdieu and Passeron,

1977). Because symbolic violence happens when social agents actively compare themselves to

standards that they cannot meet, Bourdieu and Wacquant emphasise that such agents are in

effect complicit in their own subordination; that is an essential feature of symbolic violence

(1992: 167–168). Nonetheless, the authors are keen to eschew thinking of dominated agents

as simply responsible for their own domination. Rather, their point is that domination mostly

occurs because what determines domination are, in essence, basic axiomatic structures of

thought which agents are compelled to buy into, simply by virtue of being “born in a social

world” (1992: 168). To digest this subtly complicated notion, let us look at symbolic violence

as it plays out in another context, beyond the school.

Skeggs’s research, which studied white working-class women in England, offers a

concrete example of symbolic violence in action (1997b). Skeggs describes respectability as a

middle-class standard which working-class women aspire to meet, in order to distance

themselves from the devalued social status of being working-class. Attempts by working-class

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individuals to meet such standards were evident in a number of ways, including in their fashion

choices. For instance, Skeggs describes a participant in her study exhibiting doubt about her

tastes in home furnishings, uncertain whether these would pass middle-class judgement

(1997b: 88–90). Limited knowledge about the latest fashions (i.e. an inability to identify a style

before it becomes a trend), limited economic resources (i.e. an inability to afford designer

furnishings), and limited networks (i.e. not knowing a professional designer), mean working-

class individuals will inevitably fail to meet fully the standards set by the elite. Those with the

most capital will continually be ahead of the game. But for the most disadvantaged, the

standards will inevitably be furthest out of reach.

This sub-section has explored how Bourdieu’s thought applies to the scholastic field.

To solidify our understanding of this notion, let us pull together the different threads of

discussion. Middle-class children are endowed with a range of capitals. Most significant is

middle-class cultural capital, embodied by children at a young age, which thereby forms part

of their habitus, and is therefore subtle and often unnoticed. This cultural capital is a powerful

source of advantage for middle-class children in the scholastic field. Moreover, the habitus of

middle-class parents aids their interaction with teaching professionals and their ability to push

for their children’s success in the field. Skills of negotiation and articulation are crucial for

avoiding and overcoming problems in the scholastic field. However, these skills are not as

accessible to working-class families, where, overall, middle-class second natures are not

inculcated. And so when working-class persons try to meet middle-class standards, such as

those favoured by the scholastic field, they are likely to fall short.

Meanwhile, working-class children have a different field to navigate, for which an

alternative set of skills are required. Accordingly, I explore working-class skills in relation to

the street field.

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2.2.2. The street field

The scholars I have so far considered do not link class with criminality, and I must emphasise

that I do not intend to imply this connection either. When I refer to street-cultural capital, I

am not denoting skills to engage in criminal activity, as Shammas and Sandberg appear to do

in their development of the street field (2015). Instead, I adopt “street-cultural capital” to refer

to a broader set of skills that can aid survival for those growing up in tough environments;

hence, being streetwise is a virtue. Lareau draws attention to the economic hardship and

struggles that poor families face on a daily basis, in contrast to middle-class families (2011: 19).

While all families experience financial concerns, for poor families in Lareau’s study, these

concerns were as basic as having enough food to last, a roof over the head, and heat in the

house – concerns which are shared by many families in the UK today (Dorling, 2014, 2015).

Moreover, the areas in which poorer families are often resigned to live raise a whole host of

other concerns for parents, such as avoiding dangerous persons, drugs, violence, and so on

(Leventhal and Brooks-Gunn, 2000; Pantazis, 2000; Roberts, 2001: 118). In this context, it is

essential to instil in children the skills and streetwise ‘second natures’ (i.e. street capital) to

manage street risks.

In contrast to the skills developed in middle-class homes, Lareau observed a distinct

pattern of parenting in working-class families. Rather than cultivating children, in the street

environment, working-class parents’ first concern was to ensure that their children’s most

basic needs were met. Lareau describes this working-class parenting style as facilitating “the

accomplishment of natural growth” (2011: 16). Unlike middle-class “concerted cultivation”,

the accomplishment of natural growth entails clear boundaries set between parents and

children, the use of directives and commands rather than lengthy negotiations, and allowing

children extended time to play with relatives and neighbourhood friends rather than free-time

controlled by adults (Lareau, 2011: Ch. 7). When working-class parents did organise activities

for their children in Lareau’s study, the expressed motivation was to direct children away from

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dangerous street environments, rather than to formalise their talents like middle-class parents

were observed to do. Moreover, in contrast to middle-class children’s sense of entitlement,

Lareau describes this style of parenting as creating a “sense of constraint”.

Another acute difference between middle-class and working-class parenting styles

concerns language development, which is of particular importance to my investigation into

the dialogue-strong process of restorative justice. Whereas middle-class families in Lareau’s

study were observed to use language as an end in itself, taking pleasure in words for their own

sake, language performed more of a functional role for working-class families (2011: 94). There

was a preference within working-class families to keep things short and to the point,

sometimes using body language and gestures rather than lengthy explanations. In Lareau’s

words, “[t]he overall effect is that language serves as a practical conduit of daily life, not as a

tool for cultivating reasoning skills or as a resource to plumb for ways to express feelings or

ideas” (2011: 123).

Charlesworth’s ethnography, A Phenomenology of Working-Class Experience, reiterates

Lareau’s findings in the UK context, and offers a significant contribution to our understanding

of the classed nature of language (Charlesworth, 2000). Charlesworth describes working-class

speech as a form of “linguistic dispropriation”, in which working-class individuals have fewer

opportunities to acquire an extended vocabulary and, with it, the full means for self-articulation

(2000: 133). In lacking skills to euphemise and self-censor, Charlesworth suggests that value is

instead placed on speaking freely and saying what one thinks (2000: 229). In these

underprivileged settings, language is described by Charlesworth as relying on a coarseness of

the voice, and single words can be used to arrive straight to the point: simple statements, not

holding back, and saying directly what one thinks, is speech that generates trust (2000: 215–

217). The limitations, practicalities, and coarseness of language is suggested by Charlesworth

to reflect working-class lived experience; an experience which refuses formality, at least within

working-class spaces (2000: 214).

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Linguistic skills in working-class families are as restrictive for parents as they are for

children, which inevitably impacts on the ways working-class parents are able to participate

with teaching professionals in the scholastic field. In both Lareau’s and Gillies’s research,

working-class parents were described as taking a reserved approach to their children’s

schooling, in contrast to the hands-on interventions of middle-class parents (Gillies, 2005:

847–848; Lareau, 2011). In fact, Gillies’ study indicates that parental involvement in school

may be interpreted as a negative thing by working-class parents, since those parents tended to

associate being involved in school with their child being in trouble or having problems (2005).

Middle-class teaching professionals may, however, misinterpret this reserved parental

approach as a sign that working-class parents do not care about their children’s education

(Lareau, 2011: 183).

The limited role working-class parents play in the scholastic field is partly explained by

their language skills. For instance, Lareau offers an example of a working-class mother unable

to understand the formal language in her child’s school report, who then struggled to find the

words to communicate what she wanted to ask the school professionals (2011: 178–184). As

such, the mother remained silent. Likewise, Charlesworth depicts working-class individuals as

feeling not socially instituted to hold opinions, or that they lack the authority to speak in even

semi-formal situations: “the most marginal and dispossessed seem to be the least able to

articulate their experience” (2000: 136). Accordingly, we can see how limited skills in

communication can impact on a parent’s, as well as a child’s, ability to engage fully in

formalised processes, such as those in the school. Inability to meet the middle-class standards

required in the scholastic field reduces working-class opportunity for empowerment, which

further compounds their institutional disadvantage.

The stark difference between the linguistic approaches of working-class and middle-

class communities will inevitably impact on the avenues available for conflict resolution.

Whereas middle-class linguistic capital is well suited to formalised discussion within the

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scholastic field, individuals who have embodied working-class linguistic patterns will struggle

to articulate themselves in the same formalised way. In Gillies’s study, for example, since

working-class parents lacked the cultural capital to fight for their children through effective

forms of discussion, what Gillies describes as a defensive and confrontational approach was

adopted instead (2006: 291). Without the negotiating skills, or the vocabulary to articulate their

needs in the scholastic field, parents must draw on other skills, such as making commands,

raising the voice, and, in extreme cases, perhaps even using threats of violence (e.g. see Mount,

2004: 255). Instances which require working-class individuals to meet middle-class standards

in order to resolve conflict create prime sites for symbolic violence. Accordingly, conflict

resolution which only uses formalised discussion will heavily disadvantage working-class

parents, and, at its worst, leave them silenced (Charlesworth, 2000: 136–137; Lareau, 2011:

184).

Indeed, we may expect that limited vocabulary, and reliance on the coarseness of voice,

will incline working-class children to use harsher forms of language and shouting to express

themselves in certain conflict situations. Charlesworth, for instance, discusses the use of the

expletive command “fuck off” in his study, used to self-portray “hardness” and to ward off

threats (2000: 217). In light of the tough living environment, working-class families need to

find other ways for their children to solve problems, and some parents may advise them to

defend themselves physically against peers who insult or threaten them – a common finding

by Lareau (2011: 163), and repeated in my ethnographic work in the UK (Willis, forthcoming).

And so while working-class linguistic differences may be disadvantageous in the scholastic

field, in the street field, learning to speak and interact in these ways could be vital for children

to protect themselves.

Whereas in the scholastic field, working-class children experience symbolic violence,

in the street field, it is the threat of overt physical violence that they must attempt to avoid. To

successfully do so requires an array of skills and know-how. Resort to violence as a way to

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resolve conflict may thus be an essential part of the street cultural capital repertoire.

Anderson’s theoretical analysis of the “code of the street” somewhat illuminates this

phenomenon (1999). Anderson’s study looks at the impact of racism and structural barriers

experienced by black residents in a disadvantaged neighbourhood in Philadelphia, USA. Since

the economic environment restricts legitimate employment opportunities, Anderson suggests

that informal economies have surfaced, such as the drug trade, which are then governed by an

oppositional culture referred to as “the code of the street”. In areas where the code of the

street dominates, informal rules (norms, we might say) have emerged that prescribe how

residents ought to behave, which are enforced by violence. When on the street in these

disadvantaged areas, both “decent” and “street” residents (to use Anderson’s terms) must

abide by the code of the street’s norms.

The informal rules described by Anderson contribute to an individual’s ability to

command respect (1999: 63f). Anderson portrays a socioeconomic environment in which

respect and status is limited, and therefore what little respect can be gained is jealously fought

over and guarded. To be respected is to be seen as able to defend yourself on the street, and

despite economic hardship and rife unemployment, to present economic prowess through

wearing expensive forms of clothing, and owning status objects such as nice cars. Because

respect is limited, even seemingly minor violations, such as petty name calling, or arguments

over girlfriends and boyfriends, can result in fights and alterations. Similar clashes over respect,

and the requirement to exhibit toughness was noted in Charlesworth’s ethnography (2000: 59),

indicating that Anderson’s observations have relevance in the UK context.

In the environment described by Anderson, the use of violence is an informal means

of upholding and responding to violations of norms in the street field. Indeed, an act of

“disrespect”, such as looking at someone the wrong way, is unlikely to be acknowledged or

enforced by legal authorities, even though the meaning might be significant at the

neighbourhood level. Therefore, the disrespected party may respond to regain their respect.

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Sampson and Bartusch suggest that the structural conditions of disadvantaged

neighbourhoods “breed cynicism and perceptions of legal injustice”, so that while residents

may be intolerant to crime, legal cynicism leads to an expectation that legal norms either will

not apply or be ineffective in these contexts, and thus residents must resort to mechanisms of

informal response, such as the use of violence (1998: 783–785). Thus, in contrast to earlier

“subculture of violence” theories (Wolfgang and Ferracuti, 1967), violence is not valuable in

and of itself; instead, a more complex understanding of violence is present, where it serves a

practical purpose: to maintain and uphold the code of the street (Anderson, 1999) or the code

of honour (Horowitz, 1983).

The issue of legal cynicism is of interest here, notably discussed by Sampson and

Bartusch (1998). Although law enforcement options may not be viable when a person is

engaged in illicit activities, a number of scholars note that disadvantaged residents often resist

reporting even legally enforceable violations to the authorities because of a lack of faith in the

police (Rosenfeld et al., 2003; Warner, 1999; see also Grinc, 1994; Silver and Miller, 2004).8

Further, others suggest that this distrust of authorities creates a legal vacuum in which residents

may use violence to defend themselves or their property (Kubrin and Weitzer, 2003; Stewart

and Simons, 2010). Indeed, the class literature recurrently finds among its subjects a general

sense of distrust toward professional authorities, and legal cynicism is possibly an extension

of this. Lareau, for example, describes working-class children as distrustful of professionals,

which was sometimes also exhibited by adults, and, on occasions, explicitly expressed as

distrusting the police (2011: 176). Similarly, Charlesworth observed working-class

communities’ tendency to refrain from all forums even semi-formal, and to prefer the

informality of working-class spaces (2000: 216). Perhaps, like working-class parents who

8 In the UK context, a comparable phenomenon is discussed in relation to police legitimacy, and links to legal cynicism are beginning to be drawn (Gau, 2015; Hough et al., 2010).

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struggle to meet the standards in the scholastic field, working-class persons in the street field

struggle to meet the dominant standards required to engage with criminal justice institutions

(Willis, forthcoming).

In an undercurrent of physical violence, the types of network developed by young

persons growing up in the street field may also prove instrumental for their ability to avoid

conflict. As mentioned above, social ties in working-class communities have persistently been

found to consist of closer and stronger relational structures than those among the middle-class

(see Bagnall et al., 2003; Coleman, 1988, 1990; Hagan, 1993; Horvat et al., 2003: 320; Newman

and Massengill, 2006: 436; Wellman and Wortley, 1990). Coleman suggested that strong ties

in working-class communities serve the advantage of providing reciprocal benefits, where

persons within these close networks are prepared to do favours for one another in times of

need (1990). Accordingly, Gillies and Edwards describe strong ties as being characterised by

obligation, commitment, and dependency (2006: 49). A potential benefit of relationships such

as these is the formation of a network of kinship and friends prepared to look out for and

physically defend one another. Hence, strong ties could be a form of street-social capital.

In Shammas and Sandberg’s development of the street field, they outline how certain

criminal skillsets may develop as part of street-cultural capital (2015). Shammas and Sandberg

suggest that there are street skills an individual can acquire, such as what a drug dealer may

learn to measure a gram of cannabis without a weighing scale, in a similar way to how a student

may learn to write an essay according to a certain formula (2015: 7). In accordance with

Bourdieu, Shammas and Sandberg propose that street-cultural capital can be objectified in

material objects such as expensive forms of clothing and nice cars; institutionalised through

early encounters with the police and obtaining a criminal record; inscribed onto the body, in

the form of tattoos or scars; and embodied in the way a person walks, talks, and in their tastes

(2015: 12). Shammas and Sandberg contend that it would be inaccurate to conflate “street

capital” and “negative cultural capital”, since for those in the street field, street capital is a

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powerful source of advantage, albeit limited (2015: 12; see also Bennett et al., 2009 in relation

to ‘subcultural capital’). In the framework I have developed, I envisage space for illicit forms

of street capital, such as violence and other criminal skills. Yet, I contend, not all street capital

is illicit or violent; much of it is survival.

As I stated in the introduction to the different fields, while middle-class institutions

are those in which middle-class skills may thrive, the street field is an environment for which

working-class skills are better suited. For example, advoiding eye contact, following

commands, and not attempting to negotiate are more helpful for conflict avoidance in

disadvantaged neighbourhoods than being verbose and interventional (Anderson, 1999). That

is, a sense of constraint is preferable to a sense of entitlement (Lareau, 2011). Some young

persons will have more street capital than others, just as some young persons have more

scholastic capital than others. Those with no street capital but a large stock of scholastic capital

are likely to flourish in the scholastic field, while being unable to avoid conflict in the street

field. Conversely, young persons with a wealth of street capital but limited scholastic capital

may incline to engage more in the street field, since this is an arena for which their skills are

well suited, and a field in which they can achieve success, compared to constant failure in the

scholastic field (Felson et al., 1994).

However, although it is plausible that the scholastic field and street field have their

own forms of capital, these fields are not equal. A person who performs well in the scholastic

field is in a relatively more powerful position than a person who performs well in the street

field. As Shammas and Sandberg put it, a person who is powerful in the street field is at best

a dominant fraction of the dominated (2015: 9). Success in the scholastic field, on the other

hand, has a higher “exchange value” (Bourdieu, 1986b). In Bourdieu’s terms, the scholastic

field has acquired a “legitimacy” in society, since it is a dominant institution which is “tacitly”

accepted as legitimate (1993; Moi, 1991). Bourdieu explains how once capitals, such as

scholastic capital, are legitimated, they can be transformed into symbolic capital, which grants

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status on the capital holder – educational qualifications being a prime example (1984, 1986b;

Skeggs, 2004: 17). These symbolic capitals can then be used as assets in other spheres of social

life. Street-cultural capital, on the other hand, while affording its holder power within the street

field, has limited exchange value beyond this field.

In this section I have outlined features of the street field, which exists distinct and

autonomously from the scholastic field. Children raised in street environments are brought up

to embody a specific set of skills that may enable them to exist safely in the harsh conditions

in which they reside. Instead of learning an extended vocabulary and ways to negotiate using

language, working-class children are taught to respond to commands, and use language in a

simple and direct way. This has the benefit of providing children with skills to avoid conflict

in the neighbourhood setting. However, in the scholastic field, working-class children are at a

disadvantage. In relation to conflicts in the scholastic field, working-class disadvantage is acute,

since reliance on formal language may leave the working class without recourse to express

their position, and, as a result, silenced. Therefore, alternative ways of handling conflict may

emerge, such as the use of harsh forms of language, or even violence to be heard. While

violence may serve a purpose in the street field, in the scholastic field, such responses will

further disadvantage working-class individuals, and at times lead to exclusion from the

scholastic field altogether (Lareau and Horvat, 1999; McGlaughlin et al., 2002).

This completes my exposition of Bourdieu. However, before offering concluding

reflections, I need to address earlier critiques that discussions of class fail to recognise

experiences beyond those of heterosexual, able-bodied, white males. Thus, I will take a

moment to consider how other identity aspects interconnect with classed experience, through

the theoretical lens of intersectionality, which comfortably fits within a Bourdieusian approach.

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2.3. Anintersectionalperspective

To consider class without affording attention to intersecting identities would be a troubling

oversight. Due to limited space, I cannot offer a full account of the valuable contribution made

thus far by intersectional scholars and their critics, but it is nevertheless crucial to reflect on

and develop an awareness of how intersectionality plays out in relation to class. Moreover,

since the application of intersectionality in English criminological studies has been limited, it

is helpful to begin to address its absence here.

Intersectionality theorists and Bourdieusian scholars are both concerned with power

and exclusion, and therefore make fitting allies. To refresh, intersectionality was a term coined

by Crenshaw to help understand the multiple and intersecting identities of individuals (1991).

Crenshaw uses the metaphor of a car accident occurring at an intersection to demonstrate how

it can be difficult to pinpoint the exact cause of an accident: it may be the person from the

right going slightly above the speed limit, the person to the left talking on their phone, and the

person in front slamming the brake too hastily. Despite being unable to pinpoint a single cause

of the accident, the accident nevertheless occurred. In a similar way, if a black woman

experiences oppression, just because we are unable to determine whether the oppression was

a result of her gender, her ethnicity, or maybe a combination of both, it nevertheless occurred

and needs to be addressed. Intersectionality theory views every individual as having multiple

and intersecting aspects of their identity – gender, ethnicity, sexuality, class, disability, and so

forth – which generate advantages in some contexts and are a source of oppression in others.

It seems to me that because Bourdieu’s work draws attention to sources of advantage and

power that operate differently depending on the context (i.e. field), it complements an

intersectionality approach.

Bourdieu’s theory has been incorporated into intersectional studies, which examine

two or more potential sources of disadvantage. Skeggs’s work is one such example, which as

we have seen looks at the experiences of white, working-class women from an English town.

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Skeggs demonstrates how intersections of ethnicity, class, and gender affect the value of

cultural capital. While Bourdieu focused on the power and prestige provided by cultural capital,

Skeggs emphasised the reverse effect that can occur. She introduced the notion “inscription”

to explain how persons’ bodies are (figuratively) marked with social meaning (Skeggs, 2004:

12). For example, Skeggs outlines how being working class has historically inscribed the body

with “[d]irt and waste, sexuality and contagion, danger and disorder, degeneracy and

pathology” (2004: 4; Loftus, 2009: 161; Cozzarelli et al., 2001; Landrine, 1985). The effects of

inscription depend on the context in which these markings appear; the inscription-in-context

sometimes operates as a resource, other times it does not. Thus, the notion of inscription plugs

a critical gap in Bourdieu’s work by articulating what happens when cultural capital is not

“legitimate”, especially where gender, ethnicity, and class are concerned.

Skeggs argues that being a young working-class mother offers no “exchange value”,

such that there is little opportunity to legitimise this cultural capital (1997b). That is, the

working-class cultural capital embodied by these women does not have much value in a

political environment where working class people are characterised as dirty and dangerous.

More generally, gender inscriptions appear to diminish the exchange value of cultural capital,

as indicated by Prieur and Savage’s research: even though women were recorded as having

high levels of knowledge about and participation in cultural fields, this did not correspond to

the higher social positions we might expect (2011: 576). We can also consider the experiences

of men, since being young, male, and working class may combine to reduce the exchange value

of capital. For example, McDowell’s work aptly demonstrates how low-skilled employment in

the service industry has come to replace more physical factory work in the UK, so that displays

of hegemonic masculinity are no longer the advantage they once were (2003).

Additional studies have given a more central consideration to ethnicity. Lareau’s work

is one such example, which seeks to explore the effects of ethnicity and class on children’s

underperformance in school (2011). Lareau found ethnicity to have a limited effect on young

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persons’ underperformance, and claims that class plays a more central role due to the different

stocks of cultural capital which middle-class parents can pass onto their children. In contrast

to Lareau’s findings, however, Bodovski’s research suggests that ethnicity may yet have an

impact on young persons’ performance in school because of the devalued status of cultural

capital possessed by ethnic minorities in particular (2010: 152). Similarly, in a study on

Bangladeshi women in the UK, Blackledge considers competency with the English language

as a form of cultural capital, and that methods of dispute resolution, such as shouting or

displaying emotion, are being misunderstood in the scholastic context, or field (2001). And

even when individuals from ethnic minority groups exhibit middle-class cultural capital, as

Rollock notes, ethnicity can in fact negate the cultural capital that, say, a black middle-class

person comes to embody (2014: 4; Reynolds, 2005, 2000). Therefore, not all forms of cultural

capital are equally valued; and, more significantly, depending on the intersections of class,

ethnicity, and gender, the same or similar forms of cultural capital may not even be of equal

or similar value, depending on holders’ additional attributes.

Mindful of other forms of disadvantage, in this study I wish to be open to how aspects

of identity such as sexuality and disability might intersect with class and thereby compound

potential power imbalances within restorative justice. Consider briefly how this

intersectionality might unfold. Skeggs’s work illustrates how heterosexuality can confer

advantage alongside relations of inequality, such as gender and ethnicity (2000, 1997b: 120;

Medhurst and Munt, 1997). While in the early stages of development, insight from queer

criminology highlights how ethnicity in particular can alter the experience of male

homosexuality (Hunter, 2010). Moreover, class may affect how disability is framed, due to the

differences we explored above in the perceived necessity for parental involvement in the

school. Gillies, for instance, claims that the middle-class parent is more likely to utilise a

recognised disability in order to ensure support for her child, whereas the working-class parent

is more likely to view a diagnosis as a way for the child to be “written off” by the school (2005:

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847–848), demonstrating how class and disability may intersect in the scholastic field. The

Bourdieusian framework developed here thus appears very capable of affording space to

examine how multiple intersectional identities may affect forms of power and oppression

within different social contexts.

2.4. Chaptersummary

This chapter has sought to add depth to claims about the dangers of community in restorative

justice by developing a theoretical framework. The framework elucidates how power

imbalance and exclusion may occur, especially among social interactions between differentially

positioned groups. To develop the framework, I turned to Bourdieu’s theory of class, and

secondary material influenced by his work. Bourdieu’s approach helps us see how different

groups in society, by virtue of their positions, develop particular skillsets and abilities, which

in turn affect the power they have to mobilise in various social contexts. In the scholastic field,

for example, middle-class families were shown to have a habitus and a stock of economic,

social, and cultural capitals well suited to success in this social space. Conversely, working-

class families had a limited stock of scholastic capital, but instead exhibited a set of skills that

enabled them to better navigate the social field of the street – skills encompassed by street

capital. I afforded cultural capital the most attention in this discussion, since it directly

illuminates how differential abilities for conflict resolution are a classed phenomenon. That is,

whereas middle-class cultural capital favours negotiation and communication as methods to

resolve conflict, limited (or limited-value) linguistic capital within working-class communities

is disadvantageous to the working class when required to resolve conflict in this way.

Accordingly, I noted, members of such communities may employ alternative methods of

conflict resolution.

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These theoretical insights will prove significant when we return our attention to

restorative justice. As we saw in the previous chapter, restorative justice is a dialogue-heavy

process, which encourages participants to address the consequences of offending behaviour

through oral description and response. But skills of negotiation, reasoning, and self-

articulation are specifically those fostered within middle-class families, as part of a dominant

set of cultural repertoires. This skillset stands in stark contrast to the fostered working-class

sense of constraint, and so I contend that restorative justice problematically requires

participants to meet middle-class standards, which they will inevitably fail to meet due to the

different stock of cultural capital that they embody. As such, restorative justice may provide

fertile ground for symbolic violence. My examination of the dangers of community in

restorative justice, then, needs to go beyond surface-level observations, in order to understand

underlying positions of power.

In light of my theoretical developments, I will reframe the dangers I initially identified

in the restorative justice literature prior to empirical investigation. The five key dangers I

identified are as follows:

1. Volunteer community representatives are never truly representative.

2. Volunteers and victims are usually middle class, whereas offenders are usually working class.

As a result, restorative justice reinforces inequality.

3. The relational nature of the community of care is not sufficient to induce norm-enforcement.

4. Community is exclusionary to outsiders, while supressing differences of the least powerful

insiders.

5. Community involvement risks undermining offenders’ rights to a fair trial and proportional

sentencing.

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To begin to address dangers 1 and 2, I need to examine the class backgrounds of participants

involved in restorative justice, now aware of the differential skillsets and abilities that these

differences should entail. To address claims about enforcing inequality, under danger 2, and

the potential exclusionary and suppressive tendencies of community, under danger 4, I

propose to examine these claims more closely by considering the potential for restorative

justice to be a forum for symbolic violence. Danger 3 raises a deeper question about whose

norms are being enforced in the first place: is it middle-class or working-class norms; and then,

is the community of care able to enforce them? The fifth and final danger leads us to assess

whether the potential dangers of community lead to unequal judicial outcomes, since legal

safeguard found in traditional criminal justice are not in place.

Having restated the dangers of community in this way, the research questions I seek

to answer are the following:

1. What are the class backgrounds of restorative justice participants?

2. Are restorative justice conferences a forum for symbolic harm? (Do participants’ class

backgrounds disempower them within the restorative justice conference?)

3. Which norms are enforced in the restorative justice conference, and what is their effectiveness?

4. If dangers of community are present during restorative justice, do these dangers contribute to

disproportionate outcomes for the participants?

The next chapter outlines and justifies the methods I adopt in order to investigate these

research questions empirically.

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Chapter3: ResearchMethods

This chapter details how I investigated the dangers of community in restorative justice, and

justifies my research design. In the first chapter I identified a number of risks that may occur

as a result of community involvement in restorative justice. These dangers were then restated

in the last chapter, following a theoretical exploration of Bourdieu’s theory on class. My

Bourdieusian framework demonstrated how factors beyond employment status are relevant

to understanding how advantage and power operate in different social fields; thus, my study

needs to take social and cultural factors into account, in addition to economic factors. In view

of these theoretical developments, the dangers of community identified in the restorative

justice literature became more apparent. When participants in restorative justice conferences

are from different class backgrounds, then it is plausible that one participant’s skillset is much

less suited to the conference than that of the other. This may lead to restorative justice

becoming a site of symbolic violence, where unfair outcomes occur.

To fully explore these potential issues with community involvement, an in-depth

contextualised research approach is required. Accordingly, I embraced the ethnographic

method; I returned to live with my family on a working-class estate in England, and sought to

understand culture and conflict in my home community. During the fieldwork year, between

October 2013 and September 2014, I collected data via two streams. The first stream

comprised both online and offline observations of my community. Offline, I accompanied my

father on his rounds as a mobile grocer, and in the process observed my estate and surrounding

areas. Online, I observed my father’s social network, and recorded a substantial dataset of

online interactions between community members. For the second, more formalised, stream

of data collection, I became a participant observer in two restorative justice programmes

operating in the town during the fieldwork year. This dual approach gave me a unique chance

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to see how both informal and formal conflict resolution methods functioned and intersected

during the research period.

The purpose of this chapter is to outline my methods and set the scene before

presenting my ethnographic findings. I begin by explaining the suitability of ethnography to

answer my research questions. Next, I introduce my research site, and highlight the specific

locations and restorative justice programmes from which my data were drawn. In the third

section, I detail the methods I used to obtain my data. Here, I outline a triangulation approach,

which includes observation, interviews, and document research. In the fourth and fifth

sections respectively, I explain how I analysed my data, and present the findings thereafter.

The final section of this chapter explains reflexivity and my positionality in the research.

3.1. Choosingethnography

Two central phenomena I set out to investigate in this study were community and culture;

community was the focus in the restorative justice literature review (chapter 1), and culture, in

the form of cultural capital, was an important part of the theoretical framework (chapter 2).

When seeking to investigate concepts such as “community” and “culture”, ethnography is a

naturally appealing methodology (Fetterman, 1989: 11; Noaks and Wincup, 2004; Silverman,

1993; Van Maanen, 1995). Originally the tool of early anthropologists, ethnography has

evolved into a research method that stretches far beyond the study of “exotic” or “foreign”

communities and cultures; it is now adopted by anthropologists “at home”, as well as by other

disciplines (Brewer, 2000; Ginkel, 1998). Community studies, for example, employs

ethnographic methods to examine community, alongside methods such as network analysis

(Blackshaw, 2010). While criminology is increasingly adopting ethnography (Miller and Miller,

2015), its use is still relatively limited (Copes et al., 2011), and thus further explanation for my

choice of this particular methodology is warranted.

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The growth of ethnography could be viewed as part of the same paradigm shift that

enabled the re-emergence of class considerations in the social sciences, discussed in the

previous chapter. From the 1960s onwards, criticism against the prevailing positivist approach

allowed researchers to employ methods more attuned to social investigation (Noaks and

Wincup, 2004: 95). Instead of treating social phenomena in a manner akin to those of the

natural sciences, ethnographic methodology recognises that we might actually be studying

something quite different, and thus that we need to ask different types of questions, and

investigate them in different ways. An apt quotation from Geertz, which demonstrates his

understanding of culture, highlights this alternative research approach:

man is an animal suspended in webs of significance he himself has spun, I take culture to be those webs, and the analysis of it to be therefore not an experimental science in search of law but an interpretive one in search of meaning. (Geertz, 1973: 5)

Thus, ethnography provides a tool for the study of meaning.

An important reason for my choice of ethnography is that it permits researchers to go

beyond so-called “thin” descriptions by instead offering “thick” descriptions of the social

context (Geertz, 1973: 6). The philosopher Gilbert Ryle, who coined these terms, offers a

helpful example to illustrate what they mean in practice:

A statesman signing his surname to a peace-treaty is doing much more than inscribe the seven letters of his surname, but he is not doing many or any more things. He is bringing a war to a close by inscribing the seven letters of his surname. (Ryle, 1968: 510)

Ryle’s thought is that an action can be described in more or less detail, as though each

description hung on a hierarchy of sophistication. Thinly described, the statesman is only

inscribing letters, but thickly described he is doing something of much greater significance.

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Yet Ryle is keen to point out that these descriptions neither compete to replace each other as

true descriptions, nor describe different phenomena. Rather, they are instead just thicker or

thinner descriptions of the same thing.

This idea of thick description is particularly helpful for my ethnography. We need to

comprehend the social meaning attached to seemingly minor (when described thinly) actions

and words in order to recognise how power imbalance surfaces during restorative

conferencing. Thus, to understand culture, we need thick description that reveals shared public

meanings (Geertz, 1973: 13–14). For example, in a similar, though less momentous way as

Ryle’s statesman, a schoolchild making a statement about a stain on a classmate’s clothes can

be described and understood differently. In a thin description of the event, the child’s

statement may not bear much significance; however, when understood in the context of the

social meaning of dirt within that particular school community, where dirt is associated with a

loss of respectability (Skeggs, 1997b), then the comment about the stain on the child’s clothing

changes greatly in significance. As such examples demonstrate, much of what is required to

comprehend an event fully is situated within background information.

Another benefit of thick description lies in how it discourages the damaging criticism

formerly levelled at subcultural discussions in criminology: that such discussions blame the

poor for deviant and criminal behaviours (see Kornhauser, 1978). It is plausible that thin

descriptions are more open to this line of attack than their thick counterparts. MacDonald has

convincingly argued that in-depth research is needed to prevent surface-level assumptions

being made about apparent social phenomena (2011: 193). For example, rather than

associating unemployment and poverty with an unwillingness to work or dependency (Murray,

1984), MacDonald highlights how we need to understand the deeper contexts in which choices

are made and constrained. Only then, she explains, can we begin to understand the true effects

of culture. Additionally, Few, Stephens and Rouse-Arnett maintain that becoming more

familiar with the study population by learning about their culture and history can reduce the

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chance of causing harm to research participants, and ensure a fairer and more accurate

representation of participants in the field site (Few et al., 2003).

Because I study a disadvantaged population, it is particularly important for me to go

beyond surface-level assumptions, and strive instead to understand the context in which

actions take place. Ethnography is a vital research tool to enable me to do this, since it

facilitates the study of culture and meaning, necessarily beyond thin descriptions. Thus, within

ethnography I am well placed to make thick descriptions of interactions during restorative

justice conferences, which is necessary in order to understand whether the claimed dangers of

community actually surface in practice. Having justified my decision to use ethnography, I

now introduce the site in which my ethnography took shape.

3.2. Theresearchsite:goinghome

A left down Sower Leys Road, an immediate right, and then another quick left; this takes you

onto my street. Boston Close, though you wouldn’t know it to look at the sign. All the signs

on my estate were painted white years ago by offenders in orange high-visibility jackets. Most

offenders were from my estate, or at least had been at some point in their lives. The Lincoln

was a place where people were put by the council when there was nowhere left for them to

go. A place people fell into; a rock-bottom estate in a deindustrialised, deflated town. Like the

unnamed street signs, we had been neglected and forgotten.9

I decided to return home for my doctoral research, which led me to this criminological study.

According to 2015 crime statistics, my home town, Corby, had a higher rate of crime than

9 At points in my ethnography, I include moments from the fieldwork as descriptions that aim to give a sense of the research space. I further explain this approach in the section on the presentation of my data.

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comparable areas (Police. UK, 2016). High levels of crime were particularly apparent for

offences such as theft, antisocial behaviour, and violent crime. The local Evening Telegraph

newspaper reported Northamptonshire as having higher rates of violent crime than areas such

as Merseyside and Greater Manchester (O’Neill, 2013; UK Crimestats, 2016).10 Figure 3.a.

below highlights the 2015 rates of violent and sexual offences in Corby in comparison with

similar areas. Aware of these figures, and the lasting effects of violence on members of my

community, I wished to explore alternative forms of informal conflict resolution. In this

endeavour, restorative justice caught my interest.

My initial focus on community in restorative justice was guided by my supervisor

Carolyn Hoyle, since this was still an under-researched area, and it suited my ambitions to

return home. I began my research by conducting a literature review on restorative justice and

community. Alongside this, I had a personal interest in examining how class and gender issues

might play out within restorative justice. Alpa Parmar, my second supervisor, then helped me

to understand how ethnicity was also important to consider, and she introduced me to

intersectionality theory. I completed the first draft of my literature review, began researching

into intersectionality, secured ethical approval,11 and had my preliminary research design in

place. I was then ready to begin the empirical aspect of my project. I moved back to my family

home on the Lincoln estate in Corby, where I spent a year conducting ethnographic research.

10 Between November 2013 and October 2014, there were 1,125 recorded violence offences against the person in Corby, only marginally lower than the county’s capital. 11 The University of Oxford requires all research involving human subjects to undergo the Centralised University Ethical Review Committee (CUREC) process. There are two degrees of review, CUREC 1 and CUREC 2, the latter being more intensive in light of vulnerable research participants, or sensitive research topics being addressed. For this research, I successfully applied for CUREC 2. Further information on CUREC policy can be accessed at: http://www.admin.ox.ac.uk/curec/.

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Figure 3.a: Violent and Sexual Offences in Corby Compared with Crime in Similar Areas12

In this section, I introduce my research site, beginning with a description of the history and

demographics of Corby. I then focus in on my estate, the Lincoln; the area from which I

recorded data about community life. The third aspect of my research site was where my formal

data collection took place, within two distinct restorative justice programmes that operated in

the town during the research period. While Corby is in many ways a unique place, an overview

of the local history should familiarise the reader with the town’s similarities and differences to

other locations.

12 (Police. UK, 2016).

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3.2.1. Welcome to Corby

Corby is an English town in the county of Northamptonshire, in the East Midlands,

approximately 90 miles north of London. In stark contrast to the historic scenic villages

around it, Corby was a developed in the 1930s for steel extraction. The emergence of the Corby

Steel Works manufacturing plant, and its subsequent extension in 1965, required a rapid growth

of the labour force (Corby Development Corporation 1965, xii). The ironstone company in

charge of the operation, Stewarts and Lloyds, placed advertisements in unemployment offices

across Scotland – from Glasgow, Aberdeen, and Perth, to Campbeltown – encouraging

workers to “come to Corby, the town of steel” (Crawling 2000, 148); “the place where work

could be found for all” (Ortenberg, 2008: 101). While workers migrated from Wales, Ireland,

Latvia, and beyond, it was Scottish migration that had the most visible impact on the town’s

identity, and indeed Corby became known as “Little Scotland”, a characteristic which has

stayed with the town to the present day (Barford, 2014). Clues about Corby’s Scottish links

can be found in local food and drink preferences, such as haggis and Irn-Bru, and a distinct

Scottish-touched accent, sometimes referred to as “Corbyite” (Barford, 2014).

Like many other industrial towns at the time, Corby suffered a devastating blow in

1979 when it was announced that the steelworks was to be imminently closed down

(Rusbridger, 1979). Around 20,000 people, more than 30 percent of the town’s population,

either directly or indirectly lost their jobs, giving Corby the second highest rate of

unemployment in the UK (Corby District Council 1989, 6). Unable to find alternative

employment, large numbers of residents left the town (Underwood 2000, 169). Those who

remained experienced the effects of widespread unemployment, social deprivation, and

complete neglect. For decades, social disorder and high crime rates engulfed Corby

(Chatterton, 2007; Cronin, 2014b; Northamptonshire Telegraph, 2004). In recent years, a

crucial regeneration strategy has been underway (Davies, 2016). This has seen vast

improvements in employment opportunities, and a wealth of funding for public facilities has

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brought life back to the town. In this respect, Corby has been luckier than other

deindustrialised towns (Guerrera Film, 2016), most likely due to its proximity to London. The

most recent census now records unemployment in Corby as matching the national average, at

just under five percent (UK Census Data, 2011).

Figures of the 2011 national census record Corby as having a population of 61,255

residents (UK Census Data, 2011). According to government records, 49 percent of residents

are male, and 51 percent are female. The median age is 37 years, and approximately 23 percent

of the population is below the age of 18. In the 2011 census, 85 percent of residents in Corby

were recorded as of “English/Welsh/Scottish/Northern Irish/British” origin (Nomis, 2011a).

The second largest ethnic group was “Other White”, amounting to nine percent of the town’s

population, and of these, four percent were recorded as having been born in Poland. Corby

was identified by the Economist as one of the places receiving a large number of Polish

migrants on account of plans to expand the size of the town, and industrial jobs available in

the area (The Economist, 2013).13 The major employment of Corby residents is in

manufacturing, accounting for 38 percent of employment (UK Census Data, 2011). Only two

percent of residents were recorded as engaged in “professional, scientific, and technical

activities.”

In the most recent and wide-scale study of class in Britain, Corby was recorded as a

chiefly “precariat” town (Savage et al., 2013).14 This is illustrated in figure 3.b., borrowed from

the BBC website (BBC, 2013a). My estate is covered by the light yellow area, showing a cluster

13 The “Irish” population was recorded at 1 percent, the “mixed race” population 1 percent, the Asian population 1 percent (including people of East Asian as well as Indian, Pakistani, and Bangladeshi origins), and “Black/African/Caribbean/Black British” population at 1 percent. 14 I have chosen to refer to my area as working-class rather than adopting the language of “precariat”. While it is helpful to distinguish between levels of advantage, and highlight those in a particularly disadvantageous, or precariat position, I worry about the implications of carving out a class that is lesser than the “working-class” in the current socio-political climate that tends to blame individuals for poverty.

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of residents from the “precariat” classification, which indicates the class with the lowest levels

of economic capital, social capital, and cultural capital (BBC, 2013b). In addition to finding a

precariat class, the BBC survey found a sizable “established middle class” on the west of

Corby, and close to this, a small cluster of “new affluent workers”. Mirroring a common trend

in the UK, the so-called “established middle class” in Corby has formed around the catchment

area of a leading secondary school – a state (non-fee-paying) school that outperforms many

independent (fee-paying) schools in the county. While still part of Corby, residents living in

this area, with higher house prices, tend to refer to themselves as living in “Oakley Vale”, a

name which reflects the nearby historical villages of Great Oakley and Little Oakley, rather

than Corby. The other cluster of “new affluent workers” is found in the NN17 postcode, on

the Lodge Park side of town, an area which is regarded as more reputable than the area where

my family is from (NN18).

Figure3.b.:AmappingofresultsfromtheBBCClassSurvey

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3.2.2. The Lincoln Estate

Before I was born, and for the span of my lifetime, my family has lived at the heart of the

Lincoln estate in Corby. The Lincoln estate was one of four estates built under the 1965 New

Towns Act15 that comprised the Kingswood development in the west of Corby. The Kingswood

area was inspired by the Radburn Concept, created by the American architects Stein & Wright in

1928 (Ravetz, 2001). It was intended to be “a town for the motor age”, in which pedestrians

would be separated from traffic, with a focus on privacy so that main living areas were turned

inwards to face private gardens (Ravetz, 2001). The original Radburn Concept, which called

for low-density housing, was significantly altered when used to design council housing in

Britain, exemplified by houses built in rows and terraces (Corby Development and Corby

District Council, 1977). Accordingly, the Kingswood development was designed to

accommodate high-density housing, for a neighbourhood of over 2,000 homes (Hamilton,

1976). The Lincoln estate had the highest density housing, mostly located along the “spine”,

next to my house, in the form of flats and maisonettes (Grundy, 1966).

In contrast to the council housing, which was high-density and attached, the private

housing on the Kingswood estates looked as though it had been exported from a middle-class

American suburb, perhaps more in line with Stein & Wright’s original designs. The buildings

were much larger than the council properties, detached, adorned by large gardens to the front

and rear, and many of the private houses overlooked the Kingswood woodland area. Some of

these areas were located in “cul-de-sacs”, in contrast to “walks” and “closes”, which are dotted

around the Lincoln council estate. In places on the estate, larger private houses were built on

one side of a street, while smaller council flats sat in stark contrast on the opposite side.

15 1965 New Towns Act, s. 64(1).

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Residents in the private housing referred to themselves as from Kingswood; those living in

council housing were from the Lincoln.

Following the closure of the steelworks, the Lincoln estate was hit hard.

Uncontrollable levels of crime and disorder duly exploded on the estate, which left many

residents in the area desperately wishing to move away (Corby Development Corporation,

1976). Unsurprisingly, those with the ability to move quickly left undesirable areas, such as the

Lincoln estate, and opted to live in alternative council housing, or purchase property under

the “right to buy” in more desirable parts of the town.16 In the shadow of this housing mobility,

certain areas became designated for those experiencing the most severe socio-economic

difficulties, which led to a concentration of disadvantage on the Lincoln estate. It was the

centre of the Lincoln estate – the spine development, containing many of the single aspect

houses – where some of the most vulnerable residents were placed, without access to basic

amenities and support services (Housing Committee, 1977).

From the 1990s through to the new millennium, newspaper headlines were rife with

stories about crime on the Lincoln estate, branding it an “ESTATE OF FEAR”.17 Indeed,

during this period, there were what Ortenberg describes as “several gruesome murders of

women” (2008: 150). Moreover, the level of drug-related deaths reportedly increased (Corby

ET, 1994a); the local paper claimed that the estate had become “a magnet for drug users and

pushers” (Corby ET, 1994b). Drug-taking, and particularly the use of heroin on the estates,

was well known, and it was not uncommon to see dirty needles or plastic bags used for glue

16 This wider phenomenon across the UK was noted by Power (1987). And it was specifically recorded as a problem in the Kingswood area by the Kingswood “Tenants and Residents” Association: “There seems to be a twin policy of sending ‘problem’ families to estates that have a fair share of problems and of only allowing the ‘best’ tenants to move to better estates” (Corby Development and Corby District Council, 1977). 17 Headlines printed in the Corby Evening Telegraph in 1996 (available in Corby Library) included: “Estate hit by wave of vandalism” (4th September 1996); “yobs’ reign of terror” (16th May 1996); and Corby MP William Powell branding the Lincoln, an “estate of despair” (18th September 1996) and “an estate of fear” (Ortenberg 2008, 150).

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sniffing discarded in public areas. In 1996, for instance, the local press published a story about

a four-year-old child who found discarded needles in his parents’ garden (Corby ET, 1996). In

response to the disorder, CCTV cameras flooded the estate, and various police raids attempted

to crack down on drug crime; for example, ‘Operation Paradise’ in 1996 (Corby ET, 1996),

and ‘Operation Oyster’ a decade later (Corby ET, 2006).

The crime and deprivation on the Lincoln estate became so serious that eventually the

only conceivable option left to the council was to demolish the problem areas and attempt to

rebuild it again. In 2003, the “Sustainable Communities Plan”, launched by the Deputy Prime

Minister, identified Corby as one of the main growth areas in the East Midlands (Office of the

Deputy Prime Minister, 2003). Consequently, as part of Corby Borough Council’s “Local

Development Framework”, Kingswood was given priority status due to its “state of under-

investment and urban decay” (Corby Borough Council, 2007). Phase one of this regeneration

strategy finished with the complete demolition of the Lincoln spine. Phase two, which took

place in 2014, involved demolishing Canada Square, another part of the estate which became

categorised as a “problem area”(Cronin, 2014b).

The new housing on the estate is completely different to the old design, built with large

windows that look onto each other, encouraging communal living rather than the privacy

strived for by the Radburn concept. The roads leading to and from the estate have also been

opened up, making the estate less isolated from other parts of the town. Moreover, rather than

two tiers of housing for private and council residents, the new plan for the Lincoln estate is to

mix private and housing association residents in the same type of properties (cf. Lund, 2006).

While the new houses host a mixture of private and council tenants, parts of the original

“Lincoln” remain still and consist of rundown areas where vulnerable council tenants are

placed. Walking through these parts of the estate feels like stepping back in time, and they

have maintained a reputation for being “rough” areas. House prices are comparatively lower

here than in other parts of the town. Moreover, while parts of Corby are experiencing

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improvement, my area is still recorded by the County Council as housing residents who are

among the 10 percent most deprived nationally (Northamptonshire Analysis, 2015). This is

illustrated in figure 3.c: the Lincoln area, within Kingswood, is coloured red, which indicates

areas among the most socioeconomically deprived in the country. And although the 2011

census recorded Corby’s rates of unemployment at just under five percent, unemployment

rates in Kingswood were markedly higher at just under nine percent (UK Census Data, 2011).

Time will tell, therefore, whether the next stage of the government’s social engineering

experiment is successful.

Figure 3.c.: Deprivation levels on the Kingswood estate in Corby

3.2.3. Restorative justice in Corby

High crime rates in Corby from the 1980s onwards resulted in a backlog of criminal cases

needing to be heard by the courts. In order to tackle this problem, a reparative youth diversion

programme was introduced in Corby under the Juvenile Liaisons Bureau in 1981 (Blagg, 1985;

Hinks and Smith, 1985). This diversionary programme is one of the earliest examples of

restorative justice documented in England, sometime before the concept “restorative justice”

was widely employed (Hoyle, 2010a). While the impetus for these pioneering initiatives in

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Corby was to reduce the strain on the county’s backlogged courts, the ideological motivation

was framed in terms of avoiding criminalisation, particularly that of young people, to prevent

generating criminal personas and reoffending (Bell et al., 1999). (For further information about

these early-day restorative justice measures in Northamptonshire see (Hoyle and Willis, 2016).)

One of the two restorative justice programmes included in my study was the

Neighbourhood Resolution Forum (NRF), which closely resembled the earlier diversional

Juvenile Liaisons Bureau. The NRF was run by a single coordinator employed by the local

council. Because the coordinator had recently retired from a senior position in the local police

force, he was also able to work closely with the police. Although the programme did not secure

national funding for the pilot scheme, and was therefore established with local resources,

Restorative Solutions18 hailed the Corby NRF as a leading programme of its type, ranking it as

having among the highest rates of referrals and conferences in the country (receiving 74

referrals and completing 39 forums during 18 months of operation).

The type of cases referred to the NRF were lower-level offences; this intended to

divert young offenders from the criminal justice process, like the earlier Bureau had done. A

small number of cases handled by the NRF involved low-level adult offences. Most referrals

were made by the police, but some came from schools, care homes, the Borough Council, and

one case was referred directly by a parent in the community. A handful of cases were dealt

with by shuttle mediation, which involves a mediator communicating messages between

victims and offenders, without the parties meeting face-to-face, facilitated by the coordinator

employed by the scheme. By contrast, the majority of cases involved face-to-face conferencing

attended by victims, offenders, and their communities of care. Accordingly, the programme

18 Similar to the Restorative Justice Council, Restorative Solutions is a not-for-profit community interest company in the UK which supports the third- and public- sector to implement restorative approaches. More information available at: http://www.restorativesolutions.org.uk/. Information obtained through personal correspondence.

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reflects McCold’s purist model of restorative justice (2000; Wilcox and Hoyle, 2004). The NRF

also actively encouraged the involvement of volunteers from the town, who were trained to

facilitate the restorative justice conferences, and who also acted as community representatives.

In this way, the geographical community was also present.

Toward the end of August 2014, just as my fieldwork was coming to an end, funding

for the NRF pilot ran out, and despite local interest and attempts to keep the NRF alive, lack

of investment led to its closure. The NRF then transitioned into Restorative Justice Northants

(See Hoyle and Willis, 2016).

The second restorative justice programme included in my study was run by the Youth

Offender Service (YOS). YOS is the statutory body in England and Wales charged with the

responsibility of working with young offenders, across all levels of offences. Although YOS

was a countywide programme, I focused on cases involving young people from Corby. At the

time of research, YOS had become a leading institution for restorative approaches within and

beyond Northamptonshire. It was awarded “green light” status for its restorative approaches

from the Ministry of Justice in 2013, and was among the first organisations to receive Quality

Mark accreditation from the Restorative Justice Council in 2014.19 Restorative interventions

implemented by YOS included shuttle mediation, a letter of apology, direct reparation, indirect

reparation, and restorative conferencing.

The primary non-custodial YOS interventions being implemented during my

fieldwork were court-ordered Referral Orders, which were designed as restorative

interventions (Crawford and Newburn, 2013; Rosenblatt, 2015). All young persons given a

Referral Order are required to attend a Referral Order Panel, which consists of between two-

19 The Restorative Justice Council is a third-sector organisation in the UK that advocates for national adoption of restorative practices, and monitors quality assurance of these programmes. More information available at: http://www.restorativejustice.org.uk/

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to-three community volunteers, and a YOS worker, who meet with the young person every

three months (for usually 6-12 months). Panels such as these are sometimes referred to as

community conferencing, or community reparative boards, in the restorative justice literature

(Karp and Walther, 2001; Wilcox and Hoyle, 2004). This meeting reviews the progress of, and

the young person’s compliance with, programmes and interventions that are attached to their

Referral Order. These panels were introduced as a national attempt to integrate restorative

practices into the youth justice system, and hence victim presence was included as a core

feature (Ministry of Justice, 2015). Here we can see the nationwide, state-mandated inclusion

of the geographical conception of community in restorative justice.

As part of the Referral Order contracts, different forms of restorative interventions could

be used. The most common forms of restorative intervention implemented by the

Northamptonshire YOS during my fieldwork were shuttle mediation and indirect reparation

in the wider community (cf. Marsh and Maruna, 2016). The least common form was face-to-

face conferencing. When face-to-face conferences did occur, these were facilitated by

experienced members of YOS staff, and involved victims, offenders, and a member of each

party’s community of care; no community volunteers were present in YOS restorative justice

conferences.

3.3. Methods

There is a range of ethnographic methods. I adopted a triangulation approach, which included

observation, interviews, and document analysis. For ease of reference, I have summarised my

data collection in the table below. In the subsections that follow, I outline the justification for

each of my methods, and how I implemented them in the process of recording my data

collection.

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Figure 3.d.: Table of observation, interview, and collected document data

Method Location Description Observation NRF 12 Restorative justice conferences 12 Home visits 2 Volunteer trainings 2 Formal volunteer meetings 2 Volunteer social events 1 Shadowing the activities of the coordinator, weekly 3 Countywide multiagency restorative justice meetings YOS 1 Restorative justice conference 2 Preparatory meetings for the above restorative justice conference 35 Youth Offender Panels 4 Young offender reparation sessions in the geographical community 7 Volunteer trainings 1 Formal volunteer meeting 1 Volunteer social event 1 Shadowing the activities of the staff manager, fortnightly Community 4,411 Facebook posts Daily shift work with my father Interview NRF 10 Victims 7 Offenders 4 Community of care supporters 8 Geographical community volunteers 5 Police officers 3 Countywide members of staffs YOS 1 Victim 6 Offenders 3 Community of care supporters 4 Geographical community volunteers 8 Staff Community 18 Members of Paul’s community Document NRF 55 Case files YOS 35 Case reviews (on the panels) 11 Asset reports Community Various archived documents in the county archive centre Office for national statistics and crime data Various news reports

3.3.1. Observations

Observation is often identified as the prime method of ethnography (Hammersley and

Atkinson, 2007; Jorgensen, 1989). Hammersley & Atkinson describe ethnography as,

“participating, overtly or covertly, in people’s daily lives for an extended period of time,

watching what happens, listening to what is said, asking questions – in fact, collecting whatever

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data are available to throw light on the issues that are the focus of the research” (1995: 1)

Observation, however, goes beyond simply watching action. Geertz reminds us how these

actions “inscribe” social discourse through the act of notetaking by the researcher; thus,

something which would have otherwise been fleeting is recorded and re-consulted (1973: 19).

The process of the researcher documenting her observations means that observation is

necessarily constructed, and necessarily reflexive (Van Maanen, 2011).

I observed from multiple levels: at the family level, at my local neighbourhood level,

at the town level, and also at an institutional level. In order to develop a feel for the community

life I was re-submerging myself in, I worked closely with my father on his mobile shop, which

provided basic groceries for residents on my estate, and some of the surrounding estates.

Working with my father involved going to the “Cash and Carry”, unloading and loading the

mobile grocery van, and accompanying him on some of his mobile shop rounds. Throughout

our time together, my father shared stories about things that were happening in the

community. Given my legal education, he would sometimes ask for my advice on problems

which residents were facing, or local services to which they might have access. On occasion, I

sat in the back of my father’s giant red van (converted from a Post Office van), perched on

top of a freezer box, and clinging to the shelves, as he navigated the estates and conducted his

rounds.

When we arrived at a stop, my father would stand behind a counter, and I sat on a

crate of soda cans behind him, as customers came onto the van one-by-one to make their

purchases. As well as requesting goods for my father to pass over the counter, customers

would openly converse and share things happening in their lives. Unlike many consumer

shops, where customers select goods and pay for them at the (increasingly automated) counter,

my father’s mobile shop involved a continuous process of dialogue and conversation. When

customers came onto the van, my father would patiently help each of them decide what they

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wished to purchase that day, taking goods from the shelves for them, and making “mix bags”

for those who fancied variety and surprise.

My observations from inside the van provided a rich first-hand experience of life in

the community. However, I felt my presence intruded on a space that had significance for

community members. Although I was able to join in with the jokes and banter, my presence

prevented members from being able to open up to my father for personal advice, or

“counselling” as one person described the unique service he offered to those in the area.

Therefore, I altered my observations by following my father’s van in my car, and talking with

customers outside as they waited in the queue to be served. During the summer months in

particular, residents would gather on the street waiting for my father’s arrival. This provided a

novel opportunity for me to participate in community street life, and meet members in my

father’s community, while preserving a space for customers and my father to engage

emotionally on the van.

In addition to observing the van routes, I would receive information from my father

about events occurring in the community, which were shared online with him via his Facebook

“newsfeed”. It transpired that he had 3,307 “friends” on his Facebook profile, most of whom

lived, or had earlier lived, either on our estate and in the surrounding area. For those unfamiliar

with Facebook and the accompanying terminology, Facebook is a popular online social

networking site that enables its users to communicate through a range of features. Facebook

“friends” include all the users accepted or successfully invited into a person’s social network,

and numbers often range from hundreds to thousands. Whereas features such as “messaging”

facilitate private exchanges between two or more friends, “status updates” allow users to

communicate with potentially everyone on the internet, depending on user-determined privacy

settings. The status updates of a user’s “friends” are automatically collated together into a

newsfeed, which is displayed on a user’s home page. By only displaying the updates of

Facebook “friends”, users’ newsfeeds are as unique as are their sets of friends. Rather than

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adding friends, my father accepted a series of friend requests, predominantly from those who

knew him from the van, in his role as Paul on the Van.

Naturally, the Facebook-based events and discussions which my father would show

me were the more notable ones. But being cautious not to over-represent conflict, or to report

on only the most violent or unusual events, I asked my father if I could observe some of the

more mundane newsfeed activity taking place. To do this, I recorded anonymised field notes

about online discussions in a spreadsheet, and approximated users’ ages and genders from

their profile pictures, as my father scrolled down his newsfeed. By recording data in this partial

way, I sought to treat the newsfeed akin to observational research in a public square, which

involves the researcher observing only fragments of moments, rather than sustained

observation, and does not involve recording personal information (Zimmer, 2010). My father

left me scrolling the newsfeed and making notes while he went to work, and so by covering

different periods of the day, I began to acquire a more extensive dataset. In this way, a total of

4,411 anonymised posts were coded for analysis. A “post” involved anything from a single

statement made by a person, without another responding or commenting, to conversations

involving hundreds of responses.

I inadvertently unearthed some ethical issues with this approach (Willis, 2017

(forthcoming)). In short, my dilemma came down to whether the Facebook newsfeed

constituted a public space, and thus weather I could waive the requirement for informed

consent (Solberg, 2010; Wilcox and Hoyle, 2004; Wilson et al., 2012). Ideally, I would like to

have obtained informed consent from all the individuals within my father’s Facebook network;

however, I did not have the means to do so from 3,307 users. The options available to secure

consent on this scale were unfeasible and risked exposing my research community to privacy

risks (Willis, 2017 (forthcoming)). Thus, I decided to examine whether the Facebook users in

my dataset treated the newsfeed as a public space (Whiteman, 2010). Since they appeared to

do so, I decided to use the data (cf. Papacharissi, 2009).

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In an earlier article, I raise a concern that researchers treating public information online

differently to private information may risk disproportionately waiving the privacy rights of

socioeconomically disadvantaged groups (Willis, 2017 (forthcoming)). The crux of my

argument lies on the thought that disadvantaged groups may have limited opportunities to

develop their skills in information technology, which in turn may limit their abilities to secure

their privacy online. Internet studies that have taken socioeconomic status into consideration

indicate that this fear is indeed warranted (Culnan, 1995; Hargittai, 2010; Sheehan, 2002; Smith

et al., 2011). Since my research population is a working-class one, I afforded considerable

attention to these issues, and I questioned whether I should use the data.20

However, the dataset I present here could be of meaningful social value since it

captures working-class interaction in a working-class environment, rather than relying on

traditional formal research methods which may undermine working-class participants’ ability

to contribute fully. Charlesworth, for example, discusses the difficulties which working-class

participants may have expressing themselves during research interviews (2000: 131–140). By

contrast, in working-class spaces, Charlesworth describes working-class wit, insight, and

intelligence as coming alive, since working-class abilities serve a practical purpose that flourish

in their actual lived out moments (2000: 141). Moreover, the data I recorded offers a rare

opportunity to examine conflict in closer detail, and how violence surfaces; indeed, I managed

to record 834 instances of conflict.21 I decided that the social benefit of sharing the information

20 I presented my ethical dilemma the Paper presented at the Trespassing in Fieldwork Symposium, St Hilda’s College, Oxford University (June 2014). I presented again at a methods discussion group at the University of Oxford (March 2015). I then further refined my thoughts in the development of an article (Willis 2016 forthcoming). 21 I distinguished between disputes and conflict during data collection, but this became an unmanageable distinction during the analysis. A dispute ranged from angry words against another person to full-blown arguments, and conflicts were more serious disputes. For fluidity of analysis, I refer to both conflicts and disputes as “conflicts”.

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(particularly given that participants treated the newsfeed as public, and that I’ve anonymised

the data) outweighs potential harm.

Rather than being the kind of social media website on which users construct identities,

many studies have noted a tendency for Facebook to mirror the offline lives of social network

users (Baym, 2000; Hine, 2000, 2008: 132; Kendall, 2002). Indeed, I found many references to

discussions stemming from work and social life, in which Facebook as a platform weaves

observably in and out of users’ offline and virtual worlds. Accordingly, my father’s Facebook

community was also reflective of his offline community, because although it unites a dispersed

community of thousands of people, which may not be possible in real space and time, my

father talked to his Facebook friends when he bumped into them in the town centre, at cafés,

and at local events. It was rare for me to step outside the house with my father and not meet

at least one person, and often more, whom he knew and with whom he would stop and have

a conversation.

The first stream of data collection is the community life observation, online and

offline, just discussed. The second stream gathered data by observing restorative justice

activities happening in Corby. Continuing the observational method provides a thread of

continuity between the different streams. In this second stream, my observations ranged from

marginal to full participation (Cosgrove and Francis, 2011). I sought to be a non-participant

observer in both the YOS and NRF programmes, however, in the process of negotiating my

entry into the field, I was asked to apply to become a YOS youth panel volunteer. Because my

research was based on community in restorative justice, I decided that accepting the invitation

to become a community volunteer would provide a novel opportunity to gain insight on what

it means to be part of a community constructed by a criminal justice restorative justice

initiative. Moreover, volunteering for the programme allowed me to give something back to

my research participants (Oakley and Roberts, 1981). I was then also invited to support the

more local NRF programme as a community volunteer, which presented a further chance to

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gain a feel for the volunteer role in two different programmes. Accordingly, I have a range of

observational data, some of which involved me watching and notetaking during meetings and

restorative activities, and other data which I generated by actively being involved in the process

and making notes immediately after the observed event.

3.3.2. Interviews

I used a range of interviewing techniques. On a day-to-day basis, much of my data was gathered

through ethnographic conversations. Additionally, I carried out semi-structured interviews

with residents, victims, offenders, community-of-care members, volunteers, and criminal

justice professional interviews. I had slightly different thematic areas of enquiry for my

community-life interviews, and interviews with participants involved in restorative justice.

Interviews stemming from restorative justice sought to understand participants’ perspectives

on the process, whether any action had been taken before the restorative justice intervention,

how participants positioned themselves in relation to others involved in the process, and to

hear about the daily lives of interviewees. My interviews within the community focused on

narrative histories, feelings toward the local area, and how individuals dealt with conflict and

crime. By including both community members and victims in my sample, I take steps to

redress a tendency identified by Copes, Brown, and Tewksbury to focus only on offenders and

criminal justice professionals in criminological research (Copes et al., 2011: 375).

I managed to set up these interviews via my gatekeepers in the NRF and YOS, through

snowball sampling, and through my father. I conducted 77 interviews in total, detailed in

Figure 3.d. above. The programme managers obtained consent from participants to pass on

their contact details before I contacted them directly. I provided each interviewee an

information sheet outlining my research before the process, and we discussed it prior to the

interview. I then obtained informed written consent from research interviewees who agreed

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to be involved in the study. My father directly put me in touch with my interviewees in the

community, after gaining their agreement to help, and indirectly on other occasions I accessed

participants involved in restorative justice because they knew who my father was. Information

and consent sheets were problematic in the community environment. In some cases, I

obtained oral consent instead of written, which allowed me to include the experiences of

individuals from a range of backgrounds.

Although I used a digital recorder for some of my interviews, for the majority of my semi-

structured interviews and ethnographic conversations, I decided to take notes, and write down

my observations and full details immediately afterwards. I opted to rely on notetaking over

digital recording for two reasons. First, some participants from my neighbourhood expressed

discomfort at being tape-recorded, since this was associated with lawyers and the police.

Second, I was more concerned to capture the gist of the speaking; the meaning of

conversations was more important than the words spoken (Geertz, 1973: 19). Therefore, I

adopted a similar approach to Wakeman – that of “being with” and “being present” in my

observations within the community (2014: 710).

This approach is in keeping with my aim to develop thick description. While tape

recordings are useful, in and of themselves, they can only capture the thin description of

events. As Ryle puts it, “[a] tape-recording would reproduce just what [a speaker] was doing,

in the thinnest sense of ‘doing’.” (Ryle, 1968: 498). A tape recorder is likely to be more

“accurate” than notetaking, since it captures all the words uttered in the right order, as well as

certain tonal aspects. Yet a person’s speech has much more significance to it than those factors:

in how it is presented, expressed, and crucially, how it is interpreted. For all speech that is

heard and understood is also interpreted. What “goes into” the real-time interpretation of an

interviewee’s words is greater in that experience than any interpretation that could be formed

after the fact, listening to a recorder, or reading its transcribed product verbatim (see

Charlesworth, 2000: 141). Even a camera cannot capture the fullest significance, since it

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struggles to capture how atmosphere strongly influences what is said. Therefore, by

interpreting my interviewees on the spot, I incorporate a thick description of events, in

addition to selecting parts of digital recordings when taken.

I worked closely with 12 participants for longer periods of time, carrying out multiple

in-depth interviews in which I sought to learn about participants’ lives outside of criminal

justice. This interview set comprised two young male offenders, a young offender’s mother, a

young victim’s mother, five community volunteers (two males and three females), two male

gatekeepers, and my father. The aim of these more in-depth interviews was to understand

better the class characteristics of participants involved in the study, and to aid the development

of ethnographic portraits to add context to the conflicts studied. Ethnographic portraits

interweave individual case studies with wider theory on community in restorative justice (Craig

and Dyson, 2008; Weaver, 2015). I employ this method because it legitimates the personal

experiences of those to whom the theory applies in practice, and it is an effective way to

examine agency within macrosocial phenomena.

Again, the life history method is well suited to my research methodology. As Sandelowski

notes, the anti-essentialist movement has provided space for the narrative aspects of human

experience to be considered (1991: 23). As such, the narrative tradition has become well

established in criminology, especially in the desistance literature (Farrall and Bowling, 1999;

Gadd and Farrall, 2004; Giordano et al., 2002; Maruna, 2001; Sampson and Laub, 1993). I also

find that ethnographic portraiture fits restorative justice research particularly well, because

participants’ experiences are valued by restorative scholars and practitioners alike (for example,

participant satisfaction is often used as a measure of success (Strang and Sherman, 2003)).

Moreover, storytelling and extended case studies are methods often adopted by both

restorative justice practitioners (Viv’s story | Restorative Justice Council, 2016) and academics

(Rossner, 2013; Shapland et al., 2011).

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3.3.3. Documents

My document analysis included 55 NRF case files, 35 YOS case panel reports, and 11 YOS

Asset reports. I negotiated access to these documents through the programmes included in

my study. I anonymised notes taken from these documents, eliminating all personal

information, and replacing names with pseudonyms where relevant. In addition, I analysed

archived council documents from the county archiving centre, and a range of census data,

crime records, and online materials.

3.4. Dataanalysis

I implemented a partially grounded theory approach to help sub-themes emerge from the data

(Glaser and Strauss, 1967). Having completed my literature review on community in

restorative justice, I entered the field aiming broadly to examine how community appeared in

restorative processes and the role played by community. The first body of theory I considered

was the work of communitarian scholars (i.e. Macintyre, Sandel, Taylor, Waltzer), believing

my work on community would head me in this direction; however, the course of analysing my

data led me in an alternative direction. Although I had a preliminary interest in class, and the

intersectionalities of identities such as ethnicity and gender, at this point my theoretical

framework presented in the previous chapter was only in the early stages of development.

During my time in the field, I thought I would need to exclude class as a substantive

topic from my research agenda because many of my research participants expressed the view

that class was irrelevant, or they responded uncomfortably when class was mentioned (cf.

Sayer, 2002). Consequently, I stopped asking about class, and focused on community and

conflict resolution. Despite the hesitancy of my research community to accept class as a social

category, in the process of analysing my data, class kept surfacing as a significant factor. This

may have been affected by my regular commute between Oxford and Corby. Corby classifies

as having the most disadvantaged class in the BBC class survey, “precariat”; my encounters in

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Oxford were, by contrast, with the established middle class and elite (Savage et al., 2013). The

cultural differences were stark, and class became the central thread for my thesis. Moreover,

whereas I initially planned to explore the benefits and dangers of community involvement in

restorative justice, through the processes of data analysis, the dangers of community emerged

as a dominant theme, and I narrowed my research question accordingly.

The process of coding and exploring my data was aided by Nvivo, software designed

for qualitative data analysis. I regularly uploaded, coded, and sorted my data in Nvivo. This

helped me to become familiar with data, revisit it throughout the research process, and

visualise it in different ways. I had certain “nodes” (i.e. themes) already in mind at the start of

the coding, such as community, class, gender, ethnicity, and sexuality. New categories emerged

during the coding process, including parenthood, conflict, health, disability, and job instability

or mobility.

Finally, on a daily basis during the fieldwork, and on a monthly basis in the year

following the fieldwork, I also discussed with my father, who became one of my main research

participants, the patterns I was observing. These discussions provided another angle from

which to view data, since my father offered a lived “street” perspective, which would

sometimes refine the focus of my thesis. For example, an insight which my father helped me

to realise was the significance of respect, and how even a seemingly small act, such as not

returning something borrowed, could have much wider implications. He also helped me to

understand how conflict can escalate within our community. These interactions with my father

could be seen as a form of participant action research (Dupont, 2008).

3.5. Presentationofdata

Discussion about reflexivity is triggered by the thought that there is no one objective way of

viewing the world, and instead that there are different perceptions informed by, and mediated

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through, experience (Denzen and Lincoln, 1994; Guba et al., 1994). The researcher is in a

powerful position to observe, document, and analyse her particular view of events (Blackman,

2007: 700). But in order to make transparent what she thereby constructs, the researcher ought

also to turn the critical lens on herself, by assessing her roles, experiences, and biases which

have come to shape the research process (Phillips, 2010: 362). For this reason, Brewer

describes research observations as “partial, selective, even autobiographical in that they are

tied to the particular ethnographer and the contingencies under which the data were collected”

(2000: 24–25). Since the researcher’s interpretations will inevitably be affected by her norms,

values, personalities, institutional pressures, and so on, Malacrida emphasises that a researcher

should explain these influencing factors in the course of her work (2007; Karnieli-Miller et al.,

2009: 280). Therefore, instead of trying to limit my influence in the research in a misguided

plight for objectivity, I am supportive of a reflexive approach in which the researcher is explicit

about her role.

Finlay argues that researchers no longer ought to question whether to practice

reflexivity, but rather how they must do so (2003: 5). Instead of selecting one favoured approach

to reflexivity, I prefer to embrace “reflexivities” (Gough, 2003; Lynch, 2000; Pels, 2000).

Autoethnography as a form of reflexivity is of particular relevance to my study. Wakeman

describes autoethnography as an ethnographic research method which focuses on the

researcher’s biographical and emotive self as its mode of enquiry (2014: 705). While some

forms of autoethnography might be defined as “evocative autoethnography”, more rooted in

what Finlay describes as the “reflexivity as ironic deconstruction” model (2003), Leon

Anderson offers an alternative, which he termed analytic autoethnography:

Put most simply, analytic autoethnography refers to ethnographic work in which the researcher is (1) a full member in the research group or setting, (2) visible as such a member in the researcher’s published texts, and (3) committed

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to an analytic research agenda focused on improving theoretical understandings of broader social phenomena. (Anderson, 2006: 375)

Whereas the evocative model is rooted in the critical postmodern tradition, and thus is

susceptible to the criticism that literary devices result in the loss of clarity (Finlay, 2003: 16;

Gough, 2003: 30), analytic autoethnography aims to be a device through which the researcher

can effectively evaluate phenomena being studied.

In addition to a more traditional and analytical presentation of data, I also incorporate

ethnographic portraiture and descriptive observational vignettes, differentiated by shaded

boxes. An example of this method can be found in the introduction to my research site above.

These more descriptive and creative forms of writing reflect a “lyrical sociological” approach

(Abbott, 2007), such as that adopted by Wakeman in his autoethnographical analysis of the

rationality of heroin users (2014). Wakeman explains that “[w]hile the narrative writer seeks to

document ‘happenings’ and in so doing, explain them, the lyrical writer seeks to convey their

emotional reaction(s) to such happenings with a view to allowing their readers to experience

them too” (2014: 717). Wakeman then offers his readers an illuminating example toward the

end of his article: a haunting description of a heroin user struggling to find a vein in which to

inject his syringe of prepared opiate. By enlightening the reader about alternative ways a user

could inject the substance in such an incident, Wakeman is effectively able to challenge

prevailing scholarship that argues for the rationality of heroin use. My purpose of including

more descriptive emotive reflections on the field site is to try to create what a “sense of

community” might involve. Emotion is an important part of the lived community experience,

and memory and attachment plays a role in the “community identity”. Accordingly, I hope the

reader gains a feel for these factors from the portraiture and vignettes.

I develop my ethnography over the course of two chapters. The first of these chapters

presents a class analysis of a sampled section of the Corby community. This sample is my

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father’s relational community, which grew from his work as a mobile grocer on the Lincoln

estate and some of the neighbouring estates. I describe life inside my father’s community with

reference to the theoretical framework developed in chapter 2. By focusing on working-class

life and tensions, this part of the ethnography provides the necessary detail and context for

thicker descriptions of phenomena.

The second of my analysis chapters continues the ethnography by discussing how

restorative justice plays out in this class context. While the restorative justice initiatives were

town-wide, and my community ethnography is a sample of this greater whole, I demonstrate

the degree to which participants mirror the working-class characteristics of the community,

acknowledging too when they differentiate from them. Since my father’s community primarily

consists of the more socioeconomically disadvantaged residents in the town, it reflects the

vulnerable position of most offenders and victims who encounter the criminal justice system

(Atherton et al., 2013). By first presenting life and culture in the sampled community, I am

then able to offer a uniquely thick description of what is happening in the restorative justice

conferences which operate in this context.

I have implemented safeguards in the way I have presented the data in order to increase

anonymity, protect participants’ privacy, and reduce harm. The Facebook data, for example,

was anonymised at the point of data collection, with all identifying factors such as names,

places, and biographical information excluded. Consequently, none of the data can implicate

anyone in the commission of a criminal offence. Moreover, to safeguard privacy further, I

have avoided using exact quotations in order to prevent user identities ever appearing in online

searches (were a person to use text fragments as search terms). Additionally, instead of

conducting a comparative analysis of YOS and NRF volunteers, I have presented my main

findings of my analysis of volunteers’ responses as a whole, drawing attention to the different

programme when it was relevant to the discussion to do so. This affords volunteers anonymity

from the programmes in which they work, and reduces the chances of readers being able to

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identify an individual volunteer. I decided to include the NRF coordinator within the volunteer

data set, because there was only one person in this position, and I was unable to present this

data without revealing this person’s identity. Since the NRF was a more informal, community-

level programme, even though the coordinator was paid, including them in the sample of

volunteers still reflects the volunteer community.

3.6. The“inside”researcher

My class, gender, and ethnic identities may raise questions to my status as an “inside”

researcher. To understand the distinction between a so-called inside and outside researcher,

first recall the traditional role of anthropologists, who would notably be the outside visitor to

starkly different cultures into which they would seek to become submerged. However, a

different approach, endo-ethnography, began to emerge, partly due to decolonisation and with

it decreased opportunities for researchers from the global south to conduct lengthy funded

research abroad (Ginkel, 1998). Endo-ethnography, or ethnography at home, can involve a

researcher researching within their own country, or even closer to home in the social or

professional groups of which they are members. Alvesson notes that the shift of roles from

stranger to group member requires different research questions; while the traditional

ethnographer asks “what the hell do they think they are up to?”, the endo-ethnographer must

ask “what the hell do we think we are up to?” (2009: 162).

There is extensive discussion on the benefits and dangers of being an insider

ethnographer. For instance, benefits can include enhanced access to hard-to-reach groups;

indeed, all researchers to some extent build on insider aspects of their identity in order to

negotiate research access (Garland et al., 2006: 432; Hammersley and Atkinson, 1995).

Moreover, Paapadopoulos and Lees argue for involving insider researchers from ethnic

minority backgrounds because they have greater awareness and understanding of minority

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issues and can provide accounts of perceptions and experiences which are more genuine and

legitimate (2002). However, this greater awareness and understanding might raise concerns

about the researcher’s ability to be objective, and the politically sensitive position a researcher

may find herself in, wishing to be kind to her community, while needing to uphold academic

rigour (Alvesson, 2009: 166). Furthermore, arguably it is more difficult for an insider than an

outsider to recognise that something new is being shared, since much of the data will feel like

common sense for a member of the community under study (Ginkel, 1998: 257).

The reflexive turn helps to counter claims of the inability of an inside researcher to

meet the standard of objectivity. Anti-essentialism presents the view that there is no one truth,

but multiple truths which the researcher may uncover. As such, we can view writings in

ethnography as interpretations (Geertz, 1973: 15). Reflexivity enables readers to gain an insight

on how an interpretation was constructed by the researcher, requiring the researcher to include

themselves as objects in the research, while clearly distinguishing their interpretations from

other voices in the field (Harding, 1991). Regardless of whether researchers are insiders or

outsiders, Becker reminds us that they will inevitably impose normative standards on what is

observed, whether it be those, say, of a middle-class outsider, or a working-class insider (1957:

141, 183). Moreover, we could question the binary distinction between insider and outsider,

since there are multiple axes on which a researcher may lie, on some of which qualifying as an

insider, on others as an outsider (Phillips, 2010: 361). Indeed, the status of a researcher may

still be unclear even considering only one axis; e.g. putatively insider researchers may have

experienced time away from the group under study, returning with a fresh perspective on their

“own” culture (Ginkel, 1998: 259; Perin, 1988; Shover, 2012: 144).

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3.6.1. My Positionality

In a nutshell, I am a mixed-race, heterosexual, Asperger’s female, born into a (white) working-

class background, the second youngest of six (I have three brothers and two sisters), and I

managed to access higher university education, though neither of my parents went to

university. There are endless aspects of my identity, my religion, age, physical disabilities,

mental health, and so forth; here, I have opted to draw on the aspects I feel are most relevant

to this particular piece of work. Now, I could take this description in different ways, examining

my oppressions and/or my opportunities in different social fields, described by Collins as the

“matrix of power” (2013: 22; Zinn and Dill, 1996). Indeed, Shields point out that although

individuals may be disadvantaged in relation to one group, they may be advantaged in relation

to another (2008: 302).

So I could, for instance, focus on the challenging aspects of my background, and the

difficulties I have encountered because of them. For example, in reference to Lareau’s

depiction of middle-class and working-class parenting styles outlined in chapter 2, the

working-class “accomplishment of natural growth” most accurately reflects my childhood

experience (2011). Moreover, when I presented Stewart and Simons’ criteria for how to classify

a family as “decent” or “street” (which extends Anderson’s distinction), my family

unanimously agreed that by those criteria we would count as “street” (Stewart and Simons,

2006). Or further still, I could fill a book with the difficulties attached to being an outspoken

mixed-race female.

However, since I am writing this thesis, using academic language and style of argument,

I have clearly accessed considerable advantage. I managed to reach this position because I had

enough advantage on my side to do so. I grew up knowing that I was vastly more privileged

compared to many other young people on my estate. While most residents on my estate

struggled with unemployment, for most of my childhood, both my parents managed to stay in

work; my father as a self-employed mobile grocer, and my mother as a teacher in the local

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estate primary school. I was well looked after, my parents kept me safe, and I had a wealth of

emotional support. I come to this work with a belief in the structural impacts of inequality.

Conservative narratives of individual failings accounting for “social exclusion” do not match

up to my lived experience. I have painfully watched friends and family members hit by

unemployment, loss of homes, and continual insecurity, despite their hard work and

intelligence.

An anecdote once shared with me by one of my Catalan students helps to explain how

I view my situation. I was born carrying a rucksack with heavy rocks inside, and although it

has taken a lot of energy to carry those rocks, I have managed to make my way along a path.

Along this path, I have met some people who have also been carrying rucksacks, but theirs

have had fewer rocks inside; we are at the same point on the path, yet their journey required

less energy than mine. Equally, I have met people at points on my journey who have been

carrying bags with much heavier rocks than mine, and they have had to work much harder on

their journeys. Bringing it back to the present case, growing up on my estate, I saw young

people who were born with boulders so large, no matter how hard they tried, the boulders

were impossible to lift. They never made it on their journey.

3.7. Chaptersummary

This chapter completes my theoretical framework. In it, I have justified my choice of

ethnography as an appropriate methodological approach to answer my research questions. My

research questions require that I consider a range of social phenomena, namely community,

culture, and class. The multi-layered understanding that ethnography can provide is key for

me to appreciate fully the social aspect of my research space. This layered approach will enable

me to develop thick descriptions of the restorative justice interactions I observed during my

fieldwork year. In the second half of the chapter, I outlined the research methods I adopted

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as part of my ethnographic study, my research process, and data analysis. In the final section

of this chapter, I reflected on my positionality in the research site.

Now that the theoretical scene has been set, I move on to present my research findings.

The next chapter is the first part of my two-part ethnography: a class analysis of my sample

community in Corby. The sample community was my father’s relational community, which

formed around his role as a mobile grocer in a part of the town. As I detailed in this chapter,

the analysis is based on Facebook observational data, observations of community life on the

estate, multiple ethnographic conversations, and semi-structured interviews. Interwoven into

the analysis are relevant descriptions of my father in the community, which reflect a variation

on the autoethnography method. By embracing emotion within the presentation of the

research, I hope to help invoke a feel for community life.

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Part II

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Chapter4: ACorbyLife

This chapter is the first half of an ethnography which offers a window into community life

where restorative justice programmes have been introduced. I present a part biography of my

father, Paul, and his interactions with other members of his community. Paul was a mobile

grocer for 37 years in Corby. As such, he developed an extensive network of social ties, and

was widely known in the town and, in particular, the Lincoln estate area where he lived and

initiated his mobile shop round. In addition to providing groceries, Paul was a pillar of support

for local residents, and he became a well-respected community figure. By including offline

observations of Paul’s work in the community, and online observations from Paul’s social

network, I have been able to incorporate both the geographical and relational conceptions of

community into this ethnography.

This chapter is structured in the following way. Section one, “From schoolyard to

factory gate”, begins the ethnography with an analysis of school culture and working life in

the community. Next, in section two, I consider the role of family, and how families might be

described in relation to the distinctions of decent/street (Anderson, 1999) and

respectable/rough (Skeggs, 1997b; Nayak, 2006: 825). In the third section, “Helping out a

mate”, I consider how community members support and assist one another, returning to the

social capital literature. This sets the scene for the fourth section, where I examine conflict in

Paul’s community; for example, what happens when relationships break down, and how

individuals respond in these situations. While consideration of Bourdieusian economic, social,

and cultural capitals run throughout the analysis, in the final section I introduce a new concept

of “health capital”, which I identify as a significant theme emerging from the data. By the end

of this chapter, I hope readers new to Paul’s community will have a better sense of what it is

to be part of this network.

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Fromschoolyardtofactorygate The Mobile Grocer Children from the estate gathered on a patch of grass. Three sides of the patch were framed by houses, some with immaculate front lawns, others with chalk writings on walls. Tatty furniture lay discarded by a run-down end house, spilling onto the road that led to garages. Despite the onset of night, a summer sun hovered on the skyline. In the centre of the grass, two scooters rested at children’s feet, beside a “no ball games” sign. A teenage boy attempted to grab the purple scooter, but a girl a fraction of his size kicked him away, warning “if you touch ma scooter again, I’ll batter ya.” Among the commotion, a toddler weaved around on a miniature pushbike, wearing a black, oversized motorbike helmet that inevitably made his head flop to one side. “How long?” asked Little Connor, squeezing his fists and fidgeting his feet to help him bear the wait. “Soon,” Meghan said, her thirteen years making her a source of wisdom for the younger children. Hoot-hoot, hoot-hoot-hoot. The distant high-pitched sound was like a flash of energy. A small boy started spinning in circles, until dizziness toppled him over. Other children jumped and squealed in delight. The older children formed a queue, bumping each other out of the way, and insisting, “The line starts here”. “I’m first!” a girl with striking orange hair shouted, prepared to stand her ground against anyone who tried to take her place at the edge of the path. Hoot-hoot, hoot-hoot-hoot, hoot-hoot. The horn sounded again, growing louder and more frequent. Older people began to appear. A woman in her late twenties, wearing grey sweatpants and a loose-fitted top stood to the side of the queue, puffing at the end of a cigarette. “Calm it,” she wearily warned the children. The woman’s stern face melted when she spotted her friend heading over from the opposite side of the square with a newborn baby in her arms. A middle-aged man, supported by a cane, joined the line.

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A final sequence of hoots, and an engine roar, marked the arrival of the giant red van with a white-painted roof. The old white van had writing on the side – “Our Mobile Shop” – but, after decades in service, the red one needed no introduction. The square face of the van approached the growing crowd, and the driver returned children’s waves as he passed. The giant motor turned at the garages, and eventually pulled up alongside the path where the queue began. There was one last hustle to the front of the queue as the vehicle drew to a standstill. Children immediately piled onto the steel steps, disappearing through a side door. Before the van was completely invaded by little people, the driver managed to slip into the back, and place a counter down to prevent entry beyond the initial opening. An irresistible scent filled the nostrils of the lucky ones who made it to the front – a mixture of cherry, strawberry, sherbet and cream. The view behind the counter added to the children’s delight: on each wall, layers of shelves packed with shimmering multi-coloured sweets, chocolates, and fizzy pop. Paul-on-the-van had arrived. “Hello Shannon!” Paul said to the redheaded girl who managed to keep her front-place position, “What can I get for you today?”

In 1978, Paul purchased his first mobile shop van from a neighbour, who allowed Paul to pay

off the debt in weekly instalments from profits made. At the start, it looked like this might

take quite some time: on his first day as a van man, Paul had one customer, who bought a

single packet of painkillers. During these early days, Paul ran the mobile shop part-time,

alongside shift work at the Corby Steel Works. However, when the steelworks closed down in

1980, Paul kept the van going. Through hard work and perseverance, he created a sustainable

full-time job out of the van to support his family. For 35 years on, and two replacement vans

later, Paul continued to run the mobile shop, seven days a week. He eventually retired on 31st

August 2015 at the age of 68.

Like many recent ancestors of those in Corby, Paul’s family migrated to the town for

employment in the late 1940s. His family was from an industrial background; Paul’s

grandfather had worked in a Northamptonshire shoe factory, and his father worked in the

tarmac and steel industries in Corby. Paul was born in 1947, and his sister, Carol, two years

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later. Growing up, in an impoverished working-class home, was hard. Paul did not share much

about his childhood. He had fond memories of working in the allotment with his grandfather,

and when he thought about the single school trip he went on, it made him smile. Carol

struggled to think of a happy memory at all from their shared childhood. She remembers being

embarrassed of her dirty clothes, the pain of a frozen house in winter, ice forming on the

insides of the windows, and sleeping under coats. Carol and Paul would sneak downstairs and

put the oven on with the door open for a moment of warmth. Usually Christmas was bleak,

however, one year, their grandma brought them each a book: the boy’s and girl’s handbook.

They loved them: they were the best presents they ever received. Each night they tested each

other from their handbooks; the names of capitals, country flags, and a variety of other facts

their books revealed. Paul always won. He had a remarkable memory.

Despite a lack of emphasis on academic pursuits within the family, Paul performed

well in primary school, and he managed to secure a place at the distinguished Grammar School

in Corby. One of Paul’s fondest memories was being taught Latin by Colin Dexter, who later

went on to write the popular British detective series Inspector Morse. Notwithstanding his love

of Latin and chemistry, Paul felt years behind the other students by the time he entered

grammar school, a starting point from which he never caught up (cf. Bourdieu, 1984: 2;

Bottomore, 1966: 6). Like the “lads” in Willis’s ethnography, Paul relished classroom pranks

which lightened the school day (1977; see also Woods, 1976; Nayak and Kehily, 2001). His

favourite activity was using his science skills to make an explosive substance, which he and

two friends would use to line the inside lids of fellow pupils’ desks. When the lids were closed,

they made a thunderous bang, giving the other students a fright. Carol remembers Paul once

snuck out of class to play a perfected rendition of Tchaikovsky’s “Nutcracker” on the school

corridor piano, which bellowed throughout the classrooms – “Caroline,” asked the teacher,

instantly knowing who the naughty culprit would be, “is Paul in today?”

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Paul left school with nine O-Levels. He later retook his science A-Levels in a technical

college, and was offered a place to read chemistry at degree level at Warwick University. In the

months between sitting his A-Levels and waiting for university to begin, Paul hunted for a job

to tide him over. He had a friend who worked at the Golden Wonder crisp factory, who helped

him find work there as a nightshift cleaner. Though the hours were long, the job paid well,

and Paul was able to earn more than his father and grandfather had done. It was the first time

in his life he experienced wealth. From the moment Paul opened his first pay packet, he could

not return to being poor again. University was no longer an option. Paul surrendered his place

at Warwick and decided to work in industry instead, just as his father and grandfather before

him had done. Economic considerations are noteworthy in Paul’s choices, the decision to earn

immediate wages may be viewed as a rational one for a working-class man in Paul’s position

(Goldthorpe, 1998). Let us see how Paul’s choices compare to other people in his community.

Paul’s Grammar school was eventually turned into Queen Elizabeth school, which was

later closed due to underperformance. Today, although home to one of the leading schools in

Northamptonshire, Corby has the second-lowest rates of young people entering higher

education in England and Wales (Office for National Statistics, 2014a: 30). My observations

during my fieldwork year indicate that for many young people in Corby, like Paul, attending

school was viewed as something they were compelled to do; they did not always comprehend

the significance of qualifications. For instance, during an interview with a former teacher who

had worked at a local college in Corby and a private boarding school in a nearby village, she

explained that, in her view, most children in Corby did not have an awareness of why they

were there, in stark contrast to the students entering private boarding school who, even at a

younger age, had grasped the value of education. This observation relates to the concept of

“frames”, which is used to explain how individuals’ actions are shaped by their perception of

past activities, their present and future expectations, and how they construe the world and

their place within it (Goffman, 1974; Harding et al., 2010: 14–15).

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My Facebook observations indicate that, while the full opportunities provided by

school are not immediately apparent, education is nevertheless valued in Paul’s community.

Frequently, for example, a female parent would upload status updates about being a “proud

mummy” when her younger child performed well in school, was awarded student of the week,

had the best homework, or received a good report on parent-teacher evenings. Other parents

also referred to their older children doing well in exams, and on three occasions parents praised

their children for obtaining an A or B in their GCSEs. One girl expressed pride at proving

everyone wrong by managing to secure a place at university, notwithstanding difficulties in

school. Some young people expressed regret at having left school at the earliest opportunity

to enter the world of work, instead of trying harder in school or going to college, and several

young adults who had entered the world of employment described already missing their school

days.

Some community members in the Facebook dataset noted having achieved success

despite struggling in school. A man in his thirties, for example, reflected on how a teacher told

him he would get nowhere in life with his attitude, and yet he had worked his way up to a

high-salaried city job, and owned various properties and flashy cars. In response, many of his

Facebook friends congratulated him on his success. Similarly, a woman in her late twenties

described herself in a status as “born and bred on the Lincoln estate” and yet had been

promoted to a management role. Those sharing stories of “riffraff done well” emphasised the

notion that “if you never give up, you can do it too.” This attitude, a belief that anyone who

wants to make it, can make it, perhaps echoes Lamont’s discovery about the sharp distinctions

fast food workers in America drew between themselves and the unemployed (2009). Lamont

contrasted these distinctions with workers in France, where a greater understanding between

the working-class and the unemployed poor was found. My data aligned more with the belief-

trend of the American working-classes in Lamont’s study: if someone does not make it, it is

because they failed to work hard enough. These exclamations about having succeeded despite

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the odds often come with suggestions that the same success is, in principle, available to all.

However, Willis’s hypothesis that only a few can really escape their class limits is acute, even

more so in the current climate of endemic inequality and social immobility (1977; Hey, 2003:

331; Skeggs, 2004: 62; Gillies, 2005).

There were signs of limited scholastic capital within Paul’s community. Several young

persons experienced periods of exclusion from school, both temporary and permanent, or

spent time in “isolation” (required to work alone in a supervised room, separate from the rest

of the class) for bad behaviour (cf. Gazeley, 2012). Some of these youth ferociously kicked

back against a perception that because of their extracurricular activities – their involvement in

the street field – they would never amount to anything. For example, this teenage boy from

the Lincoln estate responded to that kind of view with a Facebook status update: “I’ve had

enough of people telling me I aint gonna do anything with ma life. Yeah I drink and smoke

weed every day with ma mates, but I know one day I’m gunna be living in ma own house with

a sound car.” Here, and elsewhere, we see that young people can express an incentive to earn

material possessions, even despite the opportunities provided by success in the scholastic field

being out of reach. The Facebook extract below between Declan and Sarah-Jane further

demonstrates the awareness that young persons may have about how their performance in

school is related to the wider performance of others. This tallies with the work of Bourdieu,

who holds that it is precisely because of the exclusionary nature of the capitals that advantage

can be generated for some over others (1984).

Declan: Imagine if we didn’t have to go to school. That would be ace.

Sarah-Jane: You would end up a bum.

Declan: Yeah, but so would everyone else.

Facebook 2014

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Indeed, despite not taking the university route, Paul had ambition to work hard and succeed

through the industrial route. It did not take long during his time at Golden Wonder before

Paul’s strengths were realised. He was first promoted into a chemist role, and he was eventually

given his own office where he was responsible for solving technical issues within the company

whenever they surfaced. When an issue in production came about, for instance, Paul was called

on to identify a solution to the problem, and report on how this solution could be carried out.

Despite being an asset to the company, Paul described feeling frustrated when university

graduates joined the company in comparable roles, yet were paid salaries grossly higher than

his own, for the same work. Dissatisfied with the disparity, he insisted on a pay rise or

threatened to leave the company. When he was given a nominal pay rise, Paul resigned from

the job as promised. At the time, it was easy to walk into the steelworks and find employment,

which he did.

Paul joined the Corby Steel Works in the 1970s. He began working as an electrician’s

mate, and soon picked up the trade. The work was initially based in the coke ovens of the

works, which Paul described as “a terrifying and unfriendly place”, where glowing furnaces

bellowed out heat and smoke as the coal burned away. Paul’s talents were again recognised,

and he was encouraged to apply for the position of Metallurgical Technician, to test the quality

of the steel being produced. Paul successfully applied for the job, and he enjoyed once again

putting his chemistry skills to good use. For Paul, the steelworks days were some of the best

years of his life. He especially enjoyed the company of his workmates who shared the same

sense of humour, and a fondness for a good prank. Just as Paul’s chemistry education

enhanced his pranking abilities as a schoolboy, so too did his electrician’s skills as a young

adult – potentially a deadly combination. Whether it was rewiring a friend’s iron to explode

when plugged into power, or rigging up a foghorn in a friend’s locker to help him wake up on

arrival for his early shift, Paul always found a way lighten the working day. When the steelworks

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closed down, Paul was among the 20,000 people forced into unemployment (Corby District

Council, 1989: 9). This is when Paul became a fulltime, self-employed mobile grocer.

The employment scene in Corby following the closure of the steelworks in 1978 was

bleak, and it soon required external intervention. In 1979 Corby was granted “Development

Area Status”, and received EEC funds to become a designated “Enterprise Zone” (Read,

1982). Accordingly, businesses were incentivised to relocate to Corby, and a more varied

factory and industrial presence grew on the outskirts of the town. Even though the 2001

census indicated that unemployment in Corby was beginning to return to closer in line with

the national average (Office for National Statistics, 2001),22 areas of unemployment became

concentrated in the town, particularly on the Lincoln estate, where Paul’s van route was

primarily based. On the Lincoln estate, for example, 11,326 people were recorded as being

semi-skilled and unskilled manual workers in 2001 (constituting nearly 28 percent of all

persons), and 6,594 people (approximately 16 percent) fell into category E, which includes

those who are on state benefit, unemployed, or lowest-grade workers. Figures in 2007 again

recorded the Lincoln estate to have a higher level of unemployment compared to the rest of

the town, and almost double the national average (Corby Borough Council, 2007: 19; see also

Nomis, 2011c).23 Meanwhile, for those in employment, the primary occupation is industrial

work (UK Census Data, 2011).

The Facebook dataset echoes this employment landscape among members of Paul’s

community, with many either unemployed or primarily working in waged-industrial and

service-sector employment, as Paul had done in the days before the van. Indeed, 116 Facebook

22 The 2001 Census recorded unemployed in Corby at 4.2 percent, compared with the national average of this time which was 3.4 percent. 23 In 2001, the rate of unemployment in the Kingswood area was 6.6 percent, compared to the national average of 3.4 percent.

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posts explicitly referred to shift- and waged-work. Specific types of employment mentioned

included factory or warehouse work; labouring work, such as building, forklift driving,

plastering, carpet fitting, and landscaping; retail work in supermarkets; and services such as

hairdressing, bartending, lorry driving, book keeping, and working for a taxi company. The

only mentioned public-sector or salaried work was by five Facebook friends who noted

working as carers; two who worked for the council; two who joined the army; and one young

person who was in the process of applying to become a teacher.

Job scarcity and insecurity were a common part of daily life in Paul’s community (Beck

and Camiller, 2000; MacDonald, 1999; Sennett, 2011). I recorded 135 Facebook posts of those

either searching for a job, preparing for a job interview, or recently starting a new job. A

recurrent appeal was made on Facebook – “anyone know of anywhere taking on?” – to which

users would respond with suggestions, or occasionally share the unfortunate news that “I’ve

been looking for weeks now mate, nobody’s taking on.” One young man described his

exasperation at having submitted over 50 applications. Another in his thirties expressed

frustration with a factory that he approached for work; the factory managers agreed to contact

him when a position became available, only for him to bump into “foreigners” a few weeks

later asking for directions to the very same factory to start work. For some, the struggle to find

work had become a source of distress; as one man announced in a status, “I am going to break

down if work doesn’t come through soon”, and a middle-aged woman posted, “I can’t go on

anymore. What more can a woman do to get a job round here? All I’ve done is applications,

how much longer?” In such a temperamental employment environment, luck was frequently

associated with whether or not a job would come through; some would will for their “luck to

change”, others would be keeping their “fingers crossed”, and others still would be doing all

they could not to “tempt fate”.

The desperate struggle to access employment left many in the community reliant on

agencies for work. There are a number of private employment agencies in the county, which

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match customers to low-skilled employment for a wage (often minimum) of substantially less

value than the worker would earn if working for the company directly; further, such agencies

provide few, if any, work-related benefits, and little to no job security. One of Paul’s Facebook

friends expressed understandable frustration at “working for £6.50 an hour while other non-

agency staff get over £11” and another asked if anyone knew of any jobs going, since he “had

enough of working ridiculous hours for the agency and getting paid fuck all”. Agency work

was also described on par with selling drugs, in that for some it was seen as a desperate last-

choice line of work if nothing else came through. Some community members described

working in a factory for years through an agency without ever being offered a permanent in-

house job by the factory.

Emma: Any luck on the job front pal?

Dean: Nothing mate, can you believe it? I’m proper pissed with these agency arseholes promising work to get you signed up, only to tell you it’s quiet for the next few weeks and to ring back. I am signed up to 16 agencies, and not one can offer me anything.

Emma: Agencies, they’re the biggest con. They killed the work industry. I heard there might be something coming up our end. Is your CPC [professional driving certificate24] class 1 or 2?

Dean: Bollocks. It expired with the new CPC Act. The government sure know how to fuck people over. It's killing me being out of work.

Emma: That’s unlucky pal. Those agencies are a waste of time. They pay you in pennies and treat you like shit. I swear there would be full-time jobs if they didn’t exist.

Facebook 2013

Emma and Dean’s conversation shows that even low-paid agency work is not guaranteed.

Similarly, there is evidence that those in employment, outside of the agency, are also battling

24 Driver Certificate of Professional Competence

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zero-hour contracts and reduced working hours. Whereas frustration with agency work was

predominately expressed by men, coping with reduced working hours appeared to affect more

women in the community (cf. Young, 2016). A woman in her fifties, for example, announced

on Facebook: “it looks like I’ll have to start from nothing again – the arseholes have cut my

hours. I give up I really do. Talk about a massive hit to the confidence.” Similarly, a woman in

her early twenties posted: “I’m not impressed, my hours have been cut from 60 to 30 with no

warning, bang out of order.” As well as directly reducing income, cutting hours can have a

detrimental impact on the government benefits which some rely on, explained on Facebook

by a mother in her search for a part-time job: “all our hours have just been cut to 10 a week,

but if I don’t do 16 I’ll lose my tax credits. I’ll then be working for £25 a week, and will need

to go back on benefits.”

A fate worse than reduced hours, some lost their jobs altogether, either by being made

redundant by the employer, or due to closure of the firm. Like the historical closure of the

steelworks, a number of companies liquidated during the research period (Davies, 2016). One

of the most notable closures was of Soloways food factory, which led to large-scale

redundancies, and increased demand for employment elsewhere. While some workers became

unemployed through a company going bust, others went through disciplinary procedures for

misbehaving, and were eventually told they had lost their job due to their own doing. A young

mother, for instance, announced on Facebook that she was fired for not turning up for a shift,

but she felt it was justified since her family needed her, and family always comes first (Haylett,

2003: 63). A man of a similar age claimed he “got fired for taking a shit”. The fear of being

penalised for “shitting” or “farting” – something so everyday – was a common one in Paul’s

community; the coarse language evokes the fear of being scrutinised and boxed in by formal

institutions. The following extract from Facebook encapsulates these feelings of being under

employer surveillance and of powerlessness experienced by some in Paul’s community.

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Jim: It’s gonna be an interesting year - I’ve only been back six shifts and I’ve already received two formals and an interview for so-called bullying. Then wake up this morning to be handed a formal letter.

Andy: What happened son?

Jim: First shift back after the bank holiday and my lift fell through. Now I’m getting done for being late. I had to sign for that shit and all.

Andy: You’re kidding me. It’s becoming a miserable place to work. Did you hear about the motion detectors they’re bringing in? It calls when you’re not moving.

Jim: Motion detectors?! Aren’t the cameras enough? You’d get more freedom in prison these days. I’m honestly scared to fart without a good excuse.

Andy: It will only get worse from here on in.

Facebook 2014

In conditions of such scarcity, securing a new job, or being offered a permanent job, were

moments of celebration for community members, promising better financial times ahead.

Extreme declarations were made on Facebook, such as that by a woman who described being

offered a job as “the best news in the world”, and a lady who claimed “nothing’s taking the

smile from my face” having signed a contract to make her role permanent. Posts about new

jobs received high numbers of “likes” (up to 70) and congratulatory messages from network

friends. Moreover, members expressed relief “not to be on the dole [unemployment benefits]

anymore”, taking whatever hours they could and adopting phrases such as “another day

another dollar”. Incentive to work long hours and unsociable shifts appeared to stem from the

promise of pay. A number of times, members referred to 10, 12, and even 14-hour shifts, often

also explaining that they “need the money”. Despite seemingly incentivised by wages, on a

couple of occasions workers declared love for their job and their colleagues. One woman even

posted that she had become so lost in the work, she missed the last bus home.

Working long, often rotating shifts, was not without repercussions. There were daily

declarations of tiredness on Facebook, such as wanting to “sleep for a week”, and bed was

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frequently noted as the ultimate destination; one man explained, it was “the moment I have

been waiting for all night”. Expressions of tiredness were sometimes noted in the extreme,

with a woman describing pain in her eyes, limbs, head, and brain to indicate that “this is

exhaustion”. Nightshifts seemed to hit people hardest. Some factories and warehouses

implemented rotating shift patterns: the morning shift from 06:00 to 14:00, backshift from

14:00 to 22:00, and nightshift from 22:00 to 06:00. While workers may rotate between these

shifts, sometimes they are assigned to a permanent shift. A man in his early twenties, having

finished a nightshift rotation, described it as having “well and truly fucked up my game”. This

feeling of being thrown off from reality and the hardship of nightshift is echoed in a

conversation between three middle-aged women below.

Shannon: Nightshift catches up with you. All I’ve done since I finished work is sleep. I shouldn’t feel this tired! Thank God I’ve four nights off.

Linda: I know what you mean, I was a total nightmare on nightshifts. Even when you get free time, you waste it sleeping.

Debs: It knocks you for six. I’ve just finished three weeks of it and I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.

Facebook 2014

While some workers described being able to sleep as soon as they hit the pillow, several others

uploaded irritated posts about being unable to sleep and having work the next day. Nightshifts

appeared to be especially problematic in relation to sleep difficulties; several expressed

frustrations about being unable to sleep through daytime noises such as neighbours’ do-it-

yourself decorating activities and children playing on compact estate streets.

Despite continual references to working, the Facebook dataset indicates that

community members experienced a range of financial difficulties. For example, many of Paul’s

Facebook friends mentioned being “strapped for cash”, such as one woman who posted, “all

I do is work but I never see any of my wages. In one hand, out the other in tax, bills, and

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food.” Similar feelings were expressed by those receiving job seekers’ allowance, having no

money leftover once bills were paid. A common word used by individuals of all ages in the

dataset was “skint”, and frequently they resorted to selling personal items such as computers

and cars in order to earn money for other essentials. Some parents, especially around occasions

such as Christmas and Easter, expressed disappointment at not having enough money to

afford to celebrate the event “properly” through gifts. As one mother said, “it makes me feel

inferior” knowing how much other children will receive. She reconciled this by saying at least

she can give her children plenty of cuddles and love.

The gruelling hours, difficult working conditions, and insecurity of the labour market

may make us question what drives members of Paul’s community to plough on through.

However, we will see an important motivation in the community was family. Becoming a

parent shifted a person’s goals: nothing becomes more important than the need to provide for

one’s family.

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Startingafamily:Decent&street

Paul started family life young. He met his first wife Reena when he was 18, and she gave birth

to their son on her seventeenth birthday. The marriage, though well intentioned, was a

turbulent one. After 13 years, Reena left with their son unannounced one morning, and the

marriage was over. Reena reflected in an interview: “We were both from dysfunctional

families. I didn’t have anyone to show me how to be a good wife, and a good mother. And

Paul didn’t have anyone to show him how to be a good husband or father.” A brief relationship

following Reena led to the birth of Paul’s second son. Shortly after, Paul met Nikki, who was

living in a refuge for battered women on the estate with two young daughters. Nikki moved

in with Paul, and they married. I was born shortly afterwards, followed by my younger brother

a few years later. Despite being eccentric, feuding spouses, Nikki and Paul were doting parents.

Through the many hard times, they stayed together.

Family was important to Paul, as it is frequently found to be in working-class

communities. We saw this in the last chapter in relation to the bonding of social capital:

numerous studies have found that close bonds are weighted over weaker bonds among

working-class groups (e.g. Coleman, 1988, 1990; Hagan, 1993; Horvat et al., 2003). It is

understandable, then, that in Anderson’s ethnography the distinction between decent and

street was determined at the family level; whether someone is from a decent family or a street

family gives an indication of the cultural capital members of the family possess, and the

behaviour they exhibit (1999). In Skeggs’s research on white working-class women in England,

similar distinctions were made in relation to different standards, namely between respectable

and rough forms of behaviour (1997b, 1997a; Nayak, 2006). Respect also played a central role

in Anderson’s ethnography, something Anderson described as limited and furiously fought

over, such as when signs of “disrespect” would lead to violence (1999).

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Categories of street and decent are fluid: a person may exhibit street behaviours in one

instance, and decent behaviours in another, or be more street at one point in time, and decent

at a later point in their lives. Anderson refers to this phenomenon as the capacity to “code-

switch” (1999: 98ff). In Anderson’s study, for the most part, “decent families” are described

as adopting mainstream values and attempting to instil them in their children, in contrast to

“street families” who are described as normatively invested in the code of the street and

consequently raising their children in accordance with street code values. Although most

residents in disadvantaged areas are suggested to be “decent”, Anderson explains that at times

even decent residents are required to adopt the code of the street in order to avoid

confrontation and survive in these places. A similar trend was observed in Horowitz’s earlier

analysis of the code of honour among the Chicano25 community in Chicago (1983). Paul code-

switched, as did many members of his community, and some members of Paul’s community

could be described as more street than others. On Paul’s van, street rules applied, whereas at

home, the decent and street rules were more mixed.

Distinctions between decent and street, respectability and rough, are useful tools with

which to explore family life more generally in Paul’s community, and the informal standards

applied. Accordingly, I will draw on Facebook observational data again, beginning with

apparent behavioural expectations, and then homing in on gender roles and parenthood. In

my Facebook data collection, the epithets adopted to indicate a person engaging in less

reputable forms of behaviour were “trampy”, implying dirt or mess, and “junkie”, in reference

to those addicted to heroin and with seemingly corroded morals as a result. The word “rough”

also appeared in the dataset. Since these categories are interchangeable, at times a person would

accuse someone of behaving “trampy”, but then in another instant, they were required to

25 A self-asserted identity within the Mexican-American community in the United States.

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defend against an accusation of being “trampy” themselves. Rather than adopting the terms

“trampy” and “junkie” from my dataset, which are loaded expressions, especially when taken

out of context, I will use the language of respectability as developed by Skeggs in a similar class

context, for analytical purposes.

Before returning to my Facebook observations, it will be helpful briefly to introduce

two popular television programmes that were frequently referred to online during my research

period, namely, “The Jeremy Kyle Show” and “Benefits Street”. The Jeremy Kyle Show is a

televised English talk show, comparable to the US show “Jerry Springer”, on which people

opt to air their grievances on television, with the alleged purpose of resolving conflict. It is

notoriously the most socio-economically disadvantaged people who appear on the show, and

conservative held views about the blameworthiness of the unemployed and absent parents (cf.

Gallie, 1994), are propagated by the talk show host Jeremy Kyle. While The Jeremey Kyle

Show has been running for just over a decade in Britain, Benefits Street was a new

documentary series shown on Channel 4 in 2014. It was filmed on James Turner Street in

Birmingham, UK, where many residents were out of work and reliant on state support. Similar

to The Jeremy Kyle Show, Benefits Street received criticism for reinforcing stereotypes about

an “undeserving” poor (Vallely, 2014). Both of these television programmes were popular, and

heavily commented on, within Paul’s community.

Instead of a person’s economic position, it was behaviour that appeared to determine

respectability (Sayer, 2005: 5; Skeggs, 2004: 120–121). In this regard, personal hygiene was

frequently referred to when class differences were implied on Facebook. A number of

references were made to the bad teeth of guests appearing on The Jeremy Kyle Show, for

instance, a stereotype which spilled into descriptions of non-respectable people seen shouting

at their children in Corby town centre, or the type of people expected to appear in a particular

nightclub in the town. An illustration of this is found in a post made by a woman in her late

twenties who referred to teeth as a way to exemplify the roughness of a group of Corby men

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she encountered earlier that day: “There were four blokes in McDonalds today with manky

teeth, wearing joggers and matching hoodies, all bragging about their ‘mad’ nights out and

how pissed they got, and one was like ‘we’re the definition of Corby lads.’ That’s nothing to

be proud of!” In a similar way, the following Facebook conversation between two persons in

their thirties referred to appearance as a distinguishing factor:

Jess: I can’t stand going up the town centre, too many trampy people with too many kids. Even though I’ve had a fucked up life, I don’t go round looking like that.

Mike: I know what you mean. They wear the same clothes day in and day out with their prams and rotten teeth, covered in misspelt homemade tattoos.

Jess’s annoyance that even though she had a “fucked up life”, she never behaved in the manner

reprimanded, highlights a belief held by some in the community that a lack of economic capital

ought not to result in the emergence of certain behaviours.

Fashion appeared to be an important part of taking care of the self, and it further

determined a person’s respectability. For women especially, a great deal of attention was placed

on a new outfit for a night out, or a new hairstyle, saving up to have nails painted and so forth.

Comparably, it was common for men to uploaded photographs of themselves onto Facebook

during gym workouts, or images of them flexing their upper body muscles, in a show of

“muscular masculinity” (Kirk, 2007: 197). Like in Skeggs’s study (1997b), the night out

appeared to be a moment to dress up for, and like Appleford’s study (2015), at other times

wearing pyjamas or a onesie was acceptable, even in certain public spaces. Several women

made references on Facebook to having popped out to the shop in their onesie, aware of the

judgement this might invoke, but professing that they did not care, since it was comfy.

However, there was a line between acceptable and non-acceptable places to wear house

clothing, and a few references and pictures of “states” who had ventured too far from the

house were uploaded onto Facebook, such as a woman wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown

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at a car boot sale, or a man seen at the shop and then the pub in his onesie. While the local

estate shop was considered an acceptable place to pop out in nightwear, and even more so to

Paul’s van in the evenings since it stopped right outside residents’ houses, attending a car boot

fair or the public house in such attire was expressed to be a step too far by some.

There did not appear to be a stark difference in style of dress between those considered

respectable and rough. There was a tendency to wear popular fashion trends such as jeans,

tracksuits, hoodies, and caps in the community, and aspirations were expressed by community

members on Facebook to purchase the latest designs. However, the distinguishing features

noted by community members were primarily cleanliness, and being able to wear different

clothes on consecutive days, even though these clothes may be a similar style to those

described as “trampy” on others. A woman, for example, worried that others would think she

was a “tramp at work”, and she therefore warned her Facebook friends that she would be

wearing the same outfit the next day because she did not have many clothes that she felt

comfortable in following her operation. Nonetheless, the woman was sure to emphasise that

she had put her clothes through the wash that night, and that they would be clean.

The need for a clean appearance was emphasised just as much with respect to children.

A common critique of some of the 2014 Benefits Street participants, for example, was the

dirty condition of their children. This anxiety of having dirty children was also expressed by

one of Paul’s Facebook friends who described feeling shame when walking her filthy child

home from a Corby school; he had been playing with clay and was claimed to look like a “right

tramp”. The mother commented in her post that even the child was calling himself a “tramp”.

This distinction, between clean and dirty, explains why the term “tramp” was more common

in the community than the more widely used derogative term in Britain of “chav” (Jones,

2012). This is because, whereas the word “chav” is used to describe a style of working-class

dress, namely tracksuit bottoms and hoodies (Tyler, 2008), “tramp” is being used in the dataset

to describe a hygiene issue that distinguishes respectable from non-respectable people; hence

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a finer distinction is drawn. For the most part, wearing tracksuits, hooded jumpers, and

trainers, was an acceptable style of dress in the community. I only saw the word “chav” twice

in the sampled community, and on both occasions men used this to describe a “type” of young

woman.

Children in the community also demonstrated an understanding of how the

description “trampy” can be applied to parts of their lives. During my offline observations, I

became close to a group of young people, ranging from the ages of two to 14, who congregated

in a square of grass while waiting for Paul’s mobile shop to arrive. While helping me to decide

on scene shots for film footage I was recording, the children explained how certain parts of

the square, such as the corner with discarded furniture piled high, and a particular house, were

“trampy” and ought not to be in shot. Alternatively, the freshly mowed lawn with flower beds

was chosen as a preferable backdrop, which for them was a more appropriate representation

of their lives. Some of the children I worked with also described other children in the square

as “trampy” for wearing second-hand or dirty clothes, which demonstrated that these finer

distinctions between levels of respectability start being drawn at a young age (cf. Reay, 2000:

157–158).

As well as ensuring good personal appearance, individuals’ level of respectability was

determined by the condition of their houses. While The Jeremy Kyle Show was filmed in a

television studio, and hence derogative comments were directed to personal appearance and

the behaviour of people appearing on the show, Benefits Street probed a little further into

lives by filming inside homes. This exposed one family from the programme to insults aired

on Facebook of them living in a “shithole”. A few viewers from the dataset commented on

Facebook that even if people are poor, soap is cheap, and at the very least people can clean

their house and wash their children. One man posted, “being poor doesn’t mean your house

should be a shit tip, or that you should mishandle your children, drink on the streets, or smoke

weed in front of them. These families give the dole a bad name.” There was a recurring

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insistence made by people on Facebook, who were dependent on state support, or at one time

had been, that although they were on benefits they did not resort to living like that. A woman

explained this in the following way: “Look at these tramps on Benefits Street. I know I’m a

single mum on benefits but there’s no excuse for the way they live. I don’t live a trampy

lifestyle, and my kids have clean clothes. It’s hard but there’s work out there for everyone, and

there’s no shame in the work if it’s for your kids. I’m getting a job as soon as the baby turns

one.”

Distinguishing between respectable and rough was particularly acute in observations

about neighbours. There were divisions drawn on Facebook between those who had bought

their house and those who were “dumped there by the council”. Homeowners expressed

frustration at not being able to move and the council having put a “troubled family” next

door.26 In these cases, the conditions of neighbours’ houses were openly criticised with calls

for them to clean their house and sometimes cars. Moreover, comments were posted about

the way people lived, such as parents who “dragged their kids up”, constantly shouting at

them, leading some people to comment that “they shouldn’t have had so many if they can’t

handle the ones they’ve got!”

Whereas the above examples drew on parenthood and cleanliness as ways to

differentiate neighbours, conflicting lifestyles were another source of criticism. A woman on

Facebook expressed frustration when she found her alcoholic neighbour asleep on the shared

doorsteps to a block of flats when she left for work in the morning, and still passed out when

she returned, which led to calls for them to “clean up and get a job”. Similarly, neighbours

described on Facebook as “junkies” were accused of stealing Christmas presents, or the

26 This was an initiative set up in 2011 by the British government. Which targeted “troubled families” to help “turn them around” (see Fletcher et al., 2012; Levitas, 2012).

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“trampy” neighbour was accused of leaving rubbish in someone’s garden. One woman

summed up the area she lived in the following (sarcastic) way:

Ace neighbours round this end. On one side we’ve got a scrawny eejit who think he’s hard booting a dog and nutting his missus. On the other side we’ve got the crack-heads proper fighting over a bottle of Frosty’s [cheap cider].

There also appeared to be a difference between “deserving” and “non-deserving” benefits

claimants on account of how they act (cf Munt, 2000: 8). A commonly expressed view on

Facebook was that, whereas some people may legitimately require state support, such as those

with genuine health conditions rendering them unfit to work, others are “lazy” and “play the

system” in order to receive what is felt to be undeserved state support. “Back problems” were

often suggested to be “made up” in order to claim support. In an extension of this stereotype,

a participant on a Channel 5 televised debate about benefits allegedly misused bipolar disorder

to justify being out of work. This was met with outrage on Paul’s newsfeed with one woman

sarcastically suggesting that “bad backs have been misdiagnosed all these years, it was bipolar

all along”. Another woman expressed anger at the suggestion that those with bipolar cannot

work, and asserted that “I have bipolar but I pay my way.” The following Facebook extract

illustrates some of these views in play. In this example, a young man who was battling with

depression struggled to find understanding and support from a friend.

Mikey: Every time things start being bearable, something comes along and fucks it up. Why can’t I be happy and be done with it. I’ve either gottae keep going, or just give up.

Cheryl: You depressed fanny, I’ll give you a slap if you don’t shut it.

Mikey: And if I did shut it who would listen to your shit when you needed it?

Cheryl: No shit for me these days, Mikey. I’m in control of my life again, and I’m staying on top.

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Mikey: Well maybe you can be there for me now.

Nick: Shit Mikey, you’re sounding so fucking miserable, you’d make my mum’s plants wilt!

Mikey: Aw, sorry about that man, if I still had ma money coming in I’d gladly buy her some new ones.

Nick: They’ve stopped your benefits pal? Unbelievable. Fart, and the bastards will sanction you. What happened?

Mikey: Fucking ‘Joke Centre’ mate. I have to apply for 3 jobs a week. I applied for two jobs on the Wednesday and another on Thursday, and then the next week I applied for one on Sunday and two more on Monday. When I went to sign on this morning they said I had applied for 6 jobs in the first week and none in the second. Apparently the job centre’s week starts on a Tuesday. I have been sanctioned for 13 fucking weeks!

Nick: They’re unreal. Ma mate has an irreversible condition corroding his back, on high doses of pain killers and that, but the wankers say ‘fit to work’. He’s a sound man ma mate. He’s gonna find work even though it’ll leave him totally disabled. I hope he sues the cunts. This government is disgusting, gimme a gun and I’d shoot the lot of ’em.

Cheryl: They should scrap JSA and only give benefits to mothers and the disabled, lower taxes for the working people, and free healthcare for the working class who actually pay into society, instead of giving it to people who are draining society.

Mikey: But how are we draining society if we can’t get a job. No company in their right mind would employ me, criminal record going back to when I was a youngster.

Cheryl: You can beg for money. There you go sorted! Most agencies don’t even check up on that shit. I'm fed up working my arse off to give £500 to people who choose not to work! That's like a holiday a month I’m giving away. Just get a job Mikey, you’ve been on benefits for like forever. Stop feeling sorry for yaself and sort your shit out. No one else is gonna to do it for you.

Facebook 2014

Since some believed that families on benefits enjoyed an equivalent standard of living

compared to those in work, there was resentment expressed by those who felt that they were

working to fund others’ out-of-work lifestyles. As a man in his twenties explained in a

Facebook post, “I’ve worked hard all my life to get where I am today and it pains me to see

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so many wasters living comfortably without having ever lifted a finger to earn any of it.” Similar

views were expressed by Cheryl in the above extract, who felt she was sacrificing a holiday a

month so that other people could choose to live a work-free lifestyle. This attitude led some

to express their eventual right to claim from the system if and when the time arose, for example

when they decide to have children or when their body was unable to carry them through the

working day.

While sometimes benefits claimants were described as the problem, occasionally the

view was expressed that the working poor are in reality struggling to make ends meet, and that

more needs to be done to improve the position of the working poor, rather than worsening

the position for benefits claimants. Consequently, instead of directing anger towards those

relying on state support, some of Paul’s Facebook friends argued that the problem is the

unmanageable cost of living, and that more must be done to ensure adequate returns from

long days of work. A man in his twenties explained this in a Facebook post as follows:

The shameful reality is most parents are better off not working. If you’re a working parent you have to pay most of your wages on ridiculous rent, which only keeps going up, and rising bills. You have to pay childcare while you’re in work, pay car expenses and petrol costs to get to work, put clothes on your kid’s backs, pay council tax, and the list goes on. Whereas, when you’re on benefits, rent gets paid and the rest of the money is yours.

Other people were also less quick to judge the apparent non-respectability of people exhibiting

certain behaviours, such as those who sometimes appeared on shows such as Benefits Street

and The Jeremy Kyle Show. One young man on Facebook, for example, in response to the

tirade of abusive comments to a particular family on Benefits Street said, “I feel sorry for the

people on Benefits Street. Don’t be so quick to judge, you never know when you’ll find

yourself in that situation.” An older woman posted a similar sentiment: “It’s sad to think

people actually live like that, but you never know when you might just find yourself walking

in another person’s shoes”. In agreement, a man compared Benefits Street to the Lincoln

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Estate: “Benefits Street is the Lincoln! It’s mental seeing people who have grown up in Corby

slating people like that. You’re probably related to far worse!” A young woman identified a

similar hypocrisy in comments being made about participants on Benefits Street, observing

that “the girl with no job claims to be ‘shocked’, the woman who puts her kids to bed late is

riotous about bad parents, and the bloke with binge drinking problems is calling them

morons.”

Extreme forms of poverty were occasionally interpreted in Paul’s community as a form

of rough, non-respectable, behaviour. While many in the sampled space responded to poverty

with compassion, others evinced the view that one can be poor and not behave in disreputable

ways (cf. Lawler, 2005b: 803). For instance, although many described supermarkets pouring

bleach on their discarded food (to prevent people rummaging in the bins for it) as disgraceful

(cf. Bloxham, 2010), on two occasions when people were spotted looking in the bins for food

at the back of supermarkets, the response on Facebook was disgust rather than sympathy. A

middle-aged woman, for instance, posted “I always see them behind [the supermarket] with

their torch and black bags, rank.” A young woman witnessing the same event in the daytime

informed people that “oh my days, there’s a lady in her 50’s raiding the bins at the back of [the

supermarket]. Haha, and she just asked one of the workers having a fag for a carrier bag to

take it home with her!” In response, her friend remarked “yuck”.

Similarly, there was a divide on the issue of homelessness. Sometimes, community

members expressed support for those experiencing homelessness, and joined local initiatives

to supply those sleeping rough with food and blankets in the winter. But occasionally members

were also hostile to homelessness. An example of this can be seen in the following Facebook

extract:

Sarah: My heart is aching, I just watched an old man who appeared to be homeless get dragged out of the train station. I asked why he’d been taken

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out, he wasn’t hurting anyone, just warming up, the man said “just doing my job”.

Michelle: I can’t stand jobs-worths. Poor man.

John: The dirty tramp should get a job, too much junkie scum in Corby. People like that fuck it up for the rest of us.

Dan: Some people are dealt a shit hand – we should look out for those with less.

Frank: Anyone can make money if they want it bad enough, on or off the books.

John: Aye Frank, those dog breath tramps chose the life they live.

Begging was met with disdain. A young mother explained on Facebook how much she hated

people in the town centre asking her for money: “Get a job or at least save some of your dole

money to feed yaself!” Likewise, a man in his thirties expressed annoyance:

Two junkie bums come up to me while I’m eating ma sausage roll, asking ME for money. I told em tae get te fuck, I aint funding their skag habit. Fucking yaself up is no one’s fault but ya own – get a job!

There is thus a persistent conservative narrative expressed in the community that the

impoverished have gotten themselves into their predicaments, and that if they tried hard

enough, they could work their way out of them (cf. Gallie, 1994; Lamont, 2009).

These distinctions reflect the individualisation of class. Bottero explains that whereas

class was once collective and explicit, it has become a means of differentiation, individualised

and implicit (2004). Class is no longer best understood through the notion of class conflict,

i.e. the working class as seen collectively in opposition to the middle class; rather, class has

become a hierarchical phenomenon, i.e. individuals now distance themselves from those

deemed less respectable (Bottero, 2004; Savage, 2000). Note, however, that individuals

comfortably positioned in the middle class require minimal effort to maintain separation

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between the self and those in the most precarious positions. By contrast, individuals positioned

insecurely in the working class (the precariat class in Savage et al.’s (2013) classification), such

as those in Paul’s community, have to make stronger distinctions in order to effect that same

social distance. And so the position of the homeless, and those with the most limited amounts

of dominant cultural capital, become new working-class benchmarks for what “I am not”

(Lawler, 2005a: 438). For someone comfortably positioned, these comments about the most

vulnerable might seem crass, unsympathetic, and harsh. Yet, for those living in Paul’s

community, unemployment, ensuing poverty, and family breakdown could so easily befall

them. The social distancing is as much an expression of what “I am not”, as it is of what “I

am scared to become”. As Bottero comments, in an implicit hierarchical class system such as

this, the most disadvantaged inevitably suffer the most (2004: 994).

4.1. Genderrolesandparenthood

Women were expected to play conflicting roles in the community. On the one hand, women

were sexualised objects, with young men liking pages of glamour models, and sharing images

on Facebook of “the bum of the day”. On the other hand, women who became sexualised

were exposed to insults that attacked their femininity, alluding to the women being dirty, and

adjectives such as “slut”, “slag”, and “rat” were used against them. Regarding nights out in the

community, there were two extreme examples on Facebook of disgust expressed towards

women who behaved in ways deemed rough. One of these instances involved a group of men

in their early twenties who uploaded a video of a woman being sexually touched by a man in

McDonald’s on a weekend night. Sarcastic comments were made about the woman being

“classy”, jokes were made about the woman’s weight, and the man was mocked to have “fishy

fingers” with his fries. Another incident involved a middle-aged woman who was allegedly

masturbating on the dancefloor of the local nightclub, which was met with equivalent

revulsion, described as “disgusting” and “absolutely minging”, the woman being referred to as

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a “dirty cow” and “slut”, and suggestions were made that the observer should have taken a

picture of the accused in order to “name and shame” her on Facebook. I presume that a man

engaging in a similar act in public may also be met with a hostile (even violent) response.

In contrast to the image of promiscuous women, females in relationships were

frequently praised on Facebook for being “good” women. Men would often advertise the fact

they had “found a good one”, an image which women were also keen to possess. A common

form of expression was “why play for silver when you already have gold”, implying that when

a man has found a good girlfriend, he should not risk losing her for a less reputable one. On

two occasions this was emphasised in terms of looks – why sacrifice a beautiful girlfriend for

a “minger”? – but at other times it was emphasised by the value of what the girlfriend could

offer at home. In line with this, some words of wisdom were shared by woman such as, “don’t

take a good woman for granted, because one day another man will come along and appreciate

what you did not”. There were also a number of statuses by women about having cleaned the

house and cooked a special meal for their man, and thus having become a “good wife”.

Traditional gender roles and notions of overt femininity were accordingly apparent within the

community.

As well as demonstrating respectability by becoming a “good wife”, women also

illustrated ways to realign the power imbalance created by the image of women as sexualised

objects. One way this was done was by taking ownership of sexuality by expressing forward

attitudes. What might be termed as “ladette” expressions manifested when women talked

about the opposite sex on Facebook (Jackson, 2006). Just like men who sexualised women,

women can be seen to sexualise men, and to take control of a reputation of being promiscuous.

For example, a group of women on Facebook openly discussed the perils and virtues exhibited

by various penis sizes, and the way men use them; posts were regularly made about “fit” men,

and particularly men in uniforms such as “sexy” police officers and firemen; stories were

shared of having managed to “bed a copper”, or having “grabbed a bloke’s arse” and managing

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to “get a bit of it”; and on a hen night, a woman expressed sympathy for the male stripper

who was trapped in a room with several drunk Corby women.

Another way women realigned the power imbalance was to assert the power of the

single woman, especially in motherhood. In the 2011 national census data, there were 2,320

households in Corby recorded as lone parented (Nomis, 2011b). Out of a total of 25,215

households, 31 percent had no one in employment, and 11 percent of those unemployed were

lone parent households. Approximately nine percent of lone parent households were single

fathers, and thus the large majority of lone parent households, 91 percent, were single mothers.

Out of these, 39 percent of lone mothers were recorded to work part-time, 23 percent were

recorded to work full-time, and the remaining 38 percent were reported to be unemployed.

Hence, unemployment among lone mothers was not markedly higher than other groups.

Teenage motherhood was especially relevant in the case of Corby, which has had a history of

high teenage pregnancy rates (ET Corby, 2010; Ortenberg, 2008: 149), and in 2012 was

recorded as the area with the fifth highest conception rate for women in England and Wales

under the age of 18 (Office for National Statistics, 2014b).

Women living as single mothers in Paul’s community would seek to compensate for it

by taking on the role of two devoted parents. There were regular declarations on Facebook

from single mothers that, despite the difficulties of being a single parent, their children were

much better off for it, advice which was frequently reiterated by female friends. A woman in

her early twenties, for example, posted “it’s going to be hard being a single mother, but I’m all

my boy will ever need and so much more.” Compatible views were expressed during the

following Facebook conversation between mothers in their late twenties:

Sophie: it’s taken me a while to realise it, but it’s actually not bad being a single mum. More cuddles for me.

Lisa: I love it! It’s so much easier this way.

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Sophie: I always said I never wanted to do it on my own, but it’s so much better. I don’t have to take anyone else’s shit, and I get to enjoy my babies on my own.

There were benefits which women realise from the sacrifices made during motherhood, as a

woman in her forties explained in a Facebook post: “I carried my kids, wore the stretch marks,

bore the pains of labour, nursed them when they were sick, sat with them when they couldn’t

sleep, put clothes on their back, and gave them unconditional love. They left this home as

exceptional adults – not perfect, but no one is. And that's why I’m a proud mummy and soon

to be granny!” Women in Paul’s community often updated their user names to “proud

mummy”, indicating the central role of this position in their lives (cf. Bernard, 2012: 13).

Women appeared to embrace motherhood at an earlier point in time than men

embraced fatherhood. Although some young men realised the benefits to be gained from the

position of fatherhood, such as a teenage boy who posted on Facebook that “being a father is

the most important role I’ll even take on, if I do this right then nothing else really matters in

life”, for many men, interest in their children appeared to surface later in life. However, by this

time, the opportunity to be an active father may have passed them by. This is highlighted in

the pain experienced by a man in his thirties:

Despite what people say, I’m not a shit Dad. Yeah, I fucked up when I was younger, I was a dick in the past, but I now bend over backwards for my ex so she lets me see the kids. I don’t agree with it but I messed up in the past so now she calls the shots.

Other men expressed similar frustration on Facebook about feeling as though they were the

children’s babysitter, rather than father, but having no other choice than to abide. In response

to a perceived trend for women to deny men access to their children, a number of posts were

shared by men and women alike reprimanding women who stop fathers seeing their children.

Sometimes this was mitigated if the father had acted in a reprehensible way, but if men were

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prevented from seeing their children as an “emotional weapon” against them, then this was

considered bad form on the woman’s part.

Just as certain benefits claimants were seen as non-deserving on account of the

behaviours they exhibited, so single mothers on benefits were also susceptible to being seen

in this light. Examples of negative attitudes such as these are demonstrated in Murray’s work,

where he proposes lone motherhood could be viewed as an inevitable negative effect of

inflated welfare benefits (cf. Murray, 1984). Non-deserving parents in the dataset were

implicated by others only to have had children with the ulterior motive of claiming benefits.

This attitude is highlighted in the following Facebook extract:

Christine: To get given over two grand a month for kids you don’t look after, incredible.

Pete: I hate people that are on benefits, that’s more than I get a month on my wage.

Sarah: I just hate people that have kids so they know they don’t need to look for a job, then spend all that money on drink and drugs.

Pete: Castrate them.

Elli: This frustrates me, that’s more than most working parents like me get, and we have to pay for childcare as well. It’s disgusting.

Sarah: I know there are parents out there that genuinely can’t work because their babies are too small, or need extra care, or they aren’t in a fit state of mind themselves. But then there's type 2, the slaggy lazy dirty scroungers.

Dave: What, I have kids I get my drugs for free? Just need to find a breeder

Sarah: Plenty of breeders in Corby hen.

Sarah’s comment, about the “type 2” benefit claimant, “the slaggy lazy dirty scroungers”,

exemplifies hierarchical class distinctions between rough and respectable (cf. Bottero, 2004).

Accordingly, unemployed mothers made a concerted effort to distinguish themselves from

unrespectable parents on benefits. To counter claims of avoiding work in an unfair way, many

women in the Facebook dataset referenced wishing to return to work as soon as their children

reached school age. This tension between wanting to be a full-time parent, and yet also

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avoiding unemployment, is illustrated in the following Facebook conversation between a

group of young mothers:

Kelly: I can’t believe the Conservatives are claiming stay-at-home mums are

a waste of space. Who’s going to look after our children if we’re at work all day?

Have they seen the cost of childcare? We’d be working all day for fuck all and

our children will be calling some child-minder “mummy”!

Steph: If they’re that set on helping stay-at-home mums into work, why don’t

they regulate the cost of childcare to make it a viable option? I’m not going

working all day, missing out on my children, just to give all my wages to a

child-minder.

Amber: I’ve worked since I was 14, and I gave up last year to be around for

my kids. After paying into the system for nearly twenty years, it’s my turn to

get something back.

Kelly: I can’t wait to go back to work when my children are older. But for now,

I’m going to be the best mum I can be. No good mum is a waste of space.

In order to distance themselves from “bad parents” who have children for an ulterior motive,

“good parents” emphasised putting their children first, to the extreme point where, as one

man in his thirties posted, “my life is my kids”. This accords with a young woman’s

expectations of parents, who explained on Facebook that “it winds me up when people put

themselves before their kids. If you have kids, they should be what you live for, even if you

don’t live with them.” A woman who would put a man before her children would thereby “not

deserve children”. Women, in particular, made Facebook declarations that they would leave

themselves “skint” in order to provide their children with what they needed. Like in Skeggs’s

study (1997b), this led some women in the dataset no longer to dedicate attention to their

personal appearance, since the focus was now on the children’s needs. One woman’s Facebook

status read: “I remember the days when I used to get up and decide what to wear, take time

to paint my nails, do my hair, and get ready to go out. Oh how times have changed!” This

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expectation and social pressure to reduce focus on the self can be a source of guilt and

difficulty for some mothers, as the following Facebook extracts show.

Alice: I can’t stand it when people claim to be skint all the time, and struggle to buy their kids stuff, but they’re always out in new clothes. If parents can’t afford to support their kids, they shouldn’t be spending money on themselves. I walk about looking like a tramp so ma daughter can look good instead of me.

Helen: Whereas others go out in designer clothes and their kids look like tramps!

Alice: Yeah, and when people say they have fuck all and then go out to pubs and clubs all the time. I stopped going out and completely changed my life to suit ma daughter. Pisses me off when I see poor kids looking a mess.

Helen: Kids are for life not just for benefits! Facebook 2014

Jane: I haven’t had my hair done in months, I feel like a tramp, and I need new jeans ’cus mine don’t fit anymore. But if I buy them, I'll be called a bad mum.

Tracy: Income support is for you as well as the baby. And child benefit is for the child. If you need new jeans then buy them hun, fuck what any nosey twat thinks.

Jane: I just feel constantly judged.

Tracy: Ignore what people say. If you want to treat yourself, do it. You need to look after yourself as well as the baby. People need to look at their own lives before sticking their nose in others.

Facebook 2014

Parents faced a challenge to live up to social expectations on one hand, and respond to their

personal needs on the other. Taking part in activities such as drinking and going out with

friends, for example, often conflicted with the community standards of respectable

parenthood. Fathers as well as mothers accused of taking drugs or being seen to be frequently

drunk were reprimanded for bad parenting. As a man in his thirties posted, “If you’re a dad

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that goes out at weekends, selling drugs or taking drugs, then it’s time to man up you useless

bastard.” The following Facebook conversation between Michael and his friend Tom indicate

some of the frustrations from a father’s point of view:

Michael: Can’t believe social services are investigating me for having a can of lager while I’m with the boy. I’m not a raging alcoholic. It was one bevy for fuck sake. I’m a better dad than I’m given credit for.

Tom: You shouldn’t be drinking at all if you’re taking care of the kids mate.

Michael: I don’t drink all the time. I had one last week that was all.

Tom: You gotta prove them wrong son.

Similarly, some women struggled to boycott personal needs, such as drinking or smoking while

pregnant, despite being aware of the implications of doing so. Indeed, Corby is recorded to

have a significantly higher than average rate of smoking, which includes smoking during

pregnancy (NHS, 2015). The next Facebook extract illustrates the challenges faced by women

in Paul’s community to live up to these standards during pregnancy.

Crystal: I’m trying to give up the fags, and I just can’t. I know I’m gunna get a lot of jip for being pregnant and smoking. People don’t understand how hard it is to stop!

Grace: I quit the moment I found out both times. It’s difficult but you are strong enough petal.

Sarah: I quit with the first four. This time has taken a little longer and I am on e-cigarettes at the moment.

Zoe: I quit but had the odd few if I was going to lose my temper with someone.

Sarah: I think it’s up to the mother if they want to drink or smoke, people can have their opinion but it’s up to them. I didn’t find out I was pregnant till three months in, so was drinking up till then not knowing. Soon as I found out I stopped. I don’t see a problem with it, if that’s what someone wants to do, it’s up to them. Saying that, I didn’t smoke while pushing a pram ’cus I didn’t feel comfortable, but I’d never judge someone who done it. Some of my good friends do and it don’t bother me

Zoe: I was sixteen when I first got pregnant and I was drinking up until the day Kayla was born. So I wouldn’t slag anyone for smoking or drinking, my best friend smoked through hers.

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Angie: I smoke ’cus I ain’t got the patience to stop! But drinking is a different ball game when you know you’re up the duff. Drinking changes you, makes you less aware and stuff.

Laura: I smoke. I know I shouldn’t and I really wish it was that easy to stop but I can’t. Literally can’t. I’m unbelievably stressed when I’m pregnant, and I’d feel sorry for my friends and family if I didn’t smoke! Although I smoked, I never touched a drug or alcohol, and my kids are fine. Even junkies have perfectly healthy babies.

Facebook 2014

To sum up this section, the importance of family was emphasised in Paul’s community, with

frequent appeal to community expectations on how parents ought to do the job well. Thus,

family life can be seen as a relatively public affair, exposed to scrutiny when certain standards

of respectability fail to be met. For some groups, the pressure to be viewed as respectable was

more pressing than others. Benefits claimants and mothers appeared to face the most criticism

about their lifestyle choices and behaviours. When we look at conflict in the community, these

same distinctions are at the forefront of tensions. However, before examining what happens

when people fall out, let us first understand how people get on, and what internal support is

available within the community.

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Helpingoutamate

Worlds Apart

I waited in the kitchen for my father to return home from work. It had gone 23:20, he was running late.

The flood light marked his arrival. I ran into the garden to open the gates so the van could be parked up and unloaded. Cigarette trays and a tub full of coins were taken inside, empty crates were refilled with 2 litre bottles of Irn Bru.

“Sandwiches?”

“I fancy fish and chips tonight,” my father said, turning the oven on. I scrambled to beat him to the freezer and put food on a tray. He set the alarm instead. He then attached a can opener to a Happy Shopper 39p can of mushy peas and wound it round. “Are you coming to walk the dog?”

We walked the dog together most evenings; it was an unspoken understanding between us that I would hover in the kitchen, and tag along after my father finished work. He rarely asked me to join these walks, unless he had something important he needed to talk about.

“That’ll be nice,” I said, picking up an additional coat from the hallway, excited and apprehensive about what I might learn.

My father dropped a heavy rubber ball, the size of a tennis ball, in the garden. A signal we were leaving. Its repeated thump against the concrete ground sent our large black dog, Twister, into frenzy. Twister snapped the ball up, spiralling around in chaotic rings, in accordance with his name. My father managed to attach a metal chain to the spiked dog collar.

We did not go straight out the gate as usual. My father first went into the garden shed, and opened the spare freezer. From it he took a number of microwavable meals – roast dinners, curries, pizzas, and fish – piling them into a white freezer bag.

We left the garden without explanation.

Instead of our normal route, down an alleyway to the sports field across the road, we headed through a maze of passages at the front of the house. This part of the estate remained reminiscent of the old Lincoln project, before the council demolished its unruly core.

“I need to drop something off,” my father said. “Justin, a lad I’ve known since he was a kid, is in a difficult situation.”

I nodded, as he continued.

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“He popped on the van earlier and asked me to tick him a packet of crisps. I gave him a few bags, and said it was good to see him, it’d been a while. Turns out he was recently let out of St Michael’s, and hasn’t got a penny to his name. Too paranoid to ask for help.”

“Does he have family?” I asked.

“His Mum and sisters washed their hands of him – had enough of him robbing them. He got hooked on heroin in his teens, and the addiction followed him since.”

We weaved through alleys and walkways, my father expertly navigating the warren.

“The last few years he’s been in and out of hospital for a tirade of physical and mental health problems. It’s a real shame; he’s a lovely lad with terrific potential. If he’d grown up in better circumstances, it’d be a very different story.”

We stopped at a row of attached houses about five minutes from ours. My father softly tapped a letterbox on a faded blue door, flakes of paint peeling from the edge like hardened flesh from a graze.

A figure appeared behind the frosted glass. Its shadow hung motionless in the frame.

“Justin, it’s Paul – Paul on the van – I’m walking the dog with my daughter. Here’s a bit of food to tide you over.”

The shadow paused behind the glass a moment more. Then the door opened to a young, bony face; eerily handsome, beneath the greying skin of a life robbed too fast.

“Alright Paul,” Justin croaked. “Nice to see ya bud.”

While it has not been possible to explore levels of savings in the Facebook dataset, other data

indicates that levels of accumulated wealth in the community are low. Socioeconomic

deprivation is very apparent in Corby. There are 2,700 children recorded to be living in

poverty, which represents more than one in five children living in the district (ET Corby,

2014). Furthermore, there are over 13,000 residents in areas of Corby which are classified as

the most deprived 20 percent nationally (NHS, 2015), and the Lincoln estate area is recorded

as homing the poorest 10 percent nationally (Northamptonshire Analysis, 2015). These figures

do not only record families requiring state support, but also include families struggling to get

by on low-waged, insecure, and infrequent work opportunities available to them, as outlined

above. Many in Paul’s community fit into this category, and Paul often took on a role as a

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safety net for those in financial difficulty. During his day-to-day work, Paul would give people

goods “on tick” till payday; he accepted payment in pennies – many times customers entered

the van in a desperate state, with a piggy bank in hand; he sold single cigarettes and single

nappies; and he sourced decent-quality, affordable products as an alternative to the more

expensive brands.

In such an economic environment, support from friends was important. As the above

vignette indicates, in addition to providing goods for people in the community, Paul performed

an important welfare role, offering essential support to those in need. This came as no surprise

to me, since I often observed my father going out of his way for people in our home

community throughout my life; however, until conducting interviews, I had not appreciated

just how widespread and recognised his support had been. Paul taught children how to ride

bikes, he encouraged the rap aspirations of youths on the estate, taught some locals how to

build computers, ordered things online for those without the internet, guided people through

legal processes and social service requirements, and helped in countless other ways. During

the fieldwork year, a woman in Paul’s community who was facing a period of imprisonment

even asked Paul to foster her toddler until she was released. Accordingly, Paul was an

important source of social capital. I will now look at the wider social capital in Paul’s

community, referring back to Paul’s role where relevant.

Newsfeed activity indicates the importance of social capital in Paul’s community, with

members frequently undertaking activities for peers within their social network. In the

Facebook data, this included the countless lending and giving of items, such as household

electrical equipment, computer goods, and tools for renovation and decorating. At least three

members of the community were lent large items such as cars so that they could travel to

places further afield for family days out and to visit relatives. In the dataset, it appeared that if

persons were able to help each other, they would, and sincere regret was expressed when

someone did not have the means or equipment to be able to offer support. On rarer occasions

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(three instances noted), in response to being asked to borrow an item, members offered to sell

it instead. For example, a young boy offered to sell his friend a phone charger, and another

man offered to sell someone his old computer. This indicates that financial need took

precedence over gifting and lending for some in the community.

Another powerful source of social capital in Paul’s community was the sharing of

experience and advice (Blau, 1964). Almost all requests for advice on Facebook were met with

responses. Advice ranged from the sharing of information about local services, takeaways,

builders, painters and decorators, where to purchase things, information about the job centre

and benefits claims, and local bus services. Parenting advice was particularly widespread within

the community, experienced mothers sharing tips with newer mothers seeking help. Another

prominent area of advice was in relation to employment; members often shared information

about companies that were known to be hiring new employees (cf. Granovetter, 1974).

Emotional support was also an important provision offered by friends; positive words were

regularly spoken to friends feeling down, words of condolence when bad things happened,

and invitations extended to troubled friends for a talk when needed. This is an area in which

Paul performed a particularly valued role; one lady I interviewed described him as her

counsellor, and another woman described Paul as the only person to whom some of the elderly

residents on the estate could talk to each day.

Community members also gave practical support, in addition to advice being given.

This was most apparent when advice was sought about curriculum vitae forms. An example

of this on Facebook can be seen in the following offer from Maureen to support her friend

Gemma, who is in her late-twenties:

Gemma: Can anyone help me sort out my CV and show me how to send it out for jobs? I’m desperate!

Maureen: Of course hen, email it over and I’ll sort it out for you.

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Gemma: I can’t even do stuff like that. I’m a complete dummy when it comes to computers – that’s why I work in factories! But I’m a hard worker.

Maureen: I’ll drop round after work. Once we get your CV up to date, I’ll show you how to work your emails. You’re not stupid – it’s a piece of piss once someone shows you how.

This is another area, too, in which Paul assisted. Paul was strong in mathematics and sciences,

and on two occasions during the fieldwork, community members revealed that Paul had

tutored them or their family members. This included a man at a funeral, and a woman whom

I interviewed. On both occasions, Paul had given mathematics tuition, which was said to have

contributed to them passing their exams. In the community, other services residents carried

out for each other included lending money when someone’s wages did not come through;

offering to go out in the rain to “jumpstart” a friend’s broken-down car; and helping others

transport large electrical items during a house move.

In the dataset, requests to receive lifts to services in nearby towns, such as attending

the Crown Court in Northampton (24 miles from Corby), or the hospital in Kettering (9.5

miles from Corby), were frequent. Much of the time, there were no offers made to those

requesting lifts. It is possible offers for lifts were made outside Facebook, through a phone

call, for example. Alternatively, perhaps offers to give lifts were limited due to the

inconvenience, or possibly because of the limited resources within the community which

prevented residents being able to offer support. However, on a couple of occasions, lifts were

offered through Facebook, including by a woman who took a day off work so she could take

her friend and young children to see relatives in a neighbouring county. There were also many

examples of Paul giving lifts during the fieldwork period. For example, Paul took a woman

with young children to the Crown Court in Northampton; gave multiple lifts to a woman in

the town who was being violently threatened by a family with whom she had fallen out; giving

lifts to an elderly woman with mobility issues so that she was able to see her terminally ill

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husband in the out-of-town hospital; and taking a young man, who had been the victim of a

violent attack, first to his family home, and then hospital.

In addition to doing things for those in his network, Paul also relied on others. In fact,

being able to do the work he did required having a strong network of support. Following the

closure of the steelworks, and the degeneration of the town, the Lincoln estate became a

dangerous place to be. Even police were wary of the estate. And yet, throughout the most

precarious of times, Paul managed to drive his van, with thousands of pounds’ worth of goods,

late into the night, without once ever being “done over”. Moreover, the van parked in the

garden was never broken into, and the house, with large amounts of stock inside, never

burgled. A couple of people I interviewed explained that because Paul treated everyone

decently regardless of who they were, how they looked, or their reputation, he was well

respected. The estate’s most notorious criminals grew up with Paul as a friend to them during

difficult times in their childhood, and as a father figure to whom they later turned for support,

even during convictions for serious crimes. One woman I interviewed described Paul as “more

of a dad than the arseholes my mum brought home”, a man in his twenties described Paul as

“a father to us all”, a single mum described him as the “granddad of Corby”, and a timid young

boy I met on the street described Paul as “my best friend”. Paul never judged anyone, and no

one would touch Paul. He looked out for others, and this was reciprocated by ensuring his

protection on the estate.

Indeed, for many members of Paul’s community, an important source of defence came

from social ties, a form of street social capital. Family members would frequently stand up for

other family members who were being threatened, and on occasions friends would too. It was

accordingly considered a strength to be considered as, or know someone who was, “mental”

or a “nutter”, since this could be used to ward off threats of violence. The following Facebook

extract aptly demonstrates the tactic of a person under threat referring to someone he knows

as a way to diffuse threats against him:

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Dennis: Betta not throw threats ma way pal, do you know who ma uncle is? All I’m gonna say is Frank Macintyre. So you betta shut it.

Peter: Yeah well Graham Knight is ma uncle.

Dennis: I know Graham, he’s a good mate of mine. Thought he got sent down a wee while ago.

Peter: Yeah, well and he’s just got out, so less running your mouth.

Dennis: Shut the fuck up mate, I aint scared of him.

Peter: Didn’t say you were. But you know he’ll smash you. And when I see your brother, I’ll smash him.

Dennis: Stop talking like you’re some massive jail head or I’ll smack you and your uncle the fuck up.

By presenting a front of being prepared to use violence, families were able to avoid (or try to

avoid) violence being inflicted upon them (Charlesworth, 2000: 59). In a community context

where violent crime is a common occurrence, the ability to stand up for oneself, and to have

friends and family willing to stand up for you, was an asset.

Despite a bulk of social capital activity apparent in Paul’s community, there were also

21 appeals made by friends on Facebook about feeling as though there was no one there for

them when they needed help. Several women described the feeling of being invisible, to which

friends offered comforting messages and offers to chat, assuring the friend that they had not

realised she was feeling low. Others described being “let down by so-called mates”; in reply to

an assertion such as this, a girl in her twenties tried to explain to her friend that she could not

just drop all of her plans to go over at the last minute. Interestingly, many of these grievances

were expressed in the way in which social capital is expected to work reciprocally (Coleman,

1990): “No one better ask me to help them out, ‘cus no one’s there when I need it, so yous

can all fuck right off.” To be there when others are not is to be “taken for a mug”.

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There was evidence of members of Paul’s community helping strangers, as well as

people known to them. Sampson et al. propose that collective efficacy is more important than

social capital, and corresponding social control, in the reduction of crime (Sampson et al.,

2009). For these scholars, the principle focus should be on whether neighbourhood members

are willing to intervene in, and control, unwelcome behaviours, and believe that other residents

will do the same; thus evidencing high levels of collective efficacy. Sampson et al. accordingly

predict that neighbourhoods with high levels of collective efficacy will experience lower levels

of crime. Since Bazemore and Schiff suggest collective efficacy is a benefit that may arise from

restorative justice (2005a), it will be helpful to examine the presence of collective efficacy

within Paul’s community; that is, when members of the community are prepared to support

strangers, and intervene in offending behaviours.

There was a wealth of examples where members were willing to help those that they

did not know in the town. During my interviews, residents in Corby often emphasised Corby’s

reputation for raising money for local people in need. A notable instance of the community

offering support, often referred to by residents, occurred in the late 1990s when, despite many

in the town facing dire financial hardship and social deprivation, hundreds of thousands of

pounds were raised to help a young girl born with facial disfigurement (ET Corby, 2008).

Similarly, during the research period, a campaign to wear yellow for a young boy facing

immune difficulties and the likelihood of living only in a sterilised hospital room “went viral”,

from Corby to Hollywood, US, by social media (Lizzie Parry, 2015). There were at least two

occasions I observed on Facebook where collection boxes were placed in local shops so that

flowers could be bought for a local resident who had passed away, or for neighbours who had

experienced loss in a house fire. And at Christmas, a family on the Lincoln estate turned their

garden into a “Winter Wonderland”, with an array of decorations and lights, which was made

open to the public in order to raise funds for a cancer charity (Huw Silk, 2014).

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Help offered to strangers was practical as well as monetary. There were at least four

incidents in the sample community where members were noted to have helped elderly people.

On three occasions, women had helped elderly residents who appeared to be suffering a form

of dementia find their home, families, or the police, and on another occasion a man helped an

elderly gentleman who had consumed too much alcohol, having fallen into the road and

becoming unable to push himself up. Similarly, in the dataset, a woman thanked a stranger

who helped her after she had a fall in the supermarket. Two women also mentioned spotting

children wandering lost in the street, whom they helped to find their parents. A particularly

moving incident involved a lady who overheard a mother in a shop explaining to her three

children that only one of them could have new shoes at the start of the school year due to

financial difficulties. In response, the lady who overheard the conversation offered to help the

mother cover the cost of an additional two pairs of shoes, explaining that she had also

struggled as a single mother and was happy to help since she was now in a position to do so.

More directly related to Sampson et al.’s description of collective efficacy, I observed

members of Paul’s community demonstrating a willingness to intervene in the prevention of

harms against unknown persons. One such case was a video of a local girl-on-girl fight

uploaded and shared on Facebook. In the video, during the fight a car pulls up and a man

steps out; he pulls the girls apart and tells them off: “that’s how people get killed, are you that

stupid?” Another young woman in the community shared something that happened earlier in

the day, when she observed an elderly lady being mugged, and she intervened to help the

woman by punching the mugger before he managed to run off with the handbag. Similarly,

the local paper reported on a man who intervened when a girl was being mugged, and another

article called for the “anonymous good Samaritan” who intervened in a violent attack against

a woman in the park to contact the paper. Another teenager in Paul’s community shared an

incident about a stranger who intervened to help when her and a friend were being chased by

a group of men in a car.

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Whereas these examples are one-off incidents, there was also evidence of more

organised measures in the prevention of crime. In addition to “neighbourhood watch areas”

in parts of Corby,27 a BBC documentary aired in 2004 called “Neighbours on Patrol” focused

on a small group of residents on the Kingswood (Lincoln) estate who teamed up with the

police in order to try and crack down on the explosion of crime and anti-social behaviour in

the area. In order to catch anti-social youths “in the act”, the neighbours on patrol were given

cameras by the police concealed inside torches, and they would walk around the estate and try

to record footage of young people on the streets drinking, taking drugs, vandalising, or causing

other disturbing behaviours, so that the police could intervene. The main resident instigators

of the initiative, rather than tackling the crime on the estate, ended up becoming the primary

target of criminal damage and harassment themselves. They eventually moved off the estate,

yet the crime remained.

Whereas this example features residents working with the formal state authorities in

order to address crime in the area in which they lived, there was also evidence of vigilantism

in the community, which involved members using violence in order to enforce community

norms that had been violated. There are a number of examples of vigilantism that have taken

place in Corby’s history, the families of the young people involved in a fatal fight at a local fair,

noted below, for example, were targeted by members of the community, which led one of the

families to move away (Wynne-Jones, 1996). Similarly, a family I encountered during the

research site were required to move away from the town for a period because they were

accused of harming an animal, and threats of violent retaliation by community members led

to them being relocated for their personal safety. Persons accused of paedophilia were

27 Neighbourhood watch is a community partnership across England in which police, local councils, voluntary associations, and residents work together to prevent local crime.

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especially prone to be a target for community vigilantism.28 I even observed calls to vigilantism

on Facebook in response to a series of muggings and stabbings that were taking place during

the research period:

I’m a born and bred Corby lad. I grew up here when the town was shit and there were more than a few dangerous folk jumping around. Nowadays, this town is apparently much “better” yet there are constant rapes, muggings, and even child abductions. Instead of the odd nutter, now we have shady little rapists and robbers hiding in bushes, ambushing young girls and people who can’t defend themselves. My warning to them scummy fuckers: Corby doesn’t stand for that shit. The last thing you want is a squad of Corby boys finding out where you live! So don’t do it. Or fuck off to another town!

In reply to this message, a man agreed by saying:

On the whole we always had a decent class of criminals in Corby. Wrong side of the law but with morals. These lowlifes who are creeping around in the shadows might soon bump into a few Corby casuals who like to say hello with a spiked bat. These tramps need to be lynched.

Calls such as these, as well as the frequent resort to violence in the community discussed

below, indicate that the cultural context in Paul’s community is one that is prone to do-it-

yourself responses.

This section has highlighted the multifaceted nature of social capital in Paul’s

community. There appears to be widespread willingness to help friends; however, the levels

of support community members are able to offer each other is limited by the economic, social,

and cultural opportunities available within the community. As well as social capital enhancing

legitimate opportunities, such as finding employment, there are signs of street social capital, in

28 I observed one such case during the research period, and I am aware of a number of other violent responses to suspected paedophilia in the past.

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that violent community members offer a form of protection. There were also signs of

collective efficiency in the community, since members were prepared to help strangers in times

of need, including stepping in to prevent criminal activity. At times, the willingness to help

strangers escalated into violent vigilante responses. These violent responses take us to the cusp

of conflicts in the community. It is these to which I now turn in a consideration of how

members of Paul’s community resolve conflict.

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Resolvingconflict

The nature of Paul’s business required him to build up and sustain a van route. Only then were

residents familiar with what the horn meant, and when they could expect the mobile shop to

be nearby. Initially, Paul began his round by visiting some of the stops already established by

a local mobile grocery company, B&G,29 which employed drivers for various vans around

Corby. Gradually, Paul created new stops for himself on the un-served streets of the Lincoln

estate and surrounding areas, eventually developing his own route and customer base. Having

achieved this, however, Paul then needed to guard his route against rival van owners who saw

an opportunity to make decent earnings if they arrived at Paul’s stops before him. During my

offline interviews, I came across examples of four such rivalries Paul experienced. Paul dealt

with each rival differently.

Gordon had grown up working on the vans. His grandfather used to deliver fruit and

vegetables by horse and cart in Scotland, and Gordon’s first job as a boy growing up in Corby

was loading up the B&G vans, until he purchased his own in his late teens. In order to establish

a van route, Gordon ventured onto Paul’s streets on the Lincoln. Gordon recalled hearing

Paul’s van horn two streets behind him, but Gordon managed to arrive at the stops just before

Paul: “It was smashing trade,” he recounted. But then Paul’s horn disappeared. Not long after,

Gordon saw a little Transit van appear in his wing mirror view; the van drove up on the curb,

and blocked him in. Paul stepped out, and introduced himself to Gordon for the first time.

Gordon described Paul as being “completely reasonable.” Paul explained how he had

developed the round, and that Gordon was taking his trade. Gordon agreed to build another

round on a neighbouring estate instead. After that, Paul and Gordon became close friends,

29 Bill Baker and Mike Carrey’s local business.

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socialising together after work, and supporting each other in times of need. And so I grew up

knowing Gordon as Uncle Gordon, and his late wife as Aunty Maureen.

Other rivalries ended less amicably. Gordon remembers a person confronting Paul in

the pub during one of their nights out together. Paul had tried to reason with the man about

not encroaching on his round, but unlike Gordon, this man would not back down. Instead, he

shouted at Paul in the pub, and threatened violence. Gordon recounts Paul telling the man to

“wind his neck back down in case he choked on his beer,” and that ended the matter. Gordon

was unsure what happened afterwards, though the man moved on and Paul stayed. I was

contacted by another rival van man who when young had once tried to take Paul’s round; Paul

apparently responded by stalking the rival in his van, driving right up behind him and terrifying

him enough not to carry on. Perhaps this was one of Paul’s tactics to guard his turf. A friend

of Paul’s remembered a fourth encounter: when a budget supermarket opened in the town

centre, a man started buying cheap loaves and selling them on Paul’s rounds. Paul asked his

friend to have a word with the man, which he did. However, when the rival bread seller refused

to go and talk to Paul, Paul’s friend “advised” him, in his heavy Glaswegian accent, not to park

his van too close to the house, since it could easily catch fire. The warning was understood,

and the man went to speak with Paul.

Many members of Paul’s community likewise resolved conflict informally instead of

turning to the formal authorities, especially when the feuding parties were known to each

other. During my Facebook observations, conflict frequently appeared. I recorded 834 such

disputes or conflicts. My findings thus challenge Christie’s claim that rather than having too

much internal conflict, industrial societies do not have enough (1977). In his seminal article,

“Conflicts as Property”, Christie described highly industrial societies as segmented,

depersonalised, and absent of close, interpersonal relationships. Therefore, according to

Christie, when persons in these environments experience conflict, they lack sufficient

information about how others will behave, and are quick to give their disputes away. These

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disputes are then said to be swallowed up by power hungry states that deny meaningful

participation to victims and neighbourhoods. In particular, Christie asserts that crimes against

others’ honour have diminished, since a lack of close, interpersonal relationships means that

there is simply insufficient honour to (dis)respect. My dataset suggests, however, otherwise.

By observing Facebook interactions, I had a rare chance to witness conflict as it

occurred, without my presence being acknowledged or affecting the action. I cross-coded the

observed 834 conflicts according to, first, the type of relationships involved, and second, the

type of response prompted, in order to determine emerging patterns. Sometimes these

exchanges involved negative words or threats against another person, while at other times

these were fully escalated arguments involving a number of parties. Online conflicts

predominately stemmed from offline life, and occasionally they erupted into offline physical

violence. Table 4a illustrates a breakdown of the data according to the types of conflicts

involved.

Figure 4.a.: Conflict by relational type Type of conflict No.

Conflict between adult friends 131

Conflicts between teenagers 114

Conflicts between ex-partners in which no children were mentioned 110

Conflicts between ex-partners in which children were mentioned 88

Conflicts between an unknown perpetrator 88

Conflicts between enemies or feuding parties 84

Intra-family conflicts 75

Conflicts between neighbours 56

Conflicts involving a parent defending a child 47

Conflicts involving defending a family member 33

Conflicts in the work environment 8

Total Conflicts: 834

In this section, I analyse different responses to conflict in the community that I observed

through Facebook. First, I detail the most common kind, verbal insults; primarily, these allege

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of the other party a lack of respectability. I then move onto the prevalence of violent responses

in the community, outlining the limited instances of actual violence, followed by the more

frequent occurrence of violent threats. Although I suggest that in certain situations violence is

permitted within the community, I argue that unrestrained violence is not; there are rules, for

example, against bullying, and there are norms that govern a “fair fight”.

In the third subsection, I consider examples in which community members formally

resolve conflict, such as by speaking with the police force. I find that while some members are

prepared to do so, there is also a legal cynicism which prevents others. For example,

occasionally community members would not contact the police in a dispute with an ethnic

minority, fearing that formal systems would favour minorities. Accordingly, this prompts a

discussion in the next subsection of how ethnicity was an occasional source of conflict. The

last informal method of conflict resolution I analyse is that of reconciling through apology, or

by severing social ties with conflicting parties altogether. Finally, to end this section, I focus

on disputes between teenagers, since the restorative justice programmes I observed primarily

feature participants from this age bracket.

4.2. Wordshurt

Lucy: You won’t believe what happened this morning!

Sophie: Derrick got off his hairy arse and washed up?

Lucy: I should be so lucky! . . . I was at the supermarket with Kayla to pick up bits for the picnic, and these dirty thieving tramps snatched my purse from my handbag! Then the junkies hid it. IN THEIR KID’S PRAM!

Barbara: Wow! Some people have no shame. In front of their own children.

Sophie: Oh my God, do you know who it was? Get the police involved.

Barbara: You should have punched the dirty scumbags in the face.

Lucy: I went mental, gave them a chance to own up twice and that. Then security came over ‘cus of ma shouting. When he said the police were gunna get called they soon handed it over. I would have knocked fuck out of them if I weren’t with Kayla . . . And then I realized their kid’s in the same class as Callum at school, so I see them

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all the time!

Sophie: Karma will catch up with them sooner or later.

Barbara: Fuck karma, I’m coming to the school with you tomorrow. We’ll batter the tramps when their kids go inside.

Rach: Nah, get wee Callum to batter the kid in school, ha ha!

Sophie: Who are they? Name and shame the cunts.

Rach: Poor kids being brought up by junkies like that. I dread to see what type of parents they become.

Lucy: I’ve never seen kids like it, they need disinfecting, teeth cleaned, and hair brushed. It’s a real shame.

Facebook 2013

In the earlier discussion on family life, we saw the significance of establishing oneself as

respectable. It is perhaps therefore understandable that references to respectability, and

roughness, were prominent in the verbal insults I observed within Paul’s community. The

above extract is a prime example of language being used to differentiate unscrupulous

members of the community. In this case, community members refer to culprits as “tramps”

and “junkies”, which was common in the Facebook dataset when someone was accused of

stealing. Moreover, in this same vignette, parenthood aggravates the offence: the offence

seemed all the worse since the couple’s children were present, and the pram was used to

commit the offence. Further, the members cite the dirtiness of the children as more evidence

of bad parenting, and one woman expresses concern for the type of parents which the culprits’

children will in turn eventually become.

Indeed, individuals in dispute in Paul’s community frequently used language

specifically to undermine the respectability of the other feuding party. In addition to “tramp”

and “junkie”, used to highlight thieving, gender-based insults were prominent in conflicts

between ex-partners. For example, a woman posted that her ex-boyfriend’s new partner “is

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welcome to him and the two minutes his boney junkie bod rattles over ya”, employing a

conception and standard of masculinity which he does not meet, since he allegedly fails to

gratify a sexual partner. In another such dispute, a man claimed that his “STD infested ex”

was “gangbanged” by a group of men from a particular estate in a block of garages, thus

tarnishing her as a “bad girl”. Finally, when children were involved, both mothers and fathers

tended to allege that the other was being a bad parent, in order to insult the conflicting party.

I observed many insults related to dirt, bad parenting, and undeserving benefits claims

between feuding parties in the community. Women were more susceptible of such accusations,

criticised through the paradigmatic image of being a bad mother, or a dirty woman. For

example, one post recounts how two women fighting in town were telling each other to “go

wash your arse” (“no, you go wash your arse”), implying a lack of hygiene, and thus accusing

the other that she fell into a disreputable group of persons. An example of the “bad mother”

image is the pair of insults given by two women – one for allowing her daughter to eat crisps

for breakfast, and the other for not disclosing to her child the identity of her biological father.

Further, I recorded frequent accusations that a party belonged to the class of non-deserving

benefits claimants. One woman in her 30s, for example, confronted a Facebook friend

regarding all of her apparent “whinging” about money:

You’re starting to piss me right off chick, sitting on your arse all day, bragging how you spend your job seekers on getting pissed, while other families are struggling to make ends meet. Get to benefits street where you belong.

The accused, allegedly able to spend benefit payments on alcohol, was suggested to be

undeserving of state support.

Members of Paul’s community commonly engaged in “name and shame”. This process

involved publicly naming a person on Facebook accused of an offence, such as theft or benefit

fraud, so that the person would experience shame in the community, and the public would

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distrust the named individual. The implications of being labelled a thief in this way appeared

to matter to members of the community, and so normally members sought to defend against

such accusations. On a few occasions, for example, an accused thief would throw an identical

insult back at the accuser, and outright denial was common. Even parents would “name and

shame” their own children in order to teach them a lesson, which indicated that this was a

widely employed and accepted way to respond to breaches of community trust. Indeed,

parents who adopted this approach were explicit about what they were doing:

I’m naming and shaming Michael. My own son has stolen from me for the last time. This is the only way he’ll learn.

On a number of occasions, naming and shaming was simply threatened; persons were not

going to be named and shamed yet, giving them a chance to redeem themselves. The weight

of warnings such as these indicate that the practice was a powerful tool for the community,

and that members had serious incentive to avoid losing face.

An extension of publicly “naming and shaming” someone was to take them onto The

Jeremy Kyle Show, in which the host, Jeremy Kyle, would capitalise on distinctions between

respectable and disreputable behaviour in order to shame the “bad” party. During my

fieldwork, two conflicts from Corby appeared on Jeremy Kyle, one involving theft, and the other

offering a free paternity test to a feuding ex-couple. I recorded four further requests made by

men in Paul’s community for their ex-partners to go on the show and take a free DNA test.

The theft episode of Jeremy Kyle actually involved members directly from Paul’s community.

Money had disappeared from a woman’s home, and a group of friends who were present the

night it disappeared each took a lie detector test to prove that they were not the one

responsible. One young woman, however, failed the lie detector test, and was accordingly held

accountable for theft. The initial response of the group was to pounce towards the “liar” and

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threaten to “shank” [stab] her, but after Jeremy Kyle intervened, the group agreed that having

named and shamed the girl was punishment enough.

When the show was aired, a number of months later, the community response on

Facebook was outrage at the behaviour of the woman who had been caught out. Insults such

as “tramp” were widespread, as well as expressions of delight by some community members

that the woman had been “named and shamed”. Further accusations surfaced about the young

woman having stolen from others in the community, and some community members alleged

disreputable behaviour of family members related to the woman. There were, however,

community members who stood up for the young woman on Facebook. Defences involved

publicly placing trust in her – “I’d trust her alone in my house any day of the week”;

expressions of empathy – “we’ve all done things we’re ashamed of, and it’s part of growing up

and learning”; justifications for the behaviour – “she was on the valleys [Valium], they make

people behave in strange ways”; neutralising the theft on account of the victim’s behaviour –

“who leaves cash lying around in the house when you’re having people round for a messy

one”; as well as insults returned to the insulters – “all these people commenting are worse

thieves, they’ve stolen from their own grannies.”

In addition to being singled out for disreputable behaviour, some were also criticised

for acting as though they were morally superior than other members of Paul’s community. As

in Skeggs’s study (1997b), individuals thought to hail from a wealthier socioeconomic

background were not referred to admirably, but rather in more critical terms, sometimes for

being “ignorant” and “out of touch”. There were many comments in the Facebook dataset

along the lines of “I can’t stand ignorant, arrogant people”. One man expressed fury at his

niece who blanked him when she saw him in town while with friends: “does she think she’s

better than us, she better not deny that she saw me, I’m fuming with the cheeky fucker. I’ll put

her right in her place.” There was a general sense that no-one should be perceived as “better”

than anyone else; that it was a great wrong for someone to assume otherwise. As a teenage girl

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stated in a post, “you think you’re better than me, but you’re a cunt.” Another woman was

described as “being on her high horse”, and a man was claimed to be “stuck up his own arse”.

In response to feeling judged or inferior, an attitude of outraged, abject dismissal was

also evident. In moral terms, it was seen as better to stand one’s ground than to submit to

being belittled. As a woman explained on Facebook, “I don’t give a crap what other people

would think, I won’t let people treat me like shit without saying something.” Authenticity and

modesty in Paul’s community were valued above concern for the consequences; speaking

without considering the implications beforehand was referred to on a number of occasions.

Indeed, it was seen as a virtue for one to say what one thinks and not hold back, since at least

then others in the community would know where one stood (see Charlesworth, 2000: 229): “a

good friend will tell you their mind”, and a better friend will be able to “take it and move on”.

As a young man commented, “people should speak their minds, regardless of whether it

hurts”. Further, in the dataset it was apparent that those who do not speak their minds were

those of whom one should be wary, since such a disingenuous air was seen to merit suspicion.

In some instances, members referred to vocal volume and tone – shouting – as a form

of power. For example, on multiple occasions members attributed to their “gobs” a

commanding force for arguments. The power of the voice is demonstrated in this Facebook

extract, between a parent in Paul’s community and a teacher:

Bryony: That teacher was an utter bitch, as soon as she broke down in tears in front of everyone, my work was done. Sometimes people need to be taken down a peg or two.

Amanda: I know, mate; I don’t give a shit who it is… if it’s got to be said then it’s got be said. Sometimes a bitch needs putting in her place.

Bryony: And if they shout, I only shout louder. And when they buckle and kiss my arse, my job’s done.

Amanda: I’m sure there’s few people stupid enough to shout back at ya mate.

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In this extract, we can see shouting being used as a tool by members in the community against

professionals, such as teachers, who might use softer, more diplomatic forms of

communication to resolve conflicts. Whereas the teacher may be stronger in a forum that

proceeds through communicative channels, in this example outside the classroom, the parent

was able to use vocal volume to cut down communicative channels. Thus, the mother in this

example is using the limited tools in her toolbox to fight for her child (e.g. Swidler, 1986).

While this method may not be as effective as middle-class forms of negotiation, especially in

the long term, without other tools to employ, it is the only way for the mother to “win” this

battle (see Walkerdine et al., 2001: 126). Thus, we can see this example as a clash of cultural

contexts: the teacher may have been well equipped with scholastic-cultural capital, but the

parent’s use of street capital in this instance was able to prevail, at least in the eyes of these

community members. If the dispute was to be taken to a classroom arena, however, the result

would likely change (Gillies, 2005; Lareau, 2011).

4.3. Violencehurtstoo

Beyond harsh words and shouting, there is evidence of physical violence found in the

Facebook dataset. Levels of violence against the person are relatively high in Corby, as Figure

3.a. in the previous chapter indicates. Since violence tends to be prohibited by the law, the

threat and use of violence can be seen as forms of street-cultural capital. In the above extract

about the stolen purse, multiple parties suggested violent responses to the conflict, which was

common in instances of theft. Thus, while in the dataset members frequently spoke of

reporting thefts to the police, members commonly also threatened violence in response to

theft, sometimes in addition to formal responses. Whereas the police handled the lost property

aspect of the offence, the threat of violence appeared geared to respond to the disrespect

aspect – that of being made a victim of theft. As with theft, failure to pay off a debt was treated

as a mark of disrespect. This is illustrated by a boy in his late teens who commented on his

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friend’s timeline that the friend had been avoiding him because he owed £20. An older friend

of the young man suggested that he use violence to sort out the boy who owed the money,

“out of principle” – to uphold a communal norm.

The most violent of conflicts I observed on Facebook, those actually amounting to

physical violence, appeared to be prompted by financial debts. When money was informally

lent, or accumulated as part of the illicit economy, such as drug sales, members could not

resort to formal policing measures (Anderson, 1999). Therefore, informal methods of

enforcement in the form of violence prevailed. Attacks in these situations were particularly

brutal; there were various threats along the line of “time to kick fuck out of some tramp

bodies”. The harshness of the language used in violent threats, is notable. It warned of the

potential for aggression – to “annihilate”, “rip apart”, “go mental”, “knock you the fuck out”

and so forth (see Charlesworth, 2000: 217). And it was invoked by women as much as men.

In addition to hearing about violent conflicts that had taken place during my “offline”

observations, I also observed videos of attacks uploaded onto Facebook by members of the

community. One offence involved a person who was attacked with a hammer, and video

footage of another man attacked in his home by a gang of men wearing knuckledusters and

balaclavas was uploaded online.

In the dataset, violent threats are perhaps manifestations of a more general retributive

attitude. In response to other incidents of theft, for example, Paul’s Facebook friends

suggested to cut off perpetrators’ hands, or wished for their fingers to fester and drop off. The

most vehemently retributive attitudes and violent threats arose in response to offences against

vulnerable groups, such as children, animals, bullying victims, slander victims, the deceased,

and the elderly. Threats of violence seemed acceptable – received community backing – in

these instances, and graphic descriptions were given of how perpetrators would meet the same

harm as they caused their victims. A member of Paul’s community, who was serving time in

prison for murdering a young woman on the estate (in the flats next to our house), was

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reported to have murdered a fellow inmate convicted of paedophilia during my fieldwork

(Cronin, 2014a). A minority of Paul’s Facebook friends praised the man’s actions; he had

redeemed himself by “getting a nonce”. The majority of members who commented on this

incident were of the view that no matter what the offender did while inside prison, his initial

homicide offence was unforgivable. Notably, however, I did not observe on Facebook the

view that the second murder of the inmate was “wrong”.

The most common instances of violent threats occurred when members were

defending their families. Indeed, defending family appeared to be one of the most community-

backed reasons for fighting. I coded 80 conflicts as involving the defence of family members.

Out of these, 51 of the conflicts led to threats of violence or actual violence, which is just

under 64 percent of the conflicts. These involved children, including adult children, defending

their parents. For example, in response to a woman who “gave his mum shit”, a boy posted a

threat to “fuck her head off a car door”; he justified threatening to hit the woman by describing

her in the following masculinised way: “four-times as wide as me and likely has bigger hairier

balls, but I’ll have no problem swinging for that fat bitch.” Likewise, siblings or partners also

defended each other. While defending partners tended to be men protecting women, in other

disputes there was no significant gender divide; daughters and sisters were just as likely to

defend via threats of violence as were men. Indeed, at times, the whole family would offer

support in a violent conflict. As the following Facebook example shows, insulting a member

of the family is serious enough a transgression to justify wholesale retaliation:

Teenage boy: If you’ve got something to say about me or my family then don’t be a keyboard warier, writing shit on Facebook, come say it to ma face and we’ll see what happens.

Grandma: Tut tut, don’t give into small minded people my sweetie, you know you’re to send them to me instead.

Mother: Once granny’s done with them, send the little fuckers to me.

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Liam: I need to let off steam, I’ll sort it out for ya pal, inbox me.

Greg: Inbox me their names. I will go to their houses with a baseball bat.

However, the most common family members defended in the community were children by

their parents. Out of the conflicts that involved family members defending each other, 47

involved parents defending children, 27 of which involved the threat or use of violence. In

one instance, a man depicted a scenario in which a person was shouting at his children sat in

his car, because of how it was parked; the man described his response on Facebook as follows:

Found him, squeezed the life out of his neck till he almost passed out, then pushed the maggot on his arse. Shouting at my 8-year-old girl - he’s lucky I didn’t stomp on his junkie-head.

I also observed parents becoming involved in their children’s Facebook arguments. While for

the most part this appeared to be accepted, there were limited occasions, such as the following,

where young persons would ask their families not to be involved:

Tina: I’m raging! You upset ma daughter, you upset me!

Willy: Who, I'll fucking kill ‘em I swear.

Jodie: Leave it yous, please. It’s gunna make things worse.

Willy: I wont say anything more pet, cus you’ve asked me to, but just give us a bell if you need us.

Corina: Nothing will be made worse my lovely, let those that care help if you need them to.

This mirrors Gillies’s findings that working-class parents defend children in their conflicts with

both other children and teachers (Gillies, 2005: 290).

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By contrast, however, there were times when parents sought not to threaten or use

violence specifically out of consideration for children present, as with the incident of the stolen

purse. While for mothers, children could be a preventative factor in the use of violence, for

fathers, there appeared to be pressure to defend the family. In the cases where parents avoided

violence in defending their child, formal resolutions were threatened instead, such as parents

announcing on Facebook that they would talk to the school about alleged bullying, or, if an

assault had taken place, threatening to speak with the police. Norms regarding bullying in the

community were particularly interesting, since bullying was widely frowned upon, and yet

children were commonly taught to stand up for themselves, with physical force if required.

This constellation of norms somewhat blurred lines between the bullies and the bullied. Since

normative aspects are relevant to the dangers of community in restorative justice, I will

presently examine the norms of bullying in greater depth.

4.3.1. Standing up to bullies

A recurring lesson taught to children in the community is that “if someone hits you, you hit

them back” (see Lareau, 2011: 163). This lesson naturally extended to cases of child bullying.

Time and time again I observed on Facebook relatives and older family friends advising young

victims of bullying to fight their tormentors: “once you hit them, they will leave you alone”.

For example, a middle-aged lady urged this principle upon a girl in her late teens in the

following way:

When I was younger, I used to be bullied, got shoved around, pushed, slapped, kicked, punched. But one time, someone started on me on the wrong day, and I lost it. I went mental on them. The moral of the story is no one ever touched me again. You’re the sweetest girl, but you need to stand up for yourself. You’ll only need to do it once and they'll leave you alone.

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Insults, disrespectful words, and threats were held to constitute bullying, against which

children were encouraged to fight. Parents in the dataset expressed frustration when their

children had failed to stand up for themselves, and in these instances parents would reluctantly

contact the school instead. If the school failed to respond in a way deemed adequate, then a

family member, or friend of the family would threaten to visit the school and teach the

apparent tormentor a lesson. There was at least one instance of a mother confronting an

alleged bully after school in the Facebook dataset.

I observed many Facebook posts that related to members of the community hating

bullies, and needing to put bullies in their place; videos of bullies receiving their violent

comeuppance were widely shared and liked. However, at times it was difficult to see where the

line between the bully and the bullied lay. A reciprocal process can occur. The child ostensibly

being bullied should hit back, it is held; but then the parent of the apparent bully, who has

now received punishment in turn, will accuse the other child of bullying, advising, again, their

own child to hit the “bully” back next time. Alternatively, sometimes the line would be drawn

at whomever had “thrown the first punch”, and so some young persons were advised not to

begin the fight, such as the mother who justified her daughter’s actions of hitting another girl:

I’ve had enough of little girls messaging my daughter about what happened last night. Nicola hit my Becky, so Becky defended herself. End of. If anyone touches ma daughter, I’ll get the police involved.

However, sometimes other youths in the community were encouraged to strike first, pre-

emptively, in order to make sure the “bully” left them alone. In these case, the verbal insults

can be viewed as sufficient violations of community norms, a mark of disrespect, which

justifies physical response. A teenage boy referred to this when expressing the following

grievance:

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I always got told if someone threatens you, you knock the shit out of them. Now school’s telling me I’m in the wrong. There’s no way I’m gonna let some dick head threaten me!!

A mother expressed similar frustrations about how her daughter’s school authorities

reprimanded her child for confronting a bully in school; the mother proclaimed on Facebook

that she was proud of her daughter and that she would be “having words” with the school in

the morning. Understandably, then, when confronting tormentors is normative, disputes arise

between parents over whose child is bullying whose.

While standing up for oneself in the community was considered a legitimate way to

ensure the norm of respect was upheld, and to ensure community members were not made

the subject of bullying, not all violence was permitted. For instance, there were many appeals

to the notion of a “fair fight”, and claims as to what this entailed. Among the standards of a

fair fight were rules against older persons inflicting harm on the younger. Moreover, there was

outrage expressed in Paul’s community when an “innocent girl” without street capital was

attacked in the community by a “hard” girl, since this was considered to fall into the remit of

bullying. In response, another girl said she would “batter” the offending girl. Therefore, in

Paul’s community it may be beneficial to appear “decent” in certain situations in order to avoid

“street” conflict, in contrast to Anderson’s depiction of the Code of the Street in the

community he observed, in which so-called decent children were sometimes required to switch

to the “street code” in order to ward off threats of violence (Anderson, 1999). Fair fights also

involved one-to-one encounters, and the idea of parsimony here was evident: a combatant

should only inflict the minimum amount of harm necessary to uphold the violated norm, and

violence beyond what is necessary is illegitimate.

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4.4. Callingthepolice

In Paul’s community, members occasionally went to the police in response to harms. For

example, one of the first responses suggested in the stolen purse example was for Lucy to

report the theft to the police. In the Facebook dataset, this was a frequent and acceptable

response to theft, as well as other recognised criminal offences. Community members often

openly contacted the police when the offender was unknown; however, when the offender

was known, informal responses were encouraged, sometimes but not always in addition to

notifying the police. Among disputants with pre-existing relations, the type of relationship and

the nature of the harm caused seemingly determined whether it was acceptable to contact the

police. The types of relationship between conflicting parties in which complaints to the police

and other authorities, such as the social services, Child Support Agency (for child maintenance

payments), solicitors, and so forth, were most widespread were those involving ex-partners

with children, neighbour disputes, and cases of bullying. (Notably, in cases involving bullying,

it was the parents who threatened involving the police, rather than the young persons involved

in the conflict.) While it is likely other complaints were taken to the police, which were not

shared on Facebook, public declarations of having gone to the police indicate instances where

it is acceptable in the community to do so.

In some instances, feuding parties appeared to take formal measures in a tit-for-tat

manner (cf. Goffman, 2015). For example, a middle-aged woman on Facebook openly

discussed whether she should contact her ex-boyfriend’s new employer to inform them why

he was dismissed from his last job. However, a friend dissuaded her from doing so, suggesting

it was a minor misconduct and advising the friend to “best let this one go.” In another instance,

a woman announced on Facebook that her ex-husband raped and violently attacked her, and

then went to the house to beg her to drop the charges against him, telling her that “wives don’t

go to the police”. The woman in this case agreed to drop the charges, but when her ex-

husband’s new partner apparently contacted the police about her, she announced on Facebook

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that she would no longer be dropping the charges against him. The woman then proceeded to

taunt her ex-husband publicly about how he would not be able to handle prison, and would

be an easy target for rapists. Again, this hints at the occasional use of formal measures, such

as the police, as pawns in the power struggle of ongoing disputes.

Despite the trend to complain to authorities in certain cases, complainants frequently

expressed frustration about the perceived futility of the process. In neighbourhood dispute

cases, for example, assertions were made on Facebook such as “the police do nothing and pass

you onto the council, and then the council just make you log things for weeks and still do

nothing.” This led some neighbours to adopt their own measures such as face-to-face

confrontation or dropping a letter through the post-box. However, there is evidence that when

these measures ceased to work, complainants felt powerless to do anything about the problems

they were experiencing. I now detail these feelings in a discussion of legal cynicism, which

relates to street-cultural capital.

4.4.1. Legal cynicism

Members of the community were prepared to go to the police, and indeed a good number of

community members announced on Facebook that they had reported crimes to the police.

However, on some occasions users of the police and other public services expressed cynicism

about them (Sampson and Bartusch, 1998). In total, 135 Facebook posts voiced cynical

feelings towards the police and public services. Around a third of this cynicism, 43 posts in

total, was directed towards the police; 23 conversations related to cynicism about school; 24

complaints related to negative feelings towards perceived inadequacies with the NHS; eight

posts related to frustrations with the job centre, widely renamed in the community as the “joke

centre”; 29 cynical posts were directed toward the local council; five posts were against social

workers, referred to by one woman as “busy bodies”; and three people expressed frustration

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with their solicitors. This wider cynicism of public services, beyond legal ones, may relate to

apparent working-class aversion to formal processes, as identified by Charlesworth (2000);

since other public services, such as doctors and schools, may require formalised skills to engage

fully, working-class individuals may struggle within these institutional spaces.

In nearly all the examples of cynicism, some community members evidently felt that

they were treated differently – as lesser than others. In the school setting, for example, parents

talked about a teacher in the following way:

Gill: Mr. Smith is the biggest twat I’ve ever met. I don’t care where you work and what you get paid, you can’t treat people like shit on the bottom of your shoe.

Sarah: No one likes a bragger.

Gill: No one like someone that thinks he’s better than everyone else.

Ben: The guy’s a prick.

One woman expressed similar frustration with a female teacher in her children’s school,

justifying shouting at the teacher until she broke down in tears (outlined above), because

“[s]ometimes people need to be taken down a peg or two.” Another potential forum in which

community members could feel treated as though inferior was the medical sphere, especially

when interacting with doctors:

Hannah: I’m devastated, I’ve never in my life been spoken to so badly and disrespected than by my doctor today. Dr Jones, you’re a cock.

Nicole: Down Riverside? I took my mum there last week and a female doctor spoke to down to us like we were idiots.

Hannah: It’s disgusting they think they have a right to talk to us like that.

David: I had Dr Jones as my doctor a few years back. He was abrupt, dismissive and generally rude.

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In this example, members of Paul’s community are aware of being treated differently by

professionals, and they expressed frustrations about this. Lareau also observed working-class

participants to have notable difficulties engaging with doctors in her studies (2011).

Similarly, in the 43 negative posts about the police, community members evinced the

suspicion that the police dismissed them because of who they were, or who their family was.

A teenage girl, for example, commented as follows:

The police tell you that you can't take the law into your own hands but then when you take something to them, they tell you you’re lying, your story doesn’t add up? It’s the first time I’ve ever gone to the police about something, why the hell would I put myself through that just to make something up?!

A parallel sentiment was expressed by a woman in her late twenties, Gemma, who alleged that

the police disregarded her complaint because of who her brother was.

Gemma: The police act like they want to help and that, but as soon as they hear my brother’s name, they don’t give a fuck. My brother got attacked with a baseball bat, and the police laugh and lock him up, for getting battered! Police need to take a long hard look at themselves in the mirror – if it was someone in their family they’d soon pull their finger out.

Lisa: They did the same with John, and then again with Charlene. Police are a waste of space.

Tom: Welcome to Corby, the place where police arrest innocent people and the culprits go free. It’s happened too many times to me.

The notion that the police are unfair was expressed on Facebook in relation to neighbourhood

disputes, bullying, thefts, domestic violence, and reports of child abuse. In these situations, the

suggestion was made that residents were required to take the law into their own hands: “if you

gave them a good beating then the police would soon change their tune”.

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Some community members disdained the police with quite violent language. For

example, the following statements were made on Facebook during the research period:

“fucking hate police”, “only good copper is a dead one”, and the recurrent use of the acronyms

“FTP” (fuck the police) and “ACAB” (all cops are bastards). On account of the ill feeling

toward the police, some community members referred to contacting the police in oppositional

terms through language such as “grassing” or “snitching”. Notably, a mother extended the

term “grassing” to describe the behaviour of her children; the mother expressed her

exasperation on Facebook by announcing “why do my kids always have to grass on each

other?!?!” On six occasions, members threatened violence toward suspected police informants,

using threats as “snitches get stiches”.

While some community members expressed a feeling of being discriminated against

by the police, others suggested that certain individuals, primarily “foreigners”, were given

preferential treatment. This was evident in the following dispute I observed on Facebook

between a woman who claimed her daughter had been hit by an older Polish girl in the

neighbourhood, under the instruction of the Polish girl’s mother. In this example, the

Facebook user felt that even though her daughter was a victim, the police would treat the

Polish parties to the conflict as the victims, and so would not help her family:

Zoe: Oh my God, is that what foreign women teach their kids? Don’t let them

get away with it. I’d go to the police.

Justine: I'd ask her if she wants to watch you slap her daughter. They think

they can get away with murder. If the shoe was on the other foot, the old bill

would already be at your door and you’d be getting done for all sorts.

Dawn (mother): If I phone the police they won’t believe me, or at most they’d

give them a slap on the wrist as though it was nothing.

Justine: No doubt they’ll do the “me no speak English” thing and get away with

it.

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Zoe: If that’s the case, take revenge.

Justine: Aye hen, kick her in the cunt hole.

Thus, some members expressed a feeling of powerlessness by being among an ethnic majority,

since the police were alleged to give preferential treatment to ethnic minority voices, with class

unrecognised as a source of disadvantage (see Haylett, 2003; Lawler, 2005b; Loftus, 2009;

Sayer, 2005: 13). In order to try and rebalance a perceived power disparity, another woman

suggested that her friend tell the police she has a disabled child living with her, so that the

police would take her complaint seriously. Such strategies to engage the authorities in creative

ways which can be advantageous to residents in socioeconomically disadvantaged

neighbourhoods echo Goffman’s findings in the United States (2015). Again, examples such

as this demonstrate feelings of being disempowered as a white working-class individual, and

the need to find ways to improve such a position. Since the intersection of ethnicity and class

affects an individual’s position of power, I will take a closer look at the ethnic tensions in

Paul’s community.

4.5. Ethnicoutsiders

In observational research both online and offline, I found racial tension often expressed

toward those of Polish origin. The concerns echo the theme of individuals being deserving or

non-deserving of certain support and access to jobs; migrants were sometimes described as

less deserving of jobs and state benefits than local residents, who have “lived here all their

lives”. For example, some community members expressed resentment about Polish residents

appearing to take the jobs of locals struggling to access employment; some even shared, with

disdain, their employers’ commendations of the hard work ethic and lower wage grade of

Polish workers compared with their British-born counterparts. Others expressed annoyance

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at being spoken to in Polish, and hearing that civil servants, such as police officers, were

allegedly learning Polish.

While statistics on hate crime appear to be low in Corby (Official Statistics, 2014),

encouraging greater reporting of hate crime was noted as a priority aim of the Corby

Community Safety Partnership (a partnership between the local police and borough council,

among other public sector institutions), and therefore official statistics may not be an accurate

indicator of racially aggravated offences (CCSP, 2014). Eastern European migrants in Corby

also reported common experiences of discrimination and racial insults on a national television

news special on post-Brexit racism (BBC Newsnight, 2016). It is worth noting that a number

of studies have found racism in working-class communities to be overt and explicit, in contrast

to middle-class forms of racism which still exist, though in subtler and concealed forms (Bryan

et al., 1985; Mirza, 2005; Reay et al., 2007). Hence, while racial tension may be more detectable

in this social class sample, it does not necessarily mean that such tension is more prevalent

within this group than among other social classes in Britain.

As in the above example, in which a mother claimed that a Polish girl had struck her

daughter, it was the neighbourhood disputes where the racial tensions between Polish migrants

and community members were most pronounced. Some members of Paul’s community would

assert that their foreign neighbours were particularly noisy, and could play “the race card” if

the harmed party were to complain. The feeling that “foreigners”, alcoholics, and other

minority groups were given preferential treatment, while others more “deserving” had to

endure the noise they create, was recurring. The following extract highlights some of these

issues in-play.

Pam: My neighbours were at it again this morning! Foreigners make so much bloody noise all the time.

Maggie: You poor thing, nothing worse than rowdy neighbours.

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Pam: Wish they’d piss off back to where they came from. Loads of ‘em in one house, full of attitude. Then they wave the racist card if you complain.

Maggie: Sounds about right. Fran was having the same problem, so she went round and asked them to quiet down. The cheeky rat that answered the door told Pam to fuck off, then they called the police and said Pam called them a “Polish cunt”. She never said anything of the kind!

Pam: Pisses me off, they’ve got more rights in our own country than we have. They’re so loud and don’t care about anyone living near them. Then whenever we call them up on it, they play the race card and get away with making our lives hell.

Maggie: I don’t know how you manage to bite your tongue love, especially being a daughter of mine!

Facebook 2014

Another ethnic group that appeared to be discriminated against were individuals from

Traveller and Gypsy communities. In the sampled space, derogative terms such as “pikey” and

“gyppo” were used to describe individuals from these backgrounds. On occasion, these terms

were used in the same way that “trampy” was used, to imply a class of less respectable persons.

When one Facebook user mentioned that Travellers had arrived in Corby, one woman’s

instant response was “eww,” thereby echoing connotations of dirt, as seen above in reference

to poverty. There were also recurring stereotypes propagated about Gypsy and Traveller

groups, linking persons of these ethnicities to violence and theft. Whereas anti-Polish

sentiment was rarely reprimanded in the Facebook sample, some community members were

prepared to defend and challenge negative perceptions of Traveller and Gypsy communities.

A number of Paul’s friends, for example, said they were from Traveller origin, and others

mentioned that they had close friends from these groups.

Other racist terms occasionally surfaced in the dataset. The most common term used

was “chinky” to describe a Chinese takeaway. Although many of those ordering a Chinese

takeaway referred to it as a “chinky”, there was a small group of members in the dataset which

used the term “Chinese” instead. No one was ever reprimanded for using the term; however,

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it did not appear to be understood as racist, and it was applied to food rather than individuals.

The word “nigger” was also used on a handful of occasions. Again, this did not appear to be

intended as a racist insult, and was commonly used to refer to an American-gangster style

which has gained a certain cultural credibility within some groups in the community, among

whom the style is admired and imitated. Nevertheless, a girl of mixed-race origin expressed

frustration at constantly being stereotyped by strangers, and singled out for being “black”. Her

friend responded by saying “you’re my nigga, but only I can say that” (see Anderson, 2011:

291). “Paki” was another term occasionally employed to reference groups of Indian,

Bangladeshi, or Pakistani ethnicity. For example, a boy asked “who are the three pakis walking

round the estate,” and a woman described extortionate prices in a local shop as “paki prices.”

Often, “Paki” was recognised as racist. A man of white ethnicity in the community, for

example, updated his status: “I just had a moment where the P- word was used in my presence

and I made it very clear that I’m not cool with that. It’s a foul word and I never want to hear

it again.”

Thus, although some members of Paul’s community were prepared to stand up against

racism, at times individuals were not fully accepted by the community because of their

ethnicity, and some groups were frequently excluded from the community, such as Eastern

European migrants. We might view this racialised exclusion as a mode by which the white

working class, as a disenfranchised and oppressed group, exercise power (Skeggs, 1992).

Indeed, it appears to have been a common occurrence in England for areas of high deprivation

and neglect, coupled with concentrated economic migration, to experience racial tensions

(Treadwell and Garland, 2011; Dench et al., 2006). While economic migration was encouraged

in Corby, little investment was made to improve the increased demand for public services

(Dorling, 2016), and no efforts were made to support cultural integration within the town

(Willis, 2016a). A proper grasp of these racialised frictions, then, requires that one appreciates

the wider cultural, economic, and social context.

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Up to this point, I have explored the role of verbal insults, threats of violence, actual

violence, legal cynicism, and the effects of ethnicity on conflict in the community. I will look

at a final broad form of conflict resolution before focusing on teenager conflicts. I have

themed the last category of conflict resolution as “letting go”. This encompasses two extremes.

The first, is the apology, and the second, is severing relational ties.

4.6. Lettinggo

In the dataset, members have evidently employed methods to resolve conflicts amicably. The

first port of call seemed to be verbally confronting the aggrieved party before they pursued

other avenues. In neighbourhood disputes, for example, community members often noted

having visited the disputant, or having posted a letter through the letterbox about noise

complaints. Similarly, as noted above, community members spoke of good friends being able

to say what they think to other friends, and resolving problems in the open. The notion of

apology was evident, though limited in the Facebook dataset. This may be because of the

public nature of the newsfeed, and perhaps apologies were carried out in private. The apologies

I did observe occurred between partners (five times), families (one time) and close friends (two

times). Interestingly, there was also evidence of pre-emptive drunken apologies – apologising

in advance for potential drunken conflicts, or apologising broadly to everyone following a

rowdy night. Before I present an example of the pre-emptive drunken apology, I will briefly

outline the prevalence of drinking alcohol in Paul’s community.

What we might view as a drinking culture is evident in Corby (see also Nayak, 2006:

816–820). Members of Paul’s community often referred to drinking alcohol. It marked the

start of the weekend, was popular on sunny days or in festive seasons, and it punctuated year-

round moments of celebration and commiseration; e.g. both losing and securing a job (in the

highly mobile work environment), celebrating birthdays, passing tests, and anniversaries at

work and home life. Community members evidently consumed with the purpose of becoming

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drunk, which was evinced by language used to describe drinking. Persons went out to social

events with the intention of becoming “wasted”, “plastered”, “smashed”, “wrecked”, “shit-

faced”, “steaming”, “fucked up”, and “unbelievably drunk”. On repeated occasions, members

of the dataset referred to the “messy” night ahead and the damage that would be caused to

their livers (shots of alcohol were often noted as the route to ultimate drunkenness).

Charlesworth’s observations are notable here, of the pub being an important working-class

space, away from middle-class requirements, where individuals are free from constraints, to

say what they want, and behave how they want (2000: 221).

Heavy drinking was linked to extreme forms of behaviour, and there were frequent

references to nights ending in a fight and sometimes a police cell. A woman in her thirties, for

example, described receiving probation and a £100 fine for being drunk and disorderly and

attacking police officers; she recalls waking up in a padded jacket in the police cells, and now

swears that she will never touch whiskey again. Similarly, a man in his twenties expressed regret

at an angry drunken night which led to fines and court fees in excess of £400 for criminal

damage. Regret was a recurring theme, even when the night did not end in the cells. One young

man, for instance, uploaded a self-loathing status update, having “turned into a cunt last night

and hurt the only person I care about” as a result of heavy drinking and taking a large number

of Valium tablets. The following conversation illustrates a similar level of regret, and hints at

self-identified underlying anger issues:

Nathan: Woke up on the front steps with a black eye, cut up hand, and no shoes. Sorry to anyone I saw last night - I was a twat and will never be anything more.

Billy: Good night?

Nathan: Seriously, I’m tapped in the head. I need to be put away so I can’t hurt anyone else or ruin anymore shit.

Billy: Everyone does it lad. That’s why I don’t drink anymore, fuels the anger. Chill off the drink for a bit.

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Alice: Oh the famous words, never again.

As a result of the unpredictable behaviour that excessive drinking may provoke, some

safeguarded against hurting loved ones by uploading a warning message at the beginning of

the night, such as a woman who alerted her friends: “before I get on the drink, just to say none

of my statuses are aimed at anyone on here. If I didn’t like you, I’d tell ya!” Likewise, a universal

message in the morning served the same purpose, such as a man in his twenties who

apologized to “anyone I spoke to or called last night – Sambuca sent me crazy.” The frequency

of such declarations, especially as contrasted to the limited number of public apologies,

indicated an understanding in Paul’s community that when one becomes heavily intoxicated,

unintended conflict may result. Notably, the community tended to accept and forgive drunken

misdemeanours.

In contrast to apologies, which enabled parties to resolve conflict by making-up,

conflicts beyond reconciliation were ended by severing relational ties. Many conflicts I

observed on Facebook featured claims that a friend breached trust, by sharing a secret, or

appearing to be disloyally talking about them behind their backs. Common words used in these

disputes to describe the party alleged to have breached the trust were words such as “snake”,

“fake”, “two-faced”, and “backstabber”. “Snake” was by far the most common word used in

this particular community to describe someone who could not be trusted, and it denoted a

person getting up close without being noticed and then managing to deposit their venom.

Once someone was labelled a snake, they could no longer be trusted, and removing them from

the friend list became the safest option.

The severing of friendship ties happened at all ages, and it seemed that by the time

members made it to 30 and above, they had been able to throw the bad apples out of the

basket. There were a handful of references made on Facbeook by older persons about refining

their friendships through the years. Members in their 30s, 40s, and above expressed surprise

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when they encountered a “snake” at this age, thinking they had filtered all of those out. Several

made declarations about being delighted to have such amazing and supportive friends at a later

stage in life. However, on a couple of occasions it seemed to be a barrier for making new

friends, as when members expressed frustration about how their friends would tell them not

to befriend so-and-so because they are “snakes”, based on how they behaved at some point in

their past. As a woman victim to such accusations posted, “people in Corby cannot let the past

go and people move on.”

Like disowning friends, sometimes the threat to disown family members was floated

during intra-family conflicts. I observed 75 intra-familial conflicts on Facebook. It was rare for

a friend to comment on the dispute, though friends did offer words of support and an ear to

listen. At most, a person might encourage the disputants to reconcile their differences; another

older family member was especially likely to do so, or to recommend one to ignore the other.

Family members occasionally threatened to disown others in the dispute, claiming they are

“no longer family to me” on Facebook. On one such occasion, when a girl posted this about

her mother, her mother’s friend commented on the post, castigating the girl for posting such

a status when her mother has been exceptional, having put the daughter before all else and

having endured her regular tantrums.

The severing of social ties can be viewed as a process opposite to the development of

social capital. Rather than bridging social capital by developing a network of weaker

relationships, the focus is on bonding social capital by cementing close relational ties of trust

(Coleman, 1988; DeFilippis, 2001; Horvat et al., 2003). Members of Paul’s community

expressed the view that the narrowing down of social ties to a reduced but firm group of

mutually trustful and supportive relationships was a positive thing for them to have achieved

in later life. Indeed, filtering out delinquent peers from a person’s social circle may be a source

of benefit that leads to enhanced opportunities (see Shaw and McKay, 1942; Sutherland, 1947).

On the other hand, it might just as well seem that the fine-tuning of a social support system

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in this way could limit a community member’s stock of social capital from which they can

draw.

The final form of letting go observed in Paul’s community is a recurrent appeal to

karma. Karma was thought of by the community as retributive, just deserts – what goes around

comes around – and as inevitable; that eventually a person’s karma will “catch up” with them.

Sometimes Paul’s Facebook friends would warn that they hope karma catches up with the

culprit of an offence before they do, and would generally take delight when karma finally

started to strike back. Since loss of work, economic hardship, and so forth were a regular part

of life for persons in Paul’s community, someone looking for evidence of karma, or bad luck,

in the lives of others did not have to wait long to find it. The idea that karma would eventually

strike deserving persons seemed to offer peace and solace to those who felt that a wrong had

not been adequately addressed. The appeal to karma tended to become more common as

members got older, and less common among conflicts between younger individuals. Whereas

young persons would make their own karma, for adults, karma was an accepted way to let

something go.

It will be helpful to take a closer look at teenage conflict as a separate category, since

many of the restorative justice cases I observed featured participants from this age group.

While there are similarities with the adult disputes, as with karma, there are also some notable

differences.

4.7. Teenageconflict

A fatal fight took place at the fair in 1996 that has cemented itself in the shared memory of

older residents in the town, involving a gang of school children from the Lincoln estate who

beat Louise Allen, a 13-year-old girl, to death. The Independent newspaper reports suggested

that Louise tried to support her friend who had been targeted by a gang, which led to the

group turning on Louise instead (Wynne-Jones, 1996). Up to 30 young people circled Louise,

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so she could not escape, inflicting kicks, until the fatal blow was landed. Two girls, who were

aged 11 and 12 at the time of the attack, were convicted of manslaughter. The Independent

reported again on the incident a year after it had taken place, speaking with young persons

aged 9 to 19 who were part of the gang of which the convicted girls were members (Wynne-

Jones, 1997). According to the newspaper report, gang members insisted that the fight had

been fair, maintaining that if “someone batters us, we batter them.” Friends of Louise were

said to be “after” the girls who had been convicted. The gang members were prepared to fight

back. As one 10-year-old gang member reportedly said, “Louise deserved it. She shouldn't

have tried to fight the CSG [Canada Square Gang]. It's a lesson to others” (Wynne-Jones,

1997). Being seen as tough, and being prepared to fight back, was an essential survival strategy

on the estate. Though the levels of socioeconomic degeneration have lessened in the town as

a whole, in Paul’s community the street culture is still apparent.

I observed 114 conflicts between teenagers in the Facebook dataset, which mirror the

disputes of adults in the community, and involved similar points of contention. Many disputes

began with rumours or accusations of individuals as referred to by disreputable names, such

as a girl called “a rat” or “a slag”, or a boy called “a fanny” or “a grass”. Some Facebook

conflicts involved teenage disputants who claimed that other school pupils were behaving in

disreputable ways, such as girls by sleeping with boys, or who maintained that young teenage

mothers had planned their pregnancies only to get state support and an income, and yet were

bad mothers who failed to spend their benefits on the children. Young community members

also accused their peers of thinking that they are superior to others, with admonishments to

the effect that all of them are from Corby – “so come back down to earth”.

There were fewer naming and shaming threats in this age group; only two such

mentions were made on Facebook. Instead, disputants would openly name the other party, so

that the person named would retaliate. There was only one mention of karma in the young

persons’ dataset; instead of leaving a conflict to karma, the young portrayed a willingness to

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fight the battle for themselves. It seems that the younger groups had greater incentive to

demonstrate their place in the pecking order. Indeed, Anderson’s observations about residents

in the community he observed in “Code of the Street” as campaigning for respect (Anderson,

1999) are echoed in the examples here of young persons’ conflicts. First there is an act

(whether real or fictional) of disrespect, and from here, there follows confrontation, which

many times led to violence.

Violence was used more often among this younger group: of the 114 recorded

conflicts, on 26 occasions young persons referred to violence, which is just over 21 percent,

and twice as high as actual violence used in the adult cases. In many of these instances, the

violence went beyond threats, and young members referred to actual fights that had taken

place. On two occasions, videos of the fights were uploaded onto Facebook; one between

schoolgirls and another between schoolboys. Girls were just as likely to engage in fights as the

boys were; only marginally fewer girls were found to use threats and actual violence (Jones,

2009; Leitz, 2003; Waldron, 2011). Friends frequently offered support in such cases, and

members visibly defended weaker parties, distinguishing themselves as further up the pecking

order – as someone able to defend others, and hence as a powerful friend to have. Indeed, we

might view being seen as “tough” as a way for young persons to form social capital in the

community.

The annual fair that takes place in Corby can be conceived as an arena where some

young persons display their “toughness” (Anderson, 1999; Nayak, 2006: 823). Each year,

groups of the young go to the fair, not so much for the rides and candy-floss, but with the

apparent intention of fighting. This is where the above conflict that took Louise Allen’s life

occurred. In the year of my fieldwork, through Facebook observation I recorded four fights

taking place at the fair, in addition to a boy who challenged another to meet him at the fair to

fight. One boy was frustrated his friends were not there to support him, resulting in his taking

a severe beating from a group of youths; another boy delighted in how good the fighting at

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the fair had been; a man threatened to batter anyone involved in touching his daughter; and a

girl went over to the fair to find out who had hit her sister. A group of youths described the

fighting at the fair in the following way:

Kylie: The fair was mental tonight!

Joe: What happened?

Billy: Ha ha, it was rough! I got hit so many times!

Kylie: Everyone was getting hit or shoved, it was madness down there.

Two adults had made reference to the dangers of fighting, hinting back to the case of Louise

Allen as a plea for the youth to avoid violence such as this. However, these pleas appeared to

fall on deaf ears; being prepared and able to fight was important for community respect among

the youth (Nayak, 2006: 821).

In this section we have seen a number of ways in which conflict played out in the

community, looking at adults, and then teenagers more specifically. When words were used in

conflicts, they were loaded with notions of respectability – playing on ideas of good parenting,

cleanliness, and being deserving of state support. At times, conflict in the community escalated

from insulting words, into the threat and actual use of violence. Community members most

commonly threatened violence in order to defend family, and were most likely to threaten

violence if operating in the illicit economy, or were young persons seeking to establish

themselves as high up in the pecking order. While there were calls for fair fights, and for

violence to not go beyond what was necessary, rates of violent crimes and occasional homicide

cases in Corby show that these standards were not always met (UK Crimestats, 2016).

The final section of community life will examine ill health and early death. This theme,

frequently part of daily life for community members of all ages, stemmed directly from the

dataset itself. I examine this theme by introducing the notion of health capital.

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Healthybody,healthymind

Health capital is not widely included in studies on class (Savage et al., 2013). However, some

plots within the data are best thematised under this notion, which has been recognised in

notable work such as Dorling’s discussion on inequality in Britain (2014; Adonis and Pollard,

1997: 169). I propose that health capital – conceived to include both mental and physical health

– affects, and is affected by, economic, social, and cultural capitals. A person with limited

health capital will have a reduced chance to generate economic capital, since health conditions

will alter the available range of employment, saving, and investing opportunities. Moreover,

health conditions or early bereavements in life may impact upon the formation and

maintenance of relationships, and the types of relationships which a person forms. In turn,

this may reduce attendance of and participation in school, and thus diminish one large source

of cultural capital. Health conditions will also impact a person’s ability to partake in cultural

activities within the community. Likewise, in the other direction, economic, social, and cultural

capital will impact on a person’s health capital. Working in a dirty and polluted environment

may reduce life expectancy, and working long, unsociable hours may impact on mental and

physical health. Social capital may also impact on health, affecting what resources and

information are available; for example, first-aid awareness and self-medicating options. Lastly,

cultural capital can reduce health and life expectancy by the impact of a heavy drinking culture.

Citizens in Corby are recorded as having a lower life expectancy than the national

average, and those who live in the most disadvantaged areas fare worse (ET Corby, 2014;

NHS, 2015; Public Health England, 2014). For men in the most disadvantaged parts of Corby,

life expectancy is 11.2 years lower than for those in the least disadvantaged areas of Corby.

Similarly, women in the most disadvantaged areas have a life expectancy 7.7 years lower than

those living in the least disadvantaged areas. Moreover, women living in the most

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disadvantaged areas of Corby have rates of cervical cancer three times higher than those in the

least deprived areas of the town (Northamptonshire County Council, 2013). Other illnesses in

Corby that are above the rate of the national average include coronary heart disease, strokes,

and other forms of cancer (NHS, 2015). Table 4.b. created by Public Health England (a

governmental agency) helpfully illustrates these findings. Corby’s results for each indicator are

shown as a circle, and the red circles demonstrate where Corby fares significantly worse than

the rest of England.

4.b. Health Summary for Corby District (Public Health England, 2014)

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Statistics link a heavy drinking lifestyle to health problems and lower life expectancy. In 2013,

Corby’s alcohol-related mortality rate in men was the highest in the country (Institute of

Alcohol Studies, 2013). It was estimated that the life expectancy of an average male in Corby

would be 20.4 months longer if there were no deaths before the age of 75 attributable to

alcohol; again, a figure higher than anywhere else in England (Northamptonshire County

Council, 2013). Similarly, alcohol-related mortality among women in Corby is among the

highest 10 percent of local authorities in England. In addition to high drinking rates, according

to Channel 4 News research on unhealthy places to live in England, in 2010/2011 Corby was

recorded as having the highest rate of smokers in the country at 33.5 percent (Channel 4 News,

2012). These statistics are mirrored by the high rates of smoking-related deaths recorded in

the town (Public Health England, 2014).

The dominance of industry has impacted on the health capital of some residents in the

town; thus, economic (dis)advantage can be seen to impact on the health capital of members

of the community. The local newspaper, for instance, has reported on a number of ex-

steelworkers in Corby having suffered the development of lung cancers, skin cancers, and

other respiratory diseases caused as a result of working conditions at the steelworks; 80 ex-

steel workers, and family members affected, have so far filed lawsuits to this effect (O’Neill,

2014). Paul described coming out of the coke ovens on his lunch break at the steelworks

coughing up blood and tar, and Paul’s brother-in-law, who was employed to chop the coke

chimneys down, described the coke ovens as a “vile place … full of blue asbestos and highly

toxic gas liquor.” As well as residents in Corby suffering from the effects of poor working

conditions at the steelworks, residents’ health also suffered from poor waste-disposal methods

following the closure of the steelworks. At least 19 young people in Corby were born with

deformities linked to negligent toxic waste disposal by the local council as found in a landmark

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legal ruling (McBeth, 2010).30 Thus, industry can have a detrimental, lifelong, and life-ending

effect on the health capital of community members.

Mental health is also a cause for concern in Corby: the rate of self-harm-related

hospital stays is higher than the national average (Public Health England, 2014). In line with

these statistics, mental health appeared to be a common problem in the dataset, since 41 of

160 references to illness related to mental health. Most mental health references related to

feelings of sadness, which ranged from occasional episodes of depression through to clinical

depression and suicide. A girl as young as 11 expressed feelings of being “diprest” (depressed);

many other teenagers communicated themselves as being at similar low points, and struggling

with emotions. There were frequent references to self-harm, and for some members of the

community suicidal thoughts added to the battle of daily life. Indeed, tragically, suicide

occurred at times in the community during the research period. There were a few references

to those experiencing psychosis or mental illness such as schizophrenia, and some persons

referred to life-disturbing anxiety. Empathy was expressed for those suffering destabilising

mental illness, and several times community members commented that it could have happened

to any one of them.

Death was another recurring theme: anniversaries of lost ones were remembered like

birthdays, and heartfelt messages to deceased family and friends were posted daily. There were

52 references made to recent deaths; eight posts mentioned members being “too young” to

have died, and three were specifically related to deaths of new-born infants. These findings

mirror the town’s health statistics; lower than average life expectancies are a lived experience

for many. As such, death and terminal illness are a common occurrence in the community. A

woman in her late twenties, for example, expressed the feeling that “no one should have to go

30 See, Corby Group Litigation v. Corby Borough Council [2009] EWHC 1944 (TCC).

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through cancer, my love to all family members and friends affected by this.” In a similar vein,

a number of phrases such as “don’t regret growing old, it’s a privilege denied to many”, and

“live life to the full, you never know when it’ll be taken from you”, circulated in the

community. From a young age onwards, death was unfortunately something with which too

many members of Paul’s community were able to empathise.

A Brutal Goodbye My father lived a Corby life, and he died a Corby death. A bad cough in spring led to an X-Ray and MRI scan by summer. My father was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer on 19th August 2015 at the age of 68; 11 years younger than the national life expectancy, but average for his area. The mobile shop ran its last round on 31st August 2015.

My father’s body shut down with the van. He was never one for rules or conventions, and he characteristically opted for cannabis oil over palliative chemotherapy or radiotherapy. He purchased a small cannabis farm’s worth of street (high-THC) cannabis, and researched his preferred method of oil extraction. Funnels, beakers, and slow burners in place, my father set to the task of making oil. He was in his element: for the last time in his life, Paul was able to put his chemistry skills to use.

The cannabis oil was the first illegal drug my father tried. Mental illness is endemic in the family, and he frequently described himself as balancing on sanity’s edge. When he started taking the cannabis oil, I learnt what he meant. The drug hit him hard, and for a time he was bedridden, floating away in his own uncommunicable world. All I could do was sit at his bedside, and force back stinging tears.

My eyes absorbed the room that bound him. My father deserved more than this. It was a room under a state of redecoration for nearing two decades. The carpet had been ripped up, but never replaced, and woodchip paper had been pasted to the walls, but never painted. A patch of the grey wallpaper near the door had worn away, revealing original yellow paint from the council’s 1950s decor. Cracks lined the ceiling’s edge, and an unsettlingly large rectangular fracture crept across the entranceway. Above my head, part of the ceiling was patched up with plywood and polyfilla from last winter’s leak. The fixture swelled from the roof like a small island balanced on a dull white sea. The cancer spread into his neck.

A husky coughing grabbed me back into the room.

My father had woken from his confused haze, gasping for unreachable breath. He deserved more than this.

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4.8. Concludingsummary

Shared aspects of Paul’s life, and observations of activity inside his community have brought

forth a picture of what it means to be a member of this group. In the school environment

presented here, even bright students struggle. Likewise, the precarious economic landscape

means that many workers rely on agencies, and are in constant search for new industrial forms

of waged labour. For some members of the community, state income was required for them

to meet the basic costs of living. And reliance on such government support exposed certain

individuals to intense judgement about their levels of “respectability”. Outside of formal state

support, members of the community also called on each other for a range of social support,

in the form of information, advice, and a shoulder to cry on. Moreover, members of the

community demonstrated a willingness to extend this support to unknown individuals by

helping to fundraise, assisting vulnerable individuals home, and at times intervening to prevent

crime and violent disputes.

I then moved on to analyse conflict in Paul’s community, and I assessed when

members were likely to resort to informal and formal methods of dispute resolution. Like the

respectability distinctions drawn in family life, such divisions were also at the heart of insults.

In some instances, violence was used to respond to apparent acts of disrespect. Thus, there

were occasions in the community when the use of violence appeared to be legitimate, such as

in defence of family. Nevertheless, its use was governed by notions of a “fair fight”. In the

final part of Paul’s story, I touched on how ill health and death disproportionately impacted

on members of this community; hand in hand with socioeconomic disadvantage came a lower

life expectancy and loss.

Relevant to my study was the prevalence of street cultural capital in Paul’s community.

A lack of scholastic cultural capital was apparent in the school environment, which had the

corresponding effect of high levels of insecure industrial waged employment in the

community. Aspects of social capital in Paul’s community could be interpreted as street capital,

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when the relational support involved having social contacts who were tough and willing to

defend a member of the community in the instance of conflict. Additionally, street cultural

capital was found in the way members of the community demonstrated a willingness to tackle

conflicts informally, sometimes resorting to violence as a way to uphold a perceived violation

of community norms, such as that not to disrespect someone’s family. Finally, evidence of

legal cynicism was another indicator of the street cultural capital present in Paul’s community.

A taste of community life, and seeing street capital in action, provides invaluable

context for us to now grasp the depth of community disputes which eventually made it to

restorative justice.

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Part III

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Chapter5: TheDangersofCommunity

In the first part of the ethnography, we acquired a taste of life inside Paul’s community. I

detailed the day-to-day life of members of a social class that might be described as precariat

(Savage et al., 2013), or working-class (Skeggs, 2004). Specifically, I analysed community

exchanges in respect of economic, social, cultural, and health capitals. In the process, I noted

elements of street capital (i.e. the relationships and skills that are valuable for tough

environments), and found this notion especially useful for explaining conflict in the

community. Street capital is present in the types of insults used, and how conflict is resolved

– for example, via informal measures such as confrontation and violent threats. This first part

of the ethnography now adds important context; it guides how to situate restorative justice, a

method of conflict resolution, within the sampled working-class community, and aids analysis

of the findings.

The class analysis in the previous chapter samples a particular part of the town – Paul’s

community – while the restorative justice programmes I recorded were town-wide.

Nonetheless, the ethnography’s first part remains crucial for interpreting the different

backgrounds of the participants. In fact, as I show, many participants in the restorative justice

programme are from Paul’s community, especially those featuring as offenders, and some

victims. Additionally, the class analysis helps us appreciate the significance of the conflicts; the

type of conflicts in my restorative justice dataset reflects those analysed in the last chapter.

Accordingly, this evident overlap illuminates and contextualises the tensions behind disputes,

already present before any restorative justice process. The first part of the ethnography is thus

essential for us to appreciate restorative justice in practice fully, and to assess the “dangers of

community”.

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Previously, I identified two ways in which restorative justice literature conceptualises

community: the community-of-place conception, based on a geographical understanding of

community, and the community-of-care conception, based on a relational understanding of

community. Both conceptions of community are active in my dataset. To recap, one observed

programme was an informal, localised, Neighbourhood Resolution Forum (NRF), based in

Corby. The NRF, now defunct, featured the geographical community in the form of

volunteers who facilitate restorative justice conferences. Facilitators used a restorative justice

script to encourage dialogue between victims, offenders, and their communities of care. The

other observed programme was a formalised, countywide, Youth Offender Service (YOS).

YOS also included volunteers to represent the geographical community. However, instead of

facilitating restorative justice conferences, volunteers facilitated youth offender panels,

consisting of two or three volunteers placed around a table, asking restorative questions to

offenders and their supporters. By contrast, trained YOS employees facilitated the YOS

restorative justice conferences. Here, I analyse my observations of YOS and NRF participants

as a whole, to provide a layer of anonymity for my research participants. However, where

relevant, I distinguish the programmes.31

In this chapter, I return to the dangers of community and assess whether and how they

surfaced in the observed restorative justice programmes. Taking cues from the dangers of

community as identified in Chapter 1, I concluded Chapter 2 by developing the following

research questions:

1. What are the class backgrounds of restorative justice participants?

2. Are restorative justice conferences a forum for symbolic violence? (Do participants’ class

backgrounds disempower them within the restorative justice conference?)

31 I offer a fuller account of the programmes included in this analysis in Chapter 3.

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3. Which norms are enforced in the restorative justice conference, and what is their effectiveness?

4. If dangers of community are present during restorative justice, do these dangers contribute to

disproportionate outcomes for the participants?

The ethnography presented in this chapter offers answers to these questions. In the first

section, I argue that the social class of volunteers is not representative of the social class of

most restorative justice participants. By drawing on distinctions between scholastic and street

capitals, introduced in Chapter 2, I illustrate that offenders and some victims are likely to

possess and embody street capital, whereas volunteers are well-versed in the scholastic field.

In the second section, I assess the potential dangers associated with these class differences.

Focusing on the communicative aspect of restorative justice, I argue that restorative justice

privileges middle-class styles of communication. Accordingly, I present the case that by

advancing middle-class forms of dialogue, middle-class participants are more powerfully

situated than working-class participants within restorative justice processes.

In the third section, I examine the norms that participants, because of their class

position, may enforce. I find that middle-class participants are likely to affirm scholastic field

norms, while working-class participants are likely to enforce street field norms. Further, I argue

that affirming street norms within certain kinds of restorative justice conference can be

effective, such as when both victim and offender are from working-class backgrounds. Since

conflict is often ongoing, as it is in Paul’s community, permitting street field discussions in

these instances can also prevent the conflict escalating. However, I propose that when victims

and offenders are from different class communities, it may be more effective to discuss both

street and scholastic norms, which thereby allows for social capital bridging. In both kinds of

case, I argue that norm-affirmation is effective. However, when scholastic norms are enforced

top-down by volunteers, norm-affirmation appears especially ineffective.

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In the final section, I examine volunteer class judgements about participants, best

articulated by means of street/decent or respectable/rough distinctions, which are frequent

and normally implicit. Finally, I argue that the data shows volunteer judgements likely affect

the degree of intervention and length of restorative justice outcome. In the chapter summary,

I return to my research questions.

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Whoisinvolvedinrestorativejustice?

I examine three categories of restorative justice participant. The first category is “offenders”,

which includes offenders’ supporters who were present in the processes; the second is

“victims”, which likewise includes victims’ supporters; finally, the third is “volunteers”, and

here I am discerning how representative volunteers are of other participants. To present this

data, I use ethnographic portraits based on observational and interview data, as detailed in my

methods chapter. This descriptive approach illustrates how reflective each category of

participant is of Paul’s community, and what type of capital (i.e. scholastic or street) they have

acquired.

5.1. Offenders:ExploredthroughDrewandBen

Drew looked out of the window in McDonald’s. Purple circles drooped beneath his eyes, and

tufts of hair gathered in chaotic patches along his jawline. Next to him rested a supermarket

carrier bag filled with second-hand trainers and clothes. The new purchases looked almost as

worn as the clothes he was wearing. A whiff of stale tobacco and damp escaped from the

fibres of his tracksuit, creeping into the nostrils of those around. Drew was the most

disadvantaged young person I met during the research period. In contrast to Drew, Ben’s

appearance was immaculate. Ben also wore a grey tracksuit the first time we met; however, his

was odourless, and his branded trainers looked new.

Drew and Ben were both convicted of burglary and theft offences. Drew described

his early offending behaviour as arising out of necessity; he was brought up by his mother who

struggled with drug addiction, and Drew and his brothers had to find ways to look after

themselves, stealing food when required. Being “skint”, Drew continued stealing for the

essentials and a bottle of cheap cider every now and then. Like Drew, Ben was also involved

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in theft and burglary at a young age. Ben grew up on the estate’s streets, supervised by his

older brother when his mother and father were on rotating shifts in local factories. Ben was

welcomed into a gang who occasionally burgled houses or stole motorbikes. As Ben was small

for his age, the gang recruited him to crawl through tiny windows and facilitate access to

buildings for the older boys. He described the etiquette of burglary: never steal on your own

estate, and only take from the richer parts of town (echoing the techniques of neutralisation

described by Sykes and Matza, 1957). Ben viewed getting caught for his current theft as a

foolish mistake; he was drunk, stole a bike “for a laugh”, and was easily identified.

The face-to-face restorative justice conferences I recorded often involved theft,

burglary, and TWOC (taking a vehicle without the owner’s consent). This was the most

common type of offence to progress to a YOS conference in my dataset, and it was the third

most common offence to progress to an NRF conference. Offences against the person also

recurred in the restorative justice conferences I observed. In YOS, only lower-level common

assaults made it to a restorative conference, whereas NRF conferences included offences

against the person, up to the level of ABH. The third type of offence which frequently reached

restorative justice conferences in my sample involved criminal damage or antisocial behaviour.

Drew and Ben knew Paul from the van. Drew had lived on a nearby estate at one point

in his youth, and used to go on the van when he was younger. Ben grew up on Paul’s estate,

and knew him well. For the most part, young offenders involved in YOS during the research

period were from the area where Paul lived, and they were likely to be in his community. I

recorded only two young persons in YOS residing in the NN17 postcode,32 on the other side

of town to Paul, and one of these offenders had in fact committed the offence on the Lincoln

32 NN18 is the area where Paul’s community was based. For the most part, the NN17 post code tends to be more affluent, though there are pockets of disadvantage that mirror Paul’s community.

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Estate following a house party. While many offenders in the NRF programme also resided in

Paul’s community, several NRF cases came from the NN17 postcode area – some from estates

similar to the Lincoln. Thus, Paul’s community’s life is representative of the lived experiences

of many of the offenders involved in the observed programmes.

Male offenders are over-represented in the criminal justice system (Greenfeld and

Snell, 1999). YOS reflected this: there are three times as many male as female offenders in the

dataset. In the YOS panel cases I observed, just over a quarter involved female offenders (six

of 23), and only one of the 12 countywide YOS cases that progressed to a face-to-face

restorative conference involved a female offender. However, the gender ratio in the NRF data

was more balanced. In the NRF, almost half of the offenders were female (20 male, 18 female).

There were four adult offenders in the NRF programme, two males and two females.33 Twice

as many male offender cases did not progress to an NRF conference as those involving female

offenders (16 males and eight female offender cases). Perhaps female offenders in my dataset

were more likely to be deemed suitable, or less risky, for an NRF conference. Alternatively, I

found that female offenders were more likely to participate in an NRF conference. While this

is a small dataset in a single area, thought can be given as to why there were a higher number

of young female offenders in the NRF programme I observed, compared to YOS. It may

signal that females were deemed more suitable for diversionary measures such as the NRF; or

it may indicate less tolerance for misbehaviour by girls, with relatively minor offences reported

to the police where equivalent male offender cases may not have been; or, finally, it may point

to a lower level of harms in offences perpetrated by females (Corcoran, 2010; McIvor, 2007).

Both Drew and Ben classified themselves as belonging to “white” ethnic backgrounds.

This is reflective of the majority of offenders I observed in the programmes, either by self-

33 Two adult offenders had committed criminal damage: one female who committed theft and one male who assaulted a young person.

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identification, or as specified in their YOS and NRF crime reports. In the YOS panels, one

case involved a mixed-race offender, and one an offender from a Traveller community. In the

NRF cases which progressed to a restorative justice conference, three featured ethnic minority

offenders (two from Polish backgrounds, and one from a Portuguese background). An NRF

case which did not progress to a conference involved an accused offender from a Traveller

background, though the victim-offender roles in this case were not clearly distinct. The

relatively high number of ethnic-minority offenders in the NRF indicates that, in this small

English sample, there may not be ethnicity-based barriers to access, unlike Rodriguez’s larger

scale findings in the US (2005). Alternatively, access may be too open; perhaps there is a net-

widening effect occurring in my sample. That is, what explains the relatively high number of

ethnic-minority offenders in the NRF (largely, a diversionary programme) could be that such

offenders are being picked up for low-level offences – the sort of offences which without the

NRF would have been unrecorded. Accordingly, ethnic-minority offenders may

disproportionately be entered into diversionary programmes. Further investigation in this area

would be of value.

Having considered the young offenders’ demographics, I will take a look a closer look

at lifestyles. Drinking alcohol below the legal age was common for the young persons in the

criminal justice programmes I observed, and several noted in their YOS self-reports that they

had tried an assortment of drugs, ranging from tobacco and alcohol to cannabis, or sometimes

Class A drugs. Drew, for instance, had tried many drugs in the past, though his preference was

for alcohol and tobacco when he could lay his hands on it. Unlike Drew, Ben did not smoke

roll-up cigarettes: he smoked “spliffs” (cannabis): “the more weed and less ’backie the better”.

An exception to this offender drug consumption was a young man from a Traveller

background adamant that he did not take any illicit substances. Indeed, he was offended to

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hear that he would need to cooperate with the CAMHS34 team as part of his Youth Referral

Order because his offence involved him drinking alcohol.

As in Paul’s community, young offenders expressed some legal cynicism, which could

be viewed as an element of street-cultural capital (Sampson and Bartusch, 1998). I recorded

19 examples of legal cynicism among offenders involved in restorative justice, expressed as

hostile feelings towards the police. Some young persons, such as Drew, did not mind the

police; having been arrested multiple times from a young age, he had grown up knowing the

police and they had always been kind to him. Ben, on the other hand, saw the police as the

opposition, and disliked things such as cameras or tape recorders during our research

interviews and outings because such equipment was “too police-like”. Similarly, some parents

of offenders expressed discomfort at being in the police station for their NRF conferences –

one woman’s daughter commented that her mother “always gets funny around police”.

When I asked Ben why he did not like the police, he described how police officers

raided his house when he was younger and violently arrested his brother. According to Ben,

the police pushed his brother’s caged animal over when they were searching his room, which

killed it. Other participants who expressed negative views of the police also cited personal

experiences of alleged police violence or unresponsiveness as reasons for their cynicism. A 14-

year-old female offender’s reason for not liking the police was their apparent refusal to

investigate properly an attack on her cousin, who was cut in the throat with a knife and left

for dead in the woods. In the girl’s words, “that’s why I don’t really like the police ’cus they

never get anything done, they never really help at all.” Thus, instead of being brought up not

to like police officers, participants in my study offered specific reasons as to why they felt

34 This is the NHS Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services available for young persons in the UK. More information is available at: http://www.nhs.uk/NHSEngland/AboutNHSservices/mental-health-services-explained/Pages/about-childrens-mental-health-services.aspx

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distrustful of them (cf. Bowers and Robinson, 2012; Hinds and Murphy, 2007). Further, young

offenders frequently spoke of how important it is not to “grass” on peers. The view of police

as unwilling to help certain individuals, and the insistence not to grass, echoes the legal

cynicism which members of Paul’s community expressed.

Scholastic-cultural capital (i.e. the skills and abilities embodied by young persons which

enable them to perform well in school) was notably absent from the young offenders I

encountered during my fieldwork. Drew and Ben both left school before the legal age of 16,

and struggled to read and write. When I interviewed him, at the age of 17, Drew was illiterate

and unable to tell the time. He explained that he was expelled from primary school for

threatening to stab a teacher, and he continued to be excluded from secondary school for an

array of bad behaviours. He was eventually transferred to a referral unit, which he failed to

attend. Likewise, Ben was expelled from school, apparently for wounding a friend with a

compass and drawing blood in class; Ben said his friend liked pain and the teacher overreacted.

Many of the young persons I observed were in education facilities for pupils excluded from

mainstream education, or in local schools with reputations for underperforming.

Unlike young persons who appear to take to education like naturals (Bourdieu, 2000;

Maton, 2008: 57–58), many young offenders did not have the cultural capital and habitus to

perform comfortably in the scholastic field, a deficiency they shared in many respects with

members of Paul’s community. Suspected learning difficulties such as attention deficit

hyperactivity disorder and dyslexia, often undiagnosed, frequently showed among young

persons processed through the criminal justice system during my research (see also Baker and

Ireland, 2007; Young et al., 2011). Drew’s case worker, for instance, suggested that Drew may

have dyslexia which interfered with his ability to learn in school; however, Drew was unable

to receive a diagnosis. Ben’s mother also suspected her son to be dyslexic, but the family did

not have the opportunity for him to access a formal diagnosis. This reflects the findings of

Lareau (2011: 171–184) and Gillies (2005: 847–848) that working-class children may be in a

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weaker position to secure diagnoses and support for disabilities, in contrast to middle-class

children who, by virtue of their parents’ scholastic-cultural capital, tend to receive timely

diagnoses and support. Volunteers in my study even described “bright” young offenders as

failing to engage in the scholastic field.

One potential reason for underperformance in school is the chaotic living

arrangements in which some of the young offenders in my sample grew up. From early

adolescence, Drew experienced homelessness. He had periods where he would sleep on

friends’ sofas, in hallways of blocks of flats, and eat food from bins, which occurred again

during the research period. Like Drew, the living arrangements of other young persons in the

dataset were also disrupted. Three young participants living in state care were transferred to

different children’s homes during the research period: on one occasion, this move was due to

the young person’s disorderly behaviour, and on two other occasions, young participants were

moved with a view to protecting them from harmful influences in the surrounding area.

Similarly, a young man’s adoptive parents broke up during the research period, and a young

woman regularly ran away from home due to a difficult relationship with her mother. Several

young persons also lived alternately with separated parents; one mother noted that when her

son was not happy with her demands, he would move in with his father because he had more

freedom there.

As indicated by the displaced living arrangements, the family structure in the lives of

young offenders I encountered was not uniform. These young offenders were variously

brought up by: both parents together, a single parent, two separated parents or stepparents,

other relatives, adoptive parents, foster carers, or children’s homes in which they were long-

term residents. The majority of offenders came from working families; parents more often

than not were employed in shift work, which, as in Paul’s community, ranged from work in

factories and supermarkets to cleaning. Approximately a third of the young offenders’ parents

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were unemployed; these were mainly mothers with young children, and parents living with

long-term health problems or disabilities.

The statistics of young offenders’ supporters, who attended panel meetings and NRF

conferences (i.e. the community of care), are mixed. For the NRF programme, out of 54

community-of-care supporters, 76 percent were female.35 The majority of the NRF supporters

were mothers (29 instances), some were fathers (10 instances), while other categories included

foster parent, step-parent, social worker, grandmother, sister, aunt, friend, and wife. In the

single YOS conference I observed, the young offender was accompanied by his brother.

Further, I recorded further data of 26 community-of-care supporters who attended YOS

panels for young offenders. The majority of these were women – 69 percent. Again, like NRF,

the categories of attendee primarily included mothers (15 instances, including two adoptive

mothers and two stepmothers), and fathers (five instances, including two adoptive fathers),

some sisters, brothers, social workers, and a grandfather. Interestingly, in the observed YOS

panels, no father attended alone, and was always accompanied by a female partner. This limited

data indicates that Rossner’s fears about the weight of emotional support disproportionately

falling on women may be occurring (2013: 95; Weisberg, 2003; Rittich, 2002; Stubbs, 1997).

Further, the young offenders I observed were representative of Paul’s community

members in respect of health capital; ill-health and untimely death was a widespread

phenomenon in their lives. For some young persons, such as Drew, parents with drug

(including alcohol) addiction disrupted their lives, which occasionally led young persons to

enter residential care facilities. Several young offenders had also lost, or were in the process of

losing, parents at a relatively young age, which is perhaps inevitable in a town with low life

expectancy and higher than average rates of cancers (Public Health England, 2014). For

35 This includes 41 female community-of-care supporters and 13 male supporters.

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example, the father of two brothers, engaged in YOS for separate offences, was terminally ill,

in the end stages of his life; then, during the research period, the brothers learned that their

estranged mother died from a drug overdose, while they were in the process of being

reconnected with her. Other relatives and friends of young persons also passed away. Ben, for

example, lost a close friend, and while he did not talk about it, a large visible tattoo in

remembrance of his friend demonstrated his loss. Another young man was still grieving the

loss of his baby. For some of the youth I observed, bereavement and dealing with the

imminent loss of a loved one was too much to bear, and it appeared to reduce their interest in

conforming to the requirements of the criminal justice agencies; for them, there were more

pressing matters to worry about.

Finally, mental illness was also a recurring factor in the lives of these young offenders

in the sample; several of them were experiencing depression, had self-harmed, or had

attempted suicide. One 13-year-old boy attempted suicide on three occasions, and, although

on antidepressants, his parents expressed despair at not having enough support to manage the

situation. A small number of young persons had conditions such as post-traumatic stress and

other disorders, some linked to earlier child abuse. Similarly, several parents had mental health

problems, such as postnatal depression. I interviewed a young person’s mother who described

herself as being on “the serial killer drugs”. While she claimed that the drugs managed to keep

her calm, she continued to self-harm, using a blade to cut her arms and neck. The mother said

she needed to feel pain on the outside to make her internal feelings bearable. This illness,

inevitably, affected the relational support the mother could offer her son through his

engagement with the criminal justice system.

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5.2. Victims:ExploredthroughJohnandChloe

Mirroring other findings (Cohen, 2001; Crawford, 2007a; Newburn et al., 2002; Rosenblatt,

2015), there was low victim involvement on the YOS panels I observed, and non-existent

victim attendance. I interviewed a longstanding volunteer who recalled victims occasionally

attending panels in the past, though even when they did, the procedure was for victims to

speak to the volunteers first, and then to leave before the young persons had their panel

meetings, rather than meet face-to-face.36 At times, a YOS victims’ worker attended panels on

behalf of the victim, to represent their views. For victims who wished to meet their offender,

YOS dedicated extensive preparation to set up a restorative face-to-face conference, overseen

by professional facilitators. At the beginning of the research period, the YOS victim worker

left the post, and just as I left the field, YOS implemented a new structure that aimed to widen

victim involvement. And, indeed, early signs indicated that the new victim-focused structure

in YOS was yielding higher rates of victim involvement. Nevertheless, information I present

here about victims involved in YOS is inevitably limited.

In contrast, the NRF had a notably high level of victim involvement; even more than

most other restorative conferencing programmes set up under the same nationwide pilot

programme.37 By focusing on restorative justice conferences, victims necessarily took on a

central role; only one case was settled by shuttle mediation, which involved the NRF

coordinator delivering messages between the victims and offender families, instead of them

meeting face-to-face. Moreover, there was evidence of greater direct reparation, or

36 The reason for such a procedure was explained on account of personal information about the young person being discussed by the panel. Training I attended affirmed that this was the formalised procedure in this particular YOS. 37 This information was shared during personal email and telephone correspondence between myself and Restorative Solutions.

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compensation paid directly to the victim in the NRF38 compared to reparation for the symbolic

community, more akin to community service, which was prevalent in YOS. While offenders

may have had an incentive to be involved in restorative justice, e.g. to avoid a criminal

conviction, encouraging victim involvement required an alternative approach. The NRF

coordinator was exceptionally skilled at being able to negotiate participation. For instance, he

was able to reassure parents of young victims or adults that their involvement would help

prevent young offenders reoffending, he encouraged schools to try the approach before

implementing suspensory measures, and he offered victims the opportunity to ask questions

and find out why the harm occurred. Restorative justice was thus the more intensive, hands-

on option on offer, and the NRF coordinator was effectively able to “sell” restorative justice

to victims.

To elaborate on who the victims were, I will begin by introducing John. John had been

involved in a restorative conference as the victim; a young person broke into a community

centre he ran, and, as a believer in restorative justice, John requested to meet the young person

face-to-face. John was relieved at how little damage had been caused, and he felt the young

person responsible for the break-in had not yet reached a point of no return, unlike John’s

brother. I met John at the front of the office where he worked; he was dressed in a suit and

tie. We walked over to a tearoom to chat. John started the conversation by explaining that his

parents were academics, and he understood what life for a researcher was like. In fact, John

himself had a master’s degree in politics. We chatted about studying, and the joy of learning:

we were well-experienced with the scholastic field.

38 Other empirical research also indicates that compensation is more likely to occur through a completed reparative agreement resulting from restorative processes than from court-ordered compensation (Braithwaite, 1999; Marshall, 1999).

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John’s academic roots and professional employment were reflective of many, though

not all, of the victims I encountered. The YOS data shows that the majority of victims who

met their offenders face-to-face were professionals. Of the 11 restorative conferences I learnt

about in YOS, six victims had professional backgrounds, which is just over half.39 In contrast,

victims whose cases were dealt with by YOS Panels, and thus, cases where victims did not

meet their offender face-to-face, involved eight professionals from 23 victims – just over a

third. Therefore, while around 35 percent of the YOS victims were from professional

backgrounds, 55 percent of the victims in face-to-face conferences were professionals.

Perhaps the victims in these instances were more restoratively inclined, since, on at least two

occasions, YOS conferences were prompted by victims themselves actively seeking to meet

the young person involved in the offence. Another reason for the higher number of

professionals involved in the YOS restorative conferences I recorded may be that victims in

these incidents were deemed more suitable by criminal justice professionals to engage in such

face-to-face processes.

Slightly fewer victims in the recorded NRF restorative conferences were from

professional backgrounds. Out of the 67 NRF cases, 28 of the victims can be categorised as

from professional backgrounds, which is just under 42 percent.40 Of the 28 cases that did not

progress to a full NRF conference, seven featured professionals as victims; however, on all

occasions, the cases involving victim professionals did not progress due to difficulties on the

offenders’ side, rather than the victims refusing to engage in the programme. Therefore, in

both the NRF and YOS programmes I observed, professional victims were likely to agree to

participate in restorative justice with young offenders.

39 The professional victims include two police officers, one manager, one YOS staff member, one church representative, and one trustee of a youth centre. 40 These comprise seven community workers, six local business owners, three representatives of large corporations, and 12 teachers or employees of children’s homes.

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In contrast to professional victims, Chloe, the mother of a boy who was the victim of

an assault, was directly from Paul’s community and knew Paul well. Chloe expressed

discomfort about her son being the victim of a violent offence, and not fighting back; the case

is outlined fully below. She emphasised that the matter was only being pursued because the

school was pushing it; she would not have gone to the police herself. Chloe decided to be

involved in the process in order to give the offenders a chance to avoid being expelled from

school. Chloe’s previous partner was serving time for a serious violent offence, and she

believed that if he had something like restorative justice when he was younger, perhaps he

would have taken a different path. This motivation, to find alternative ways to prevent young

people offending, was common to the NRF victims I spoke to. Like some of the offenders’

supporters, Chloe was a single mother, raising two young children on her own. Chloe also

shared that she was suffering a life-threatening condition, and had been admitted to hospital

and put on a life support machine during the research period. She explained how her son was

scared to lose her, and had become very protective of her. Thus, the health troubles

experienced by offenders were mirrored by some of the victims in my dataset.

In over half of all the recorded cases, victims came from similar backgrounds to

offenders (cf. Braithwaite, 2002b: 157, 2002c: 564); in the NRF cases, just under 60 percent of

victims were from comparable communities, and in YOS, around 65 percent of victims overall.

In some cases, victim and offender lived on the same street, without having a pre-existing

relationship. But often, when young persons fought or had intrafamilial disputes, victim and

offender were part of a relational community. In the YOS face-to-face conferences, for

example, three of the victims were from the same school or estate as the offender, and two

cases featured victims who were neighbours of the young offenders. The YOS panels reflected

this trend more generally: eight victims were young; one a mother, and one a neighbour. YOS

deemed five offences to have no direct victim, though interpreted the victim to be the wider

symbolic community harmed by acts such as anti-social behaviour, arson, and possession of

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an offensive weapon. Meanwhile, victims in YOS cases parallel those in NRF: 14 of the NRF

victims were young persons from the same school or estate, seven were parents, and 15 were

neighbours.

When the victims were from similar backgrounds to offenders, they also shared

struggles in the scholastic field. Chloe’s son, for example, was having difficulties settling in

class. Similarly, many other young victims in the NRF disputes had notable problems in school,

while also living on Paul’s estate, and, like the offenders, had non-traditional family

arrangements. I recorded only one case where a young victim described herself as excelling in

school; she said she was doing well in French, received an award for good performance, and

had aspirations to become a teacher. Many of the non-professional adult victims in the dataset

were also from Paul’s area, working, for example, as lorry drivers, caretakers, shop assistants,

and primary caregivers.

Victims in my study exhibited a mixed relationship with the police, compared to

offenders. Offences often only came to light when a victim informed the police, or an

institution, such as a school, did so on the victim’s behalf. Some victims, particularly

professionals, were comfortable to work with the police or YOS in order to resolve an issue.

However, there were signs that on occasions victims felt discomfort with police. One mother

of a victim, for instance, justified having gone to the police because she was worried for her

daughter’s future safety, and another mother (Chloe) emphasised how the school had

encouraged her to pursue the case. In both these instances, the mothers seemed

uncomfortable at having pursued police action. In the NRF, a victim’s father told the

coordinator to “fuck off” when he realised the coordinator had police connections. And in a

case involving a stolen bicycle, the victim’s mother pursued her own violent means, as well as

formal nonviolent ones; the mother explained that she did not have much faith in the police

because they failed to investigate properly the murder of her boyfriend when she was younger,

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so she took the law into her own hands when required. This chimes with the cynicism

expressed by some offenders in my dataset as outlined above.

Community-of-care supporters on the victims’ side was limited in both programmes.

Since there was not much victim involvement in YOS during my research period, victim

involvement from the community of care was correspondingly low. In the one YOS restorative

conference that I observed, the victim opted not to have a supporter present. In the other

YOS cases I recorded that went to restorative justice conferencing, couples attended together

as the victims, and in one YOS case, the conference was held between the mothers of the

young persons involved, since the young victim and offender refused to meet. In the NRF,

many of the victims were unaccompanied. This was primarily because they involved adults,

and attempts to find supporters primarily occurred for youth victims. I recorded six

community of care supporters accompanying youth victims in the NRF. Unlike the

representation of offenders’ supporters in my dataset, victims’ supporters comprised 50

percent women (all mothers) and 50 percent men (all fathers). The lack of victim community-

of-care in these instances may impact on the effectiveness of the process, since Rossner’s

research indicates that victim supporters are important to help communicate the victim’s harm

(2013).

Again, limited information was available on the ethnicity of victims in YOS. In the

panels I observed, there was at least one ethnic minority victim, from a Portuguese

background. In the NRF cases, there was at least one victim from a Mauritian background.

Furthermore, on the victim’s request, a racially aggravated theft offence in the NRF

programme I observed was settled through shuttle mediation instead of a full restorative

conference. Proportionally, cases most unlikely to result in a full conference in the NRF

programme were those involving ethnic minority victims. There were three cases which did

not progress to a full NRF conference which involved ethnic minority victims, and they did

not progress because of the wishes of the victim. Baffour similarly found ethnic minority

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participants to be more likely to turn down a restorative justice option (2006: 572). This may

be because of a fear of reprisals, as found in Bowling’s work (1999). Other issues, such as

understanding English, were taken into account by the programme manager when deciding

the feasibility of pursuing a conference, since he had no resources at his disposal to arrange

for translators and so forth. An additional case forwarded to the programme, which involved

multiple racially aggravated assaults on two Eastern European girls, was considered too severe,

and so further police action was taken instead.

5.3. Volunteers:ExploredthroughSusanandHarriet

There was a notable difference between volunteers and other participants in the programmes

I observed. Many studies note that volunteers are often middle-class (Karp et al., 2004;

Rosenblatt, 2015; Souza and Dhami, 2008), and this was also apparent in my data. Take

Harriet, for example, who was an active long-term volunteer in Corby. Similar to John, who

participated as a victim, Harriet came from an academic background: she was a scientist who

was part-way through her PhD when she fell pregnant with the first of her two children.

Harriet moved to Corby for a teaching job at the local college, and, although now retired, she

and her family stayed in the area. I recorded both YOS and NRF to heavily feature volunteers

from the teaching profession (cf. Rosenblatt, 2015). Other volunteers worked in professions

such as management, local council work, youth work, and criminal justice work. Some

volunteers in my dataset were retired and several university students reading law or

criminology also applied to YOS. A handful of volunteers came from non-professional

backgrounds, such as a man who worked as a bouncer, another who worked as a caretaker,

and two single mothers not working at the time of research, though soon looking for

employment.

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The most marked difference between volunteers and the participant offenders in my

sample was scholastic-cultural capital: volunteers had developed scholastic-cultural capital,

unlike most offenders and some victims. While expulsion and unwillingness to engage in

school culture was a recurring theme with young offenders, being involved in higher education

and working in teaching and academia was a recurring theme among volunteers. For some of

the volunteers, higher education was pursued later in life; a number had attended university as

mature students or obtained a degree-level qualification through the Open University online.41

(A small group of volunteers did not have a higher-level or professional qualification.)

Younger volunteers I spoke with in YOS frequently cited wanting to improve their

chances of eventually working in the criminal justice sector as their motivation (cf. Rosenblatt,

2015). As one volunteer explained, “I was looking for volunteering that would lead me to a

job. My degree is in law, and I wanted to work with young offenders so I kind of asked [the

Youth Offender Services] if they had any volunteering in my final year [at university].” The

voluntary experience with YOS did help this volunteer secure a further criminal justice

appointment, and another YOS volunteer, with whom I trained, successfully applied for a

position within YOS during the research period. Thus, in these examples, volunteering is an

opportunity to build upon scholastic-cultural capital.

This type of voluntary work necessarily attracted volunteers who were comfortable

working alongside criminal justice agencies, which contrasts with the legal cynicism evident

among other participants. Notably, I did not record a single example of legal cynicism among

the volunteer community, in contrast to both offenders and victims. An older female volunteer

I interviewed described the difference between herself and other participants in the following

way:

41 This is an online university option, which is particularly accessible to mature students in employment or care roles.

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It’s just a different culture; some people are unfortunate enough to get involved in that kind of thing [getting in trouble with the police]. But basically there are people that do as a general rule and people that don’t, and my kind of people don’t.

Here, we can explicitly see distinctions which closely relate to individuals who abide by middle-

class standards, i.e. those “that don’t”, compared to the street kind “that do”. Neither

programmed excluded volunteers if they had a criminal record (Dhami and Joy, 2007: 17;

Ministry of Justice, 2015), and at least one retired volunteer informed me about a violent gang

he was part of as a young boy in Glasgow; however, he emphasised that the street lifestyle was

far behind him. Another male volunteer hinted at being involved in recent fights.

Whereas some volunteers felt uncomfortable discussing class (cf. Sayer, 2002, 2005:

3), others more openly discussed apparent social differences. When asked whether the

volunteers represented the community, one female volunteer suggested that

we’re all going to be kind of middle class, so we’re not truly representative of society, but we are more so than if we came from a particular strata of society than if we came from the police or whatever. So we’re as varied as we can be.

Harriet and I also discussed whether she felt as though from the same community as the other

participants. She explained that there were differences, particularly in the complexity of the

family structures and life events experienced by those involved in the programme. Another

female volunteer hinted at a reason for the seeming difference in the class of participants and

volunteers: “people who feel that they should put something back into the community have a

tendency to be kind of from the professional- or middle-class, or whatever you’d like to call

that.” In each of these instances, the volunteers acknowledged that they were from a different

socioeconomic background than other participants.

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Volunteers and programme staff often referred to vocal accent to distinguish

backgrounds. An example Harriet offered in order to illustrate her difference, even from close

friends, was by reference to accent:

I was interviewed for [a local voluntary initiative] and I heard myself speak, and I didn’t realise how I sounded. I had no idea how I sounded, I was horrified. I sounded so awfully, awfully, “awfully” [imitating an exaggerated, well-enunciated accent]. I think it was mixed with everyone else’s, you know, Corby accent; and there was mine. [...] A friend once said to me, “you’ve been to my work, haven’t you?” And I asked how did she know it was me? She said people at work asked her, “how do you know such a posh person?” and she instantly knew who it was!

Similarly, volunteers used accent to differentiate class among themselves. On two occasions,

volunteers referred to one another by reference to the one “with the posh accent”; or, when

sharing accounts of what had taken place in a conference, one would adopt an exaggerated

accent to illustrate what another had said. During a YOS training workshop, for example, a

YOS employee roleplayed the volunteer character and used an inflated, well-enunciated accent.

In contrast to the depiction of the volunteer, the YOS employee in role of the young offender

wore tracksuit trousers tucked into socks, trainers, and a backwards baseball cap – a style of

dress common in Paul’s community.

Another factor which distinguishes volunteers from other participants is locality.

Sometimes volunteers were from the same county or town as other participants, and, on some

occasions, even close to socioeconomically disadvantaged areas. Nevertheless, on the whole,

volunteers tended to live in less deprived places than other participants. Harriet and Paul, for

instance, were from the same area of Corby. However, rather than as from the Lincoln estate,

Harriet referred to her home as on Kingswood; Kingswood being a more respectable address

than the roughness associated with the Lincoln. In a similar way, another volunteer described

herself as from “the old Lodge Park”, which she explained distinguishes where she lived from

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“the new Lodge Park”. New Lodge Park is a newer-built estate more reflective of the Lincoln

in terms of its warren-like architecture and is presently known for housing more

socioeconomically vulnerable residents. Yet another volunteer described the area where he

lived in the following way: “I do live close to quite a criminally irresponsible estate [. . .] so we

do sort of share the facilities.” Thus, locality distinctions made by some volunteers indicated

an awareness of areas as more deprived than their own. Still other volunteers lived in starkly

more advantaged areas than Paul’s estate.

A limited number of volunteers described themselves as coming from comparable

backgrounds to other categories of participant. One suggested that she came from the same

community as her participants because she was brought up in an area full of “drugs, murders,

and muggings”; two volunteers referred to their “rough” council estates, one of whom also

described herself as “common as muck”; and another volunteer referred to herself as “a down-

to-earth Corby girl” because she wore pyjamas straight after her teaching work, sat on the sofa,

and watched Jeremy Kyle. Further, one female volunteer empathised with a mother’s

difficulties with her daughter in the NRF programme. The volunteer reflected on her

involvement in the restorative conference:

There was one case that I dealt with that was quite near to what I went through with my daughter […] but I wanted to do it ’cus it was close to home […] it was difficult remembering what I’d been through […] I spoke to the mother afterwards and said I completely understand where you’re coming from, not giving any details, and the mother kind of relaxed a little bit. ’Cus I know the worst thing, when I was going through it, was when I felt like other people were pointing the finger at me and I didn’t want her to think that’s what we were doing which is why I said it.

My data indicate that, whereas volunteers from socioeconomically advantaged backgrounds

might offer sympathy to families involved in the criminal justice programmes, volunteers from

comparable backgrounds could empathise with the participants involved, exemplified in the

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example above. Being able to relate in this way meant that instead of “feeling sorry” for

participants, a volunteer could understand and offer a mother of a young misbehaving person

reassurance that “it will get better”.

Susan was a volunteer who expressed an understanding of the chaotic lifestyles of

some of the young offenders; she explained to me that she had been brought up in care and

therefore knew what it was like to grow up with insecurity. She described her family and

neighbours as “from more of a lower-class background than higher-class background”. In

comparison, Susan described the other volunteers in the following way:

I think some of them are quite high up, ’cus from the ones I’ve known so far, they’ve had quite a good background experience in the criminal justice system professionally, or they’ve had quite good professional jobs, and I think they’re more of a middle to higher social class.

Susan’s self-described her background as similar to offenders, who were “more from the lower

classes.” She did, however, distinguish herself from some of the community-of-care members

because, while some parents appeared committed, according to Susan, others did not care.

That was something she could not relate to – not meeting the respectable standards of

parenting. Like women in Paul’s community, Susan emphasised her role as a mother, and her

intentions to return to work once her children left home. She described her current home as

having an “open-door policy” so that her children and their friends could feel comfortable to

spend time there. And like Paul, Susan effectively counselled other young people in her area,

listening to their problems, and making herself available as someone to whom they could talk.

This role motivated Susan to complete an Open University degree in criminology, and she

hoped eventually to find a job in criminal justice to continue supporting young people in need.

One commonality between most volunteers in my dataset was an awareness of the

street field, as explained here by the NRF coordinator:

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A lot of the people we’ve come into contact with as offenders tend to come from difficult social backgrounds – council tenants, unemployed single-parent families etc., etc. – which isn’t the case of a majority of volunteers who tend to come from more – I wouldn’t call them middle class – more working-class-employed-professional-type people, really. But because most of them are local, and they’ve got lots of local contacts through family, friends, and work, I think they’ve got an ability and potential to empathise and know the communities, and understand some of the issues that have brought them to our contact.

Harriet, while appearing middle class, ultimately understood the need for young persons to

adapt to “street” culture in certain circumstances. For example, example Harriet discussed her

own children growing up in the area. She described her son as a “natural boxer”, who attended

the local boxing club on the estate. One time, Harriet’s son was at a party, where he was

confronted by another Corby boy who started to “square up” to him. In response, Harriet’s

son punched the boy. Following this, Harriet said her son never had any problems again –

“the rumour mill took over”. Harriet explained how conflicted she felt about her children

being involved in situations such as these: on the one hand, she worried when she heard about

her son fighting, as he could have been hurt, and she had wished he never punched anyone;

but on the other hand, Harriet felt relieved that he was able to look out for himself. Harriet’s

reluctant acceptance of her son’s behaviour resembles Anderson’s observation that young

persons from “decent families” need to “code switch” in order to survive growing up in street

areas (1999; Horowitz, 1983). In her role as a mother, like Harriet, Susan also expressed an

understanding of the need to code switch, encouraging her children to have friends from all

walks of life, so they were aware of the world and had some street wisdom.

In terms of social class, YOS volunteers seemed to be more diverse than NRF

volunteers in my sample. A YOS staff member singled out Corby volunteers, in particular, as

having less pronounced class differences than those from other parts of the county.

Differences between NRF and YOS volunteers seemed partially related to the recruitment

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strategies. The NRF approached prospective volunteers through local neighbourhood

associations, and “Corby Unity”, an association of volunteers set up by a local civil-society

organisation. As such, they asked interested individuals, who already had experience of

volunteering, to put themselves forward for training as restorative facilitators. Moreover, the

NRF programme managers strategically “cherry-picked” certain prospective facilitators: some

were colleagues who had worked in criminal justice before, and others were working in schools

or for the council. Those volunteering for YOS, by contrast, tended to learn about the

opportunity through internet searches or personal inquiries made directly to the organisation

(see Rosenblatt, 2015 for a detailed description of recruitment strategies implemented by

YOS).

In terms of gender and ethnicity, the NRF and YOS were more alike. In YOS, I

worked with 11 volunteers on the panels during my research period, seven of whom were

female, and four of whom were male. During the NRF conferences, I worked with 10

volunteers; eight females and two males. This ratio of female to male volunteers is in line with

other studies (Biermann and Moulton, 2003; Crawford and Newburn, 2002a: 483). The

majority of volunteers I met during the research period were white volunteers, which is

reflective of the demographics of the town (Nomis, 2011a). There were at least one (or two,

if I include myself) black, minority, or ethnic (BME) volunteers involved in the NRF

programme. In the countywide YOS volunteer training I attended, there were three (or again,

four including me) BME volunteers, out of 11 volunteers trained. At least three of the YOS

BME volunteers sat on panels. These were primarily people who would be recorded as Black

or Indian-Asian on the standard equal opportunity monitoring form. Neither programme

succeeded in recruiting volunteers from Traveller or Polish backgrounds, which were two

ethnic groups represented among some victims and offenders in the dataset.

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5.4. Sectionsummary

This overview of participants in the restorative programmes I observed indicates similarities

and differences with members of Paul’s community. Offenders were often from Paul’s

community, and, like members of Paul’s community, they tended to lack scholastic-cultural

capital, while exhibiting elements of street-cultural capital, such as legal cynicism, as well as

involvement in offending behaviour. Victims were more diverse than the offenders. Some

victims appeared to possess elements of street capital, such as those who understood the need

for young persons to defend themselves, as well as their socioeconomic status in low-waged

insecure labour. Further, victims sometimes expressed cynical attitudes toward the police.

Other victims, however, were quite distinct from members of Paul’s community, coming from

professional backgrounds, and being more disposed to scholastic-cultural capital. This latter

category of victims is representative of volunteers, none of whom displayed legally cynical

attitudes, and most of whom displayed high levels of scholastic-cultural capital in the domain

of higher educational achievement. Thus, I have an answer to my first research question: In

the restorative justice programmes I observed, volunteers are not representative of the

majority of other participants, at least in relation to their class background.

Having demonstrated differences in the class backgrounds of participants, in the next

section I move on to examine what these differences meant in practice. Is there a trend for

volunteers to be well-supplied with scholastic-cultural capital because this is what is required

for the volunteer role, or is the prevalence of scholastic-cultural capital in the volunteer

community unnecessary? Moreover, what effects stem from some participants having large

stocks of scholastic capital, while other participants are restricted in the scholastic field? I

address these issues in relation to my second research question, which considers whether

participants’ class disempowers them during restorative justice measures. I do this by returning

to the notion of symbolic violence.

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Isrestorativejusticeanarenaforsymbolicviolence?

I introduced symbolic violence in my discussion of Bourdieu in Chapter 2. To recap, Bourdieu

uses the term “symbolic violence” to describe figurative battles that are fought unequally in

various fields, depending on individuals’ stock of economic, social, and cultural capitals, and

how well suited their habitus is to the field. Bourdieu often discusses the field of education, in

which young persons with a stock of legitimate cultural capital tend to excel, taking to

scholastic endeavours seemingly as naturals (Bourdieu, 2000; Maton, 2008: 57–58). Unseen

and unacknowledged, however, is a wealth of transferable skills which advantaged young

people have embodied before even entering school. Bourdieu argues that when children

without these skills compare themselves with children who have them, they come to believe

that their own failure is a result of their inherent weakness, rather than as a result of their

disadvantage. And importantly, symbolic violence is unacknowledged by those encountering

it, since they presume it to be the natural order of things.

In this section, I wish to return to the notion of symbolic violence by exploring how

restorative justice may create a battleground for symbolic power to be fought over, to which

some participants come more equipped than others. Indeed, in explaining symbolic violence,

Bourdieu describes the field of law as

the form par excellence of the symbolic power of naming and classifying that creates the things named, and particularly groups; it confers upon the realities emerging out of its operations of classification all the permanence, that of things, that a historical institution is capable of granting to historical institutions. (Bourdieu, 1986a; Bourdieu and Wacquant, 1992: 273–274).

Thus, according to Bourdieu, the labelling that takes place within the legal system and the legal

process can be seen as an obvious form of symbolic power at play. Restorative justice was

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born from discontent with the traditional legal system, and a desire to move away from a state-

centred form of justice to one in which participants themselves have the power to resolve their

own conflicts (Christie, 1977; McCold, 2000). We might, therefore, expect symbolic violence

to be less pronounced in the restorative justice process. However, with respect to certain

communicative aspects, I suggest that restorative justice has the potential to worsen power

imbalances, since engagement in the process relies on a particular set of skills and a habitus

which some participants do not have. In this context, symbolic violence ultimately occurs since

the process assumes that participants are on a level playing field and thus fails to appreciate

the differential starting points of participants. However, in recognition of restorative justice

advocates’ aim to reduce the harm caused by traditional criminal justice processes, a fairer,

more relevant description of what I observed might be symbolic harm.42

I propose that restorative justice is a forum which privileges individuals with large

stocks of scholastic-cultural capital in at least two ways. First, the skills required for an

individual to volunteer as a restorative justice facilitator are those developed through engaging

in the scholastic field. Second, participants with enhanced scholastic capitals will be in

advantaged positions to secure their interests during a restorative conference, to the detriment

of those without such capitals. In the next subsection, I lay out the case for how restorative

justice preferences volunteers with scholastic-cultural capital. Thereafter, I focus on how the

communicative nature of restorative justice disadvantages individuals from working-class

backgrounds, while further enhancing the position of middle-class participants. By the end of

this section, we will see how restorative justice may involve symbolic harm.

42 With thanks to my doctoral examiners, Shadd Maruna and Ben Bradford, for this helpful suggestion and discussion.

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5.5. Apreferenceforlegitimateculturalcapital

In the previous section, I demonstrated that volunteers in my sample had achieved relative

success in the scholastic field, compared to offenders and some victims. Programmes might

want to attract volunteers with scholastic-cultural capital because such skills and abilities are

perceived (rightly or wrongly), both by the programmes themselves and those interested, to

be well-suited for the volunteer role. Indeed, perhaps the skillset required of a restorative

justice facilitator, and thus required of volunteers who come to take on these roles, does, in

fact, mirror the skills an individual develops during her progression in the scholastic field. In

this subsection, I discuss the volunteer requirements and assess how necessary they were for

the role in practice.

The Ministry of Justice “Guidance” for the recruitment of volunteers in YOS, which

was inspired by restorative principles, suggests that the opportunity to volunteer is open to all

regardless of a person’s social background (Ministry of Justice, 2015: 21). Importantly, for our

purposes, the document states that “[t]he selection criteria are based on personal qualities

rather than professional qualifications” (Ministry of Justice, 2015: 19). Despite this seeming

openness to volunteers from various backgrounds, irrespective of their qualifications, the list

of required “personal qualities” appear to be skills that a person develops in the scholastic

field.

The “required personal qualities” outlined in the Guidance fall under five headings: 1)

motivation, 2) good character, 3) communication skills, 4) sound temperament, and 5)

commitment and reliability (Ministry of Justice, 2015: 19–20). A full list of the personal skills

is outlined in Figure 5.a. While the motivation element – “a commitment to working with

young offenders and parents to prevent further crime and with victims to deal with the

consequences of crime” – is unlikely to discriminate against socioeconomic groups, other

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qualities are.43 Take, for example, the quality of “good character”, which includes “integrity”.

In Paul’s community, integrity could be seen to involve speaking one’s mind and saying what

one thinks; however, this may conflict with the requirement to be “level-headed” and have an

“ability to remain calm”. Moreover, other requirements such as confidentiality and working

without prejudice are skills more commonly cultivated within service and professional based

industries, rather than manufacturing ones. Consequently, workers from industries where

these skills are developed may feel more suited to apply for this type of volunteering position.

The quality of “sound temperament” requires volunteers to be able to work alongside other

panel members, which includes criminal justice agents, a task which individuals with legally

cynical views may find challenging. Finally, the quality of “commitment and reliability” may

preference individuals such as students and retired persons with free time to spare. Individuals

working rotating shifts in factories, or with family commitments, will be at especially

disadvantaged here. Recall the young mother in Paul’s community who justified leaving her

workplace to take care of her child, even though it resulted in her being fired from the job; as

she posted on Facebook, “family comes first”.

Here, I will focus on the requirement for volunteers to have good “communication

skills”. In Figure 5.a., the following specified characteristics for “communication” are effective

listening and communication skills; an ability to understand documents, to identify and

comprehend relevant facts, and to follow arguments; and an ability to think logically, to weigh

arguments and to reach logical conclusions (Ministry of Justice, 2015: 19). We can see how

these skills are not class-neutral by returning to Lareau’s work. Instead, these skills resemble

those in middle-class skillsets, developed in the course of “concerted cultivation”, i.e. active

discussion between children and adults, a stress on the importance of reasoning, problem-

43 Koen might argue that the requirement to be willing to conform to legitimate norms, by not engaging in criminality, is indeed class specific (2007: 251).

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solving through negotiation, and a familiarity with abstract concepts, among others (Lareau,

2011: 16–19). Therefore, YOS does not require its applicants to institutionalise their cultural

capital by obtaining qualifications (Bourdieu, 1986b), successful applicants nevertheless must

possess many of the skills necessary to obtain such qualifications.

Unlike the YOS volunteer recruitment process, which was governed by the Guidance

document, the NRF programme used less formal regulations for the recruitment of volunteers.

Instead, NRF recruited volunteers through word of mouth, and suitable volunteers were

“cherry picked” from the community. The NRF advertised opportunities to volunteer through

pre-existing neighbourhood associations, which resulted in a heavy selection bias for those

who had prior experience of volunteering and those who excelled in professions such as

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education, criminal justice, the civil service, and youth work. Again, they did not require

volunteers to have obtained qualifications, but nevertheless preferred volunteers with

enhanced experience, and hence the skills, in these areas. The seeming reliance of both

institutions on similar skillsets raises the question: are these skills unduly favoured, or are they

required for the volunteer role?

In addition to representing, symbolically, the community harmed by an offence

(Biermann and Moulton, 2003), the volunteer role was a pragmatic one: to facilitate the face-

to-face conference in the NRF, or conduct youth offender panel meetings in YOS. While the

NRF and YOS forums were quite distinct, volunteers followed a script in both programmes.

The NRF conferences employed the Restorative Solutions script,44 and the YOS panels used

a template of five basic restorative questions,45 with additional information about Referral

Orders included. In both programmes, volunteers were able to, and indeed often did, depart

from these scripts; the scripts thus served as a basic framework.

Since volunteers in these programmes acted as facilitators, my observations indicate

that they required certain facilitation skills. Similar to the skills outlined in the Guidance notes

above, these included the ability for volunteers to follow written instructions, and have a

sufficient reading competency. The NRF script was particularly detailed. Having personally

attempted the facilitation role myself, I found the script challenging to read since it required

processing and following a large amount of unfamiliar information. Other volunteers likewise

expressed difficulty with the amount of information. As a result, the NRF coordinator opted

44 For an example of a comparative restorative script given by Restorative Justice Solutions following training see: https://www.iirp.edu/article_detail.php?article_id=NjYy 45 The restorative questions are reflective of the above footnoted script, but adapted for YOS purposes.

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to move onto the “simple script”46 midway through my empirical research. This made the

process easier for some of the volunteers I interviewed.

Once volunteers had grasped the script, they were then required to have clear

communication skills to facilitate the conferences effectively. Volunteers described, for

example, a particular volunteer who retired from the programme before my research began:

he had a broad Irish accent which made it difficult for participants to understand his questions.

I was unable to interview this volunteer; however, two volunteers and two participant

offenders referred to his accent as difficult to understand, which indicates that regional accents

may prevent certain groups from being effective facilitators. Accordingly, an accent-barrier

could have implications where ethnicity is concerned. Speaking with a heavy Traveller accent

or being a non-native speaker of English, for example, could limit or prevent participation,

especially in a facilitation role (cf. Albrecht, 2010; Choi and Severson, 2009; Davidheiser, 2008;

Gavrielides, 2014).

Furthermore, volunteers with certain disabilities may lack the required skills to

facilitate the scripted conference; such obstacles could be conceived in terms of how health

capital may affect a person’s opportunity to participate fully in a conference. For example, I

met one volunteer through the NRF programme who explained how his dyslexia caused him

difficulties with reading and writing – a difficulty also shared by many of the young offenders

with whom I worked – which created challenges for him as a facilitator. And, indeed, the

volunteer’s ability to read through the script comprehensively, during the two conferences I

observed him facilitate, did seem to be affected by his disability. The volunteer overcame this

obstacle by memorising the script; consequently, he excelled in further conferences.

46 This script is also provided by Restorative Solutions as part of the volunteer training pack. Instead of a multiple page document, all of the questions were on one page, making it easier to follow, though lacking the detail of the complex script.

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Additionally, the same volunteer experienced notable difficulty writing the contract which

summarised conference discussion and outcomes, and so other volunteers took over this role.

Disability, as well as class, should not be a barrier to volunteering opportunities, and examples

such as these highlight the importance for measures to be in place in order to ensure

accessibility to all. We may, however, question the feasibility to implement such measures

when programmes such as the NRF have limited budgets, and rely on the raw skills embodied

by volunteers to keep them afloat.

Beyond working with a script, the facilitation role appears to be a complex task, which

requires advanced skills to ensure participants are not harmed. In addition to the usual

facilitation skills, facilitating restorative conferences necessitates an awareness of victims’ and

offenders’ needs, the psychological effects of offending, the stages of grief and other mental

health concerns, an awareness of inequality, and more (Latimer et al., 2005; Souza and Dhami,

2008: 31; Weisberg, 2003). It seems to me that by learning these skills properly, volunteers

partly transcend their layperson status (Crawford, 2002: 121–122). Moreover, cultivating these

skills in volunteers further distances them from working-class participants, which reduces their

representativeness. These factors combine, then, to cast serious doubt on why volunteers are

recruited in the first instance; if not as community representatives, then perhaps volunteers

simply offer a cheaper alternative to criminal justice professionals (Crawford, 2002: 121).

Indeed, restorative justice programmes undermine the rationale for representative

volunteers when they preference the skills more commonly found among middle-class

individuals, and then further advantage these individuals by affording them limited

opportunities to enhance these skills. Crawford and Clear, for example, worry that a small

group of community volunteers might be able to take the skills of restorative justice as

exclusive individualised benefits, rather than these opportunities being widely available (2001:

140). Moreover, Green et al. highlight how individuals trained in restorative justice obtain

further advantage since they are able to acquire “restorative capital” (2014). In their study,

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employees with certain “people skills” were more likely to take to restorative justice than those

who found the restorative justice process “alien and struggled with its communicative style”

(Green et al., 2014: 56). Those who took well to the restorative justice approach were then

noted by Green et al. to acquire additional status and power within the workplace. I suggest

that restorative justice training in the geographical community context has a similar, generative

effect on advantage: enhancing the skills of the privileged leads to their personal

empowerment, while further oppressing those who are unable to access these restorative

capitals.

To summarise, my data indicate that there is a preference for volunteers with

scholastic-cultural capital in restorative justice programmes and that the skills which such

capital comprises are indeed required to perform the volunteer role. Accordingly, the

programmes create a selection bias for volunteers with scholastic capital, more commonly

cultivated among the middle classes, to the exclusion of those lacking such capital. It is not

possible simply to afford disadvantaged individuals the opportunity to develop restorative

skills since their habitus will not be suited to the field; more resources and upskilling efforts

would be required. Studies indicate that the middle classes will always be ahead of the working

classes in generating legitimate cultural capital, because they can use stocks of economic capital

and social capital to stay ahead of the game (Ball, 2003: 177; Kirk, 2007: 46; Reay, 2000: 578;

Willis, 1977). Legitimate cultural capital cannot be possessed by all; wider, radical, structural

changes would be required. Moreover, in Chapter 2, I suggested that working-class groups are

less likely to acquire advanced scholastic capital to the same levels as middle-class groups since

different skillsets are required for families growing up in “street” environments compared to

“decent” environments.

This subsection has highlighted the exclusionary nature of restorative justice

volunteering opportunities. In the next subsection, I reflect on power imbalances in greater

depth by displaying how differential levels of scholastic-cultural capital can disempower

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working-class participants within the restorative justice process as well. To demonstrate this,

I focus on classed styles of communication.

5.6. Communication:Anunequalplayingfield

Communication is essential to all human beings, regardless of gender, ethnicity, class, and

health or disability. However, individuals and groups communicate in diverse ways. I propose

that the restorative justice model, and especially the scripted model, is a form of

communication which preferences scholastic-cultural capital since it requires formulaic

processes which involve listening and response, and developing an extended vocabulary to

articulate one’s thoughts and feelings. Yet, some participants in restorative justice have not

developed these skills. Instead, they embody a greater stock of street-cultural capital, which

comprises at least an ability to follow directives, to avoid answering back, and to use language

in a simple and practical way, thereby keeping things short and simple (Lareau, 2011: 118–

123). Accordingly, as Lareau observed of her working-class participants, the working class

have neither the linguistic nor conversational skills of their middle-class counterparts (2011:

118).

In Chapter 4, I identified several conflict resolution methods among the sampled

working-class community. For example, consider the mother who confronted a teacher in the

playground, and the mother who “won” an argument by shouting louder than the teacher,

who consequently backed down. Participants on Jeremy Kyle’s television show employ a

similar technique, where arguments involve shouting, threatening language, and violent

demeanours. In conflicts such as these, the best verbal or logical argument does not “win” –

the loudest voice does. Working-class skills might be suited to asserting interests in forums

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such as these;47 however, in formalised processes, working-class participants risk being silenced

(Charlesworth, 2000: 137). Cultural capital which preferences the power of the voice is of no

advantage in restorative justice; the rules of the game are middle class, and working-class

participants will necessarily be lesser equipped. For working-class participants, the process of

speaking in these formal settings is uncomfortable and unfamiliar; by contrast, the middle-

class participant seems a natural to restorative justice.

The very act of being required to speak in a restorative conference was overtly

distressing for several of my research participants. In three cases, mothers who attended NRF

conferences as victim and offender supporters mentioned before the conferences began that

they “don’t like speaking in public”, or did not feel comfortable to answer the questions.

Further, a female adult victim expressed reservations about having to speak in a room full of

people, and her friend accompanied her to speak on her behalf if required. There were two

additional female attendees who mentioned that they had medically diagnosed anxiety

conditions, which affected their ability to talk in front of others. And, in one case, a male

offender and his brother had gone to a public-house for a pint of larger before the conference,

to give them the “Dutch courage” to enter the room. These responses recall an observation

by Charlesworth:

There are several tensions involved in asking people to speak who do not feel socially instituted to hold opinions [. . .] in formal situations, because they feel that they do not possess the instruments to satisfy the requirements of public, official language, they experience a personal tension that tends to lead them to the ultimate euphemization of silence (2000: 136–137).

47 Although The Jeremy Kyle Show encourages working-class participants to settle disputes using street skills (shouting and fighting is good for ratings), the television studio where these disputes take place is not a street field. Comments made by the host, Jeremy Kyle, are laden with value judgements against guests who fail to meet middle-class standards of respectability. The Jeremy Kyle Show is an example of symbolic violence taken to new heights.

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To demonstrate the differential abilities in communication evident during restorative justice

conferencing, I present two contrasting cases I observed during my research period. The first

case, “Defending honour”, involves a fight between two schoolgirls. The victim was supported

by her mother, and the offender was accompanied by her social worker. Both girls lived on

my estate and were from Paul’s community. The second case I present involves a dispute

between two middle-class families in a neighbouring village. As such, neither family was from

my estate nor were they members of Paul’s community.

Defending Honour

A teenage girl and mother stood looking out of the police station window, in a small room at the side of the staff canteen. On the other side of the room, two women were building a circle with office chairs. A middle-aged volunteer, named Jessica, shared difficulties about caring for elderly parents with Sam, another volunteer in her early twenties.

“Grace, would you like to help yourself to water?” Jessica said, holding a chair, and nodding towards a jug of water on the corner table. Grace headed over to the table and poured water from the jug into a white, plastic cup.

“And for Mum?” Jessica prompted.

Without answering, Grace poured another plastic cup of water and carried two cups over to the window. Her mother took the drink, checked her phone, and then continued to look out of the window.

“The circle is ready. You can sit down if you like,” Sam said, holding the back of one of the chairs. “Grace here, and Mum next to her.”

The mother and daughter sat down.

Jessica continued to explain the problems she was having – a greedy solicitor wanted to charge to look for a copy of the power of attorney.

“£200, can you believe it, just to look!” Jessica said. “Do you hear that, Grace? You want to keep your eye on a career like that.”

“I’m not good in school,” Grace said, her neck drooped into her shoulders.

“Oh, what subjects do you like?” Jessica asked.

“Dance.”

“Yes?” Jessica said.

“Umm, drama.”

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Grace’s mother frowned as Grace spoke.

“A budding actress, how lovely! Do you do that in school?” Jessica continued.

“Yes. I wish all lessons were like it.”

“Pipe down,” Grace’s mother warned her daughter.

The programme coordinator popped his head around the door, and beckoned Jessica and Sam out of the room.

The mother murmured to her daughter something about acting normal. Their stilted conversation seemed one which neither party felt comfortable with.

A few minutes later, Stacy entered the room, accompanied by a social worker. Red blotches on Stacy’s face, and wrinkles on her forehead indicated her annoyance at being there. Stacy’s eyes were fixed to the floor.

The volunteers guided Stacy to her seat, on the opposite side of the circle to Grace. Stacy’s social worker sat next to her. The volunteers then completed the circle, sitting either side, in-between the harmer and the harmed. The NRF coordinator sat on a chair outside of the circle. I sat next to him, also outside the circle.

Jessica led the facilitation. She introduced reasons why everyone was there, to talk about Stacy assaulting Grace on the walk home from school, and she invited everyone in the circle to introduce themselves. Jessica listed the ground rules: “phones on silent, everyone respects when someone is speaking by not interrupting, and no swearing.”

Jessica began the conference by asking Stacy about the incident.

“Stacy, can you tell us what happened?”

“She called my mum a tramp so I pulled her hair.”

“Anything else?”

“I kicked her.”

[. . .]

“Who do you think was affected by your actions?”

Stacy scrunched a piece of paper in her hand, and pulled at it as though it were a rope in a tug of war.

“Grace was hurt,” Stacy said. She paused. “And her mum.”

“Anyone else?” Jessica asked. When Stacy shook her head, Jessica suggested, “Were you affected, going through all of this? Your family, maybe?”

Stacy nodded, twisting the paper into a tight knot.

“Good. Thank you, Stacy.” Jessica turned to the other side. “Grace, would you like to say what happened?”

“I was walking home,” Grace began, “and Stacy said what you looking at? Then she pulled my ponytail, and kicked me.”

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“How did you feel at the time?”

“It hurt.”

“Anything else?”

“Scared, ’cus like I don’t know why she done it.”

“And how do you feel now?”

“Crap.”

“We don’t use swearing in here,” Jessica reminded Grace, who looked down and muttered an apology.

[. . .]

Grace’s mother was given a chance to speak about the event.

“When Grace came back to the flat with blood on her face, we were worried. We didn’t know if she had a tooth knocked out or was hurt in another way.”

“And how did you feel at the time?” Jessica asked.

Grace’s mother took a moment to think of an answer. “Umm, distressed.”

“Anything else you felt?”

“Yes, we was distressed ’cus of the blood. Her face was bad.”

“Thank you,” Jessica smiled, “and how do you feel now?”

“Distressed seeing her like that,” Grace’s mother said. She appeared uneasy with the questions. “We didn’t know if it was going to happen again. We wanted to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

When the conversation didn’t move on, Grace’s mother shifted in her chair, “we’re here ’cus Grace wanted to do this.”

[. . .]

Stacy’s social worker was then given a chance to offer her insight on the events, acting as a proxy for Stacy’s mother.

“Stacy’s mum was very disappointed when she heard about what Stacy did. She appreciates that Stacy was trying to stick up for the family, but she is upset that she did it in this way.”

“And how did you hear about it?” Jessica asked.

“I heard about it the next day when Stacy’s mum called to say what had happened. I was shocked to hear Stacy had done this.”

[. . .]

After hearing everything that had been said, Stacy was given a chance to speak again. She offered one-word answers to state she had nothing more to say, and she agreed that her actions had caused harm.

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When asked what she could do to repair the harm, Stacy eventually mumbled the word, “Sorry.” She stared at the carpet; a sign she had finished speaking.

[. . .]

Jessica gave Grace a chance to speak again. “Grace, what would you like to come out of this meeting?”

“I want to know why it happened? Why did you batter me?”

“You were bad mouthing ma mum and family.”

“No, I wasn’t. I didn’t say anything.”

“You did. I heard it with ma own ears. Michele and Becky heard it too.”

“Why did Becky film it?” Grace asked.

“Becky always films fights.”

The discussion departed off script, and the coordinator coughed from outside of the circle; a sign for the voluntary facilitator to regain control.

Jessica asked Grace if she’d said anything about Stacy’s family. Grace denied she had. Jessica then tried to ask Stacy if there was a chance she “misheard” or “misunderstood” that Grace had said something. Stacy unwaveringly denied this possibility, again reiterating that her friends had heard it too. Jessica looked to the coordinator, and then back into the circle.

“Grace,” Jessica said, “I am not able to get an agreement on what was said for you.”

[. . .]

Stacy agreed to apologise and not hurt Grace again. Grace agreed that this would be okay.

Sam, the second facilitator, summed up what had been discussed, and that an apology had been offered, which could either be given in the circle or on the way out. Stacy said she had already apologised. The social worker confirmed that Stacy had said sorry earlier. Tension between the girls hung in the air. The conference had ended.

For the purposes of this section, I wish to focus on the communicative aspects of the

conference. There are a number of examples where participants gave one-word answers to the

restorative questions. Grace’s mother used the word “distressed” three times to explain how

she felt when she found out Grace was hurt. Although she tried to expand on this answer,

giving a brief description of the blood and possible further damage, the mother had difficulty

describing her feelings far beyond this. She justified being present because Grace wanted to

be involved in the process, rather than because she herself wished to speak about it. As in

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Lareau’s work (2011: 172), there is a risk here that the mother’s behaviour and limited response

could be misinterpreted as uninterested or uncaring. However, in the context of the

community, we can read off a thicker description and interpret the mother’s limited response

as her discomfort with speaking in the formal process, and the conference’s being unfamiliar,

scripted, and inside the police station. Charlesworth found his research participants

encountered similar hurdles, with respect to speaking in even semi-formal processes (2000:

136). Moreover, Grace’s mother may have had a limited vocabulary to express herself beyond

feeling “distressed”. The word is simple, and to the point; thus, it served its purpose (Lareau,

2011: 94).

A further significant issue in the example was the volunteer’s introduction of “ground

rules” at the start of the conference. Ground rules were common to all of the conferences I

observed, although their content slightly differed. They often included prescriptions such as

to respect what others have to say, to give all an opportunity to speak, to speak only on one’s

turn, and so forth. Some volunteers, like Jessica, further forbade swearing. In the above

example, this rule further silenced the female teenage victim, already struggling to express

herself. Asked how she now felt, Grace answered “crap”; in response, the volunteer reminded

Grace “We don’t use swearing here”. The victim apologised, and continued to labour with her

limited descriptive vocabulary when prompted to speak. Likewise, Charlesworth illustrates the

same word being used by one of his interviewees, who, when asked what she thought of the

town she lived in, offered the single-word answer: “crap” (2000: 114). Yet Charlesworth

explains how this offered the woman’s full and honest answer to the question; the simple word

had depth of meaning. Given a similarity of background, it is plausible that Grace’s answer

too was honest and direct, yet the rules of the game forbade and dismissed it. Thus, we can

see how class impacts on both the speaker’s meaning of language used, and the receiver’s

alternative understanding of it.

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While YOS panels did not adopt ground rules, some volunteers did prescribe their

accepted standards during panel meetings I observed: young persons should avoid swearing,

remove a hat or hood during the meeting, sit up straight, not mumble, or remove certain items

of clothing, such as the wearing of a single glove that indicated gang membership. These

ground rules or implicit standards form a normative structure within which participants, used

to a different set of norms, are required to operate. This normative dissonance can have a

profound effect, and the imposition of a set of norms upon those unfamiliar with them

possibly comprises microaggressions (Sue, 2010). Requiring working-class participants to meet

middle-class standards affirms to all participants that these are middle-class forums, where

middle-class rules apply. The most disadvantaged participants will always be the ones least able

to meet these apparently natural or neutral standards. Symbolic harm ultimately occurs.

The inability to speak during restorative processes may produce detrimental effects.

Offenders who struggled to speak during the restorative conferences and youth offender

panels I observed were most likely assumed to be uncommitted to the process, sometimes

described as only “paying lip service” to the conference aims, in contrast to more verbal

offenders who were better able to participate. Similarly, silent parents were deemed less

concerned than active parents, who were able to engage with volunteers in these processes.

Victims’ skills in communication were particularly crucial in the process, since this is the

primary medium through which participants can express the level of harm. Victims who

struggled to express themselves were unable to fully relay the severity of the offence, in

contrast with more socioeconomically advantaged victims. I will return to this issue, after

presenting the second case: “An awful bite”.

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An awful bite An incident occurred in a nearby village. Just before Christmas, a teenager opened the front door of his parents’ cottage, accidently allowing one of the family German Shephard dogs to escape. At the same time, a grandfather was walking along the path with his two granddaughters. The escaped dog ran up to the smallest child, and bit her on the leg and shoulder. The girl was taken to the hospital, and the matter reported to the police.

The victim’s family were offered a community resolution by the police officer, which involved an apology from the dog owners, and a requirement that the owners take measures to ensure it would never happen again. In error, the policeman in charge of the case thought that the victim’s family had accepted the community resolution, and the case was closed. However, some months later, the victims contacted the police to ask about the progress of their case. The victims did not realise that the matter was closed; they had not agreed to a community resolution outcome. For an alternative response, the police offered the victims an NRF face-to-face restorative conference instead. As an all-or-nothing option, the victims agreed to the conference.

In preparation for the conference, I accompanied the NRF coordinator on two home visits: one to the victim’s family to meet the mother and father of the child who was injured, and one to the offender’s family to meet the mother and father of the young person who had accidently let the dog out of the house. Both sides seemed angry and emotional about the conflict but agreed to a restorative justice meeting.

The conference was arranged to take place at the police station, attended by both sets of parents and the police officer who had made the error. Additionally, the grandfather of the little girl who was bitten was present; however, no preparatory meeting or discussion between him and the coordinator had taken place beforehand. I co-facilitated the conference with the experienced NRF coordinator.

When I arrived at the police station on the day of the conference, the NRF coordinator, Matthew, had already set up the circle. Matthew explained that he had not had a chance to talk to the grandfather, Mr Owen, and he was a little worried since he always talks to everyone before a forum.

Matthew: “I’m unsure about Mr Owen; I don’t even know if he’s dangerous! But he’s educated so you’d hope he’d be okay. I’m going to go carefully through all the ground rules, mostly for his benefit.”

[. . .]

The police officer, Ian, joined the room first. Then the dog owners, Sebastian and Claire. Shortly after, the victim’s family arrived: the mother, Sarah, the father, Josh, and the grandfather, Mr Owen. I was offering glasses of water, while Matthew guided everyone into their chairs.

“Will you be observing today?” the coordinator asked the father of the victim, indicating a chair just outside of the circle. “Or would you like to take part inside the circle?”

The father replied, “Well, I’m here now so I’ll go inside the circle.” He shook hands with everyone in the circle and sat down.

The coordinator outlined the ground rules. He explained that the purpose of the meeting was to discuss the incident and not to decide who was right or wrong. He then explained that the father of the offender, Sebastian, had accepted responsibility for what had happened as the “representative of the family”.

Coordinator: “Sebastian, can you tell us what happened?”

Male dog owner: “I was upstairs wrapping presents when the door was opened by my son. The dog ran out before my son had a chance to close it. And the dog must have bit their daughter.”

Coordinator: “Did you see what happened?”

Male dog owner: “No. I was upstairs. I only saw afterwards that something had happened.”

Coordinator: “What have your thoughts been since the incident?”

Male dog owner: “I was horrified because this had never happened before.”

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The grandfather sighed heavily.

Male dog owner: “Normally we have the dogs in the living room and the two doors between the living room and the front door shut. And for some reason, on this occasion, the living room door was opened when my son opened the front door.”

The grandfather was not looking at the dog owner while he talked. Instead, the grandfather held his head up and looked at the ceiling.

Male dog owner: “I’m sorry.”

The grandfather sighed heavily again.

Coordinator: “What’s happened since then?”

The mother of the victim started to say something, but the coordinator advised her not to interrupt, and that everyone would have their chance to speak.

Male dog owner: “We’ve been paranoid ever since.”

The grandfather sighed heavily again.

Male dog owner: “The children have been really upset by what happened. They feel very bad about it.”

Coordinator: “Who has been affected?”

Male dog owner: “The little girl.”

Coordinator: “Anyone else? Do you think the family has been affected?”

Male dog owner: “Yes, and the family.”

Coordinator: “Thank you for that Sebastian. We’ll now move onto you, Sarah [the victim’s mother].”

At this point, the grandfather interrupted and turned to the female dog owner. “And where were you?”

“I popped out to the supermarket to get milk.” The female dog owner explained. “I wish I had been there; I really wish I had been there.”

The coordinator reminded everyone that they would each have their chance to speak. He asked the victim’s mother to explain what had happened.

Victim’s mother: “I was walking a bit behind. When I got there I saw my other little girl by the side of the road on her own. I panicked and ran over to her. She was talking about seeing the dogs.”

Coordinator: “—dogs or dog?”

The victim’s mother corrected what she had said and confirmed it was only one dog. She explained further, “It was hard to really discern what had happened as my attention was focused on my other daughter. She was extremely upset and I was trying to calm her.”

Coordinator: “How did you feel?”

Victim’s mother: “It’s hard now because both of the girls are terrified of dogs. When we went to the park as a family, flying a kite together, the girls were letting go of the kite whenever they saw a dog – they were scared and ran away from it. It was distressing for all of us to go through that.”

The victim’s father interrupted, “I can’t understand how you lose control of dogs! I can’t understand how you would let your dog loose! I had a dog once and I would never let that happen.”

The male dog owner: “The dog escaped.”

The female dog owner: “We always have the dogs on the leads when we take them out, always.”

Everyone started speaking over one another. The coordinator regained control of the meeting.

Coordinator: “It’s important we listen and don’t interrupt each other. Everyone will get their chance to have their say.” He then indicated for the victim’s mother to continue.

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The victim’s mother started speaking, but her husband interrupted her again. I repeated what the coordinator had said, advising we listen to Claire, and then Josh would have his turn.

Coordinator: “Who was affected?”

The victim’s mother: “My daughter. She was very scared and still is. She had to have three stitches. It could have been so much worse. I am grateful the dog didn’t cause more damage. I was particularly upset that no one asked to see how she was after this happened. Our little girl was taken away bleeding and they weren’t even interested to find out how she was. I couldn’t believe it.”

The grandfather was next to speak.

Grandfather: “I feel responsible for it. I feel guilty that it happened and helpless that I can’t make it better. It’s been five months and I still feel affected. We were walking to the church carol service, I was holding each of my granddaughters by the hand, and then the dog ran out of nowhere. My granddaughter ran behind me and my arms were crossed around awkwardly, behind my back. I struggled to use my other arm to help keep the dog away. I wish the dog had bitten me, not my granddaughter.”

Coordinator: “What’s been the hardest thing?”

Grandfather: “The children are now scared of animals.”

The next person to speak was the father of the victim.

Victim’s father: “I don’t want to get angry. I used to have dogs myself. But the girls are scared of walking past this particular dog. And we want it gone.”

The grandfather interrupted: “Whenever we walk past the house they’re at the window jumping up, barking. Not all dogs are like that; some are friendly.”

Female dog owner: “But it’s their home. I’m absolutely gutted it happened, it was an unfortunate one-off. I can’t turn the clocks back. I’m sorry.”

The grandfather asked the female dog owner: “How are your dogs exercised?”

Female dog owner: “In the garden, it’s a long garden. And when they’re walked outside its always on a lead and with a muzzle.”

Victim’s father: “My concern is they’ll do it again. They’ve done it once, and they’ll do it again.”

Coordinator: “We’ll touch on this Josh; first, let’s give Ian a chance to speak. It’s very unusual for a police officer to agree to be involved in this type of resolution, so we’re pleased you’ve agreed to take part, Ian. Can you explain what happened?”

Police officer: “From my understanding, the family wanted to know how the dog became free, and I worked on this basis. I looked at how the dog had escaped, and used this as a way forward. There were measures already put in place prior to me attending the residence, with chains, and muzzles. I spoke to two experts in dangerous dogs, and I found out there were two possible options, a destruction order, and a dog control order. The second one involves dogs in public places. Closing the case with a community resolution was my failing, there was a breakdown in communication. I thought this is what had been agreed to.”

Victim’s father: “I think I know what happened. Ian told me the options on the phone. I was interested in the community resolution but I hadn’t yet agreed to anything. I remember the phone call where the misunderstanding occurred.”

Police officer: “I misunderstood and closed the case. I’ve learnt a lot from this, and I will make sure it won’t happen again. I let the ball drop. And I fully take responsibility for the stress that everyone’s feeling today five months down the line.”

The police officer then shared a personal experience he had when he was in school and was bitten by a dog. He said he was scared and probably always will be, but it eventually turns into a rational fear. “It

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stays, but it becomes something you can use in a positive way. I hope for your daughters it happens for them too.”

The coordinator then asked the male dog owner whether there was anything he could do or offer to repair the harm. He stayed silent. “Such as a sincere apology?” the coordinator prompted.

Male dog owner: “I sincerely apologise.” The dog owner then outlined the steps he had taken to make sure it would not happen again.

The coordinator then asked me if I would ask the outcomes everyone wanted. I was caught slightly off-guard, as I thought I was going to sum up the conference using my notes. At this point, I stopped taking notes and joined the facilitation of the conference. Accordingly, the next part of the conference is written up from a field note I recorded from memory immediately after it finished.

First, I spoke to the victim’s mother. “What would you like to come out of today?”

She wanted to know why the dog owners did not apologise before then.

Grandfather: “She was bleeding! Her white tights had blood on them!”

Male dog owner: “I didn’t see any blood.”

Female dog owner: “We asked the police to say that we had apologised.”

Victim’s mother: “I have a question about the dogs, about their welfare – how well exercised are they?”

A discussion ensued, in which all parties were talking. It started to get out of hand.

I spoke to the victim’s father, who was next in the circle. “What would you like to come out of today, Josh?”

Victim’s father: “I want the dog gone.”

I asked what he meant.

Victim’s father: “I want the dog dead.”

I was taken aback by the remark. It was very abrupt and forceful.

I replied, “You mentioned a few times the need to know that it won’t happen again. Would that be something of assurance? To know that measures have been put in place to prevent it?”

Victim’s father: “The dog has a taste for blood now; it’s only a matter of time before another child gets hurt. Humans are the superior force. All dogs should be locked up on a lead all the time.”

Male dog owner: “It was in the house, it’s the only place the dog’s not on a lead.”

Victim’s father: “Dogs are savages; they shouldn’t be anywhere without a lead. All dogs that bite should be put down instantly.”

Grandfather: “Yes, all of them should get put down!”

I could see the foot of the female dog owner next to me rocking up and down at a speed. Between the hem of her trouser and the start of her shoe, cream socks were visible with embroidered dogs on them.

Trying to calm the tension, I said, “It’s important to remember that it was just a nip, which is different to a dog mauling a child. Dogs can be territorial and the nip is to protect the property rather than an attack.”

At that point, the victim’s father flew up, and shouted: “That’s it, I’ve had enough! I came here to hear the apology. I would have shaken his hand. But I’m leaving now. You, little girl, have done very well. If that dog attacks again...”

The last comment and its invisible threat was aimed at me.

The victim’s father stormed out of the room. The coordinator followed.

Grandfather: “It was two deep bites. It tried to maul the child to death, and there was blood running all down the tights. I had to struggle to get the dog off!”

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I apologised; I said I didn’t realise.

The dog owners asked if there were any photographs or evidence.

Both sides were arguing. I tried to continue going around the circle, asking what each party wanted, but it just fuelled the confrontations further. The grandfather demanded compensation. The dog owners said they were on the edge of bankruptcy.

The coordinator came back into the room, and it all went quiet. I apologised to him. He sat down.

There were a few more hostile comments made by the grandfather directed at me and the female dog owner. We stayed quiet.

[…]

The coordinator asked if the victims accepted the apology. The victim’s mother said that she did, although it wasn’t the full option they wanted; it was another way of dealing with it, and that was something. The victim’s grandfather also accepted the apology; he understood it wasn’t their fault, but an accident, however, they were still responsible. He accepted the apology, but he still believed the dog should be put down.

When the victim’s family left, the female dog owner broke down in tears. The police officer consoled her. After five minutes, they left too. The coordinator, police officer, and I debriefed.

The power imbalance related to gender was acute in this conference. Throughout my earlier

field notes of the home visit with the victim’s family, I recorded times when the wife was

interrupted and cut off from speaking. It felt like a male-dominated environment. Similarly, in

the conference, although the male dog owner explicitly attended as “the family representative”,

it was the female dog owner who was interrogated about why she was not at home, and how

the dogs were cared for. To me, it felt as though she was the target of blame. Subsequently,

when I spoke out of turn, the victim’s father sarcastically retorted “You, little girl, have done

very well”. The reference to my gender may indicate that this was a significant factor in his

perception of my contribution, as was my age (the reference to “little”). After the conference,

the police officer informed me that he noticed that the father and grandfather were “off” with

me from the start, even when I was offering them water. Because I have difficulty picking up

on social cues, I rely heavily on what others explicitly say. Perhaps if I could read the situation

better, I would have managed to avoid angering the victims in this conference. Here, we can

see how my gender, age, ethnicity, class, and disability, intersectionally, came into play

(Crenshaw, 1989; Potter, 2015).

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While there are a number of other crucial issues churned up by this case, for the

purpose of this section I will return to my discussion on communication. Immediately

apparent in this case are the middle-class victims’ abilities to express verbally the level of harm

involved. During the conference, the level of harm described by the victims was so severe, it

conjured images of a dog mauling a child to near death, and the victims in the case insisted

that the only conceivable option was for the owners to destroy the dog. These descriptions

significantly contrasted to the police reports of the level of harm. Nevertheless, since the

conference relied on victims to communicate the harm, in this instance, the harm was severe

and enduring.

The first case in this section, “Defending honour”, is in stark contrast to “An awful

bite”. Following the “Defending honour” conference, the volunteers and I discussed our

surprise that the case had been taken to the police. The coordinator, however, informed us

that the attack had been extremely serious. The young girl had been repeatedly kicked in the

head, and her face was badly bruised and bleeding. However, relying on the descriptions of

the victim and supporter who struggled to articulate themselves, the severity of the harm

simply did not come across during the conference discussions I observed. Here,

Charlesworth’s observation is astute: “the most marginal and dispossessed seem to be the least

able to articulate their experience” (2000: 135). These examples demonstrate how working-

class victims may be at a disadvantage in processes such as these, where they are required to

verbally communicate the harm, in contrast to middle-class victims whose skills are better

suited to poignant description and being able to use language to secure their interests in these

types of spaces.

We might again return to the experiences of certain groups, such as those living with

an autism spectrum disorder, whose health capital may impact on their ability to participate in

the conference (Littlechild, 2011; Littlechild and Sender, 2010; Snow, 2013; Snow and Sanger,

2015). For example, participants may be unable to pick up on social cues and say the wrong

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thing in a conference; perhaps this was my error. Indeed, Umbreit suggests that participants

who are uncomfortable talking face-to-face may be exposed to intimidation or aggression in

the restorative conference (2006). Moreover, individuals on the autistic spectrum may have

difficulties in expressing adequate answers to questions. An offender who gives a literal

response, or who appears to be emotionally unaffected in the way other participants might

expect may be more prone to seeming “insincere”, which could affect outcomes (Browning

and Caulfield, 2011). Similarly, a victim who is unable to express the emotional harm, or who

seems unaffected by an offence, may not have as much influence in the process as a victim

who could express emotion in a more relatable way.

Braithwaite argues that although restorative justice does not strive for proportional

sentencing from an offender perspective, restorative justice looks to sentence in accord with

victims’ needs and the level of harm experienced; thus, he describes restorative justice as

contextual justice, rather than consistent justice (2002a: 158–160). However, for this approach

to be sound, it must assume that victims will be equally positioned to communicate their harm

in the dialogical form required by restorative justice. I present the case that middle-class victims

have greater power to assert their interests in these forums than working-class victims. While

restorative justice may accommodate an advocate to be present when a victim has a registered

disability or requires translation, since class is not recognised as a form of disadvantage (Sayer,

2005: 13), without explicit safeguards in place, it is unlikely that someone will receive advocacy

support in restorative justice due to their unequal communicative position. Class disadvantage

in these forums is easily overlooked. This is detrimental for working-class victims as much as

offenders (extending Delgado, 2000: 760).

Also apparent in “An awful bite” is how decent/street assumptions are problematic.

The coordinator expressed a belief that because the grandfather was educated, he was less

likely to cause a problem in the conference. Indeed, I thought the same, having attended the

home visits; I assumed that because of the markedly more advantaged backgrounds of the

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participants in “An awful bite” conference, in contrast to the other NRF cases, that this would

be a calm meeting. Perhaps these assumptions stem from my experience of the visible use of

violence and aggression in street locations, and my inexperience of that in decent village

locations, where violence and aggression is less visible. However, because restorative

conferences take place in formal arenas which, as I have argued, parallel the scholastic field,

working-class participants are more likely to be quiet and unquestioning of the process,

adhering to their “sense of constraint”, as they might in school meetings (Lareau, 2011). By

contrast, in the middle-class example, participants asserted a “sense of entitlement”, and were

able to fight hard for their rights. Accordingly, my findings give weight to Leverant et al.’s

concern that restorative justice will favour more affluent and well-spoken participants (1999).

5.7. Sectionsummary

On the basis of my findings so far, I propose that restorative conferences risk being a site of

symbolic harm. Restorative justice is built with middle-class forms of communication in mind,

where skills in discussion, negotiation, articulation, and so forth are an advantage for

participants. Since the restorative justice programmes did not acknowledged that their requisite

form of communication is one which participants from advantaged class backgrounds are

better adept with, they assumed that all participants come to restorative justice on an equal

playing field. Therefore, when a participant, most likely from a working-class background, fails

to articulate themselves adequately, volunteers regard them as having failed to meet the

restorative aims of the conference. To my mind, what is most worrying about this dissonance

is that whereas traditional criminal justice has safeguards that at least attempt to mitigate power

imbalance, restorative justice has developed without any such safeguards (Ashworth, 1993).

Indeed, Bourdieu said that law is the form par excellence of symbolic violence (Bourdieu,

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1986a; Bourdieu and Wacquant, 1992). Without safeguard, restorative justice also risks being

a form of symbolic harm.

This section has made apparent the differential class backgrounds of participants, and

I have shown the effects of unequal cultural capitals and the suitability of working-class habitus

to the restorative justice field. I now move on to examine whether divergent class norms

surfaced within restorative conferences and what effects this has.

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Affirmingwhichnorms? A central aspect of restorative justice for many scholars is that it provides an opportunity to

affirm community norms. This is at the heart of Braithwaite’s reintegrative shaming theory

(1989), for instance, and Bazemore and Schiff cite the benefit of community involvement in

restorative justice as allowing community members to outline the parameters of acceptable

behaviour (2005a: 78; Cohen, 2001: 211). However, critics question whether community

relationships, such as those encompassed by the community-of-care conception, are strong

enough to affirm norms (Bottoms, 2003: 107–108; Crawford, 1999: 196). Crawford and Clear,

for example, argue that if community-of-care relationships are voluntary, chosen, and easily

escaped – as some scholars, such as Braithwaite suggest – then these communities will lack

the ability to enforce norm-clarification (Crawford and Clear, 2001: 135–136).

In Chapter 2, I applied Bourdieu’s framework to articulate two contrasting fields: the

street field and the scholastic field. To remind, Bourdieu describes fields as autonomous social

spaces, each with its own internal logic. There are numerous fields, such as the field of

education, of art, of law, and so on. Each field is governed by different sets of norms – formal

and informal rules – which influence how field participants are expected to behave in these

social spaces. Returning to the street field and scholastic field, each of these is an autonomous

social space, with diverse norms governing how participants must navigate in order to thrive.

Since the norms in the street field differ from the norms in the scholastic field, and restorative

justice potentially involves participants who excell in different fields, we might question which

norms restorative justice enforces. Therefore, extending Clear and Crawford’s criticism, I also

question whether the types of norm affirmed will affect the capacity for norm-enforcement;

for example, are dominant norms, such as those found in the scholastic field, affirmed in

restorative justice, or can street norms come into focus? And does the type of norm affirmed,

and the type of community affirming them, matter?

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5.8. Scholasticnormsandstreetnorms

A dirty fight

Ten of us sat in a circle in classroom just off from the school reception area. An older male volunteer, Jim, and I sat on either side of the circle, as the restorative conference facilitators. On one side of the circle sat the victim, Ethan, a 12-year-old boy. Ethan’s mother, Chloe, was next to him as a supporter, and on the other side of Ethan sat Mrs Nibs, his form tutor. The offenders, Tyler and Richard, were also 12-years-old. They sat on the opposite side of the circle to Ethan. Tyler’s mother sat next to Tyler, and Richard’s mother and father sat either side of Richard, all present as community-of-care supporters. The NRF facilitator sat just outside of the circle to monitor the process.

Jim began the conference by initiating introductions and ground rules: “It’s very important to respect each other; it’s the most important thing that we do here. And there should be no swearing or shouting. Everyone should have their turn to speak. And all phones need to be turned off.”

“I can put mine on silent, but I can’t turn it off in case the little one has any problems at nursery,” Chloe nervously explained.

Jim smiled and nodded in agreement, assuring Chloe that it was not a problem.

“We are not here to judge,” Jim continued; “we’re here to talk only about the event that happened that day.”

Jim then turned to Tyler, the main offender. “Tyler, can you tell us what happened?”

“Ethan was saying stuff about my grandad”

“Did you hear him say things himself?” Mrs Nibs interrupted.

Tyler shook his head. He continued, “I heard that Ethan had said stuff about my grandad, and so I punched him. Then some year 10s (three years above), told me to punch him again. So I went over and pretended to apologise by going to shake his hand. But then I punched him a few more times instead.”

“How did you feel at the time?” Jim asked.

“I regretted it,” Taylor said.

“And now?”

“I feel bad.”

Jim then moved on to ask the second offender, Richard, the same questions. It was Jim’s first time facilitating a conference, and he forgot to ask Tyler who else had been affected by the offence, though no-one would have noticed unless they were familiar with the script.

Richard explained that he had filmed the fight. The year 10s wanted to see it, so he showed them it on his phone. Richard also felt bad about it, and he said he wished he had not done it.

Then Ethan had a chance to speak about it.

“How did you feel at the time?” Jim asked.

“It hurt,” Ethan said. “It was actually after 15 minutes that the pain set in.”

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When asked what he would like from the conference, Ethan said he wants for them to all move on.

It was my turn to facilitate. I asked Ethan’s mother, Chloe, how she had heard about it.

“I got a call from school, and then I found out he’d been beaten up,” Chloe said.

“How did you feel at the time?”

“I was fuming.”

“And how do you feel about it now?”

“I’m still fuming. I don’t know why he didn’t fight back? Why did he just stand there and take it?”

“Who has been affected by it?”

“Ethan’s brothers have also been affected by it. And it’s really knocked Ethan’s confidence.”

“My head really hurt,” Ethan said.

“Don’t talk out of turn,” his mother reminded him. “Follow the rules.”

I asked Tyler’s mother the same questions, starting with “How did you hear about it?”

“I was called by the school,” she said, “and I saw the video. I was angry with him. And his older brother gave him a kicking for it. But the other lad wasn’t fighting back. He was just standing there taking it.”

I asked who else has been affected. She said Ethan had obviously been affected.

When Richard’s parents had a chance to speak, his mother began by saying, “I was so disappointed in Richard. I couldn’t believe it when I saw the video. It was sickening. The language he was using, and telling the other lad to punch him. In my eyes, he was as bad as the one who was actually hitting him. I was so upset by it, it was disgusting. I had no idea that Richard had that in him.”

Richard’s father explained how he felt at the time. “I was very angry. It wasn’t a fair fight; the lad wasn’t fighting them. It was bullying and nasty. It was a cheap-shot, tricking the lad into shaking his hand then hurting him. Lads will be lads and fight, but that was bullying. I am disappointed in Richard. I thought we brought him up better than that.”

By this time, Richard’s face had turned a deep red, and he looked down. Tyler did not seem affected by the conference at this stage.

Mrs Nibs also had a chance to offer her perspective. “When I saw the video, it was sickening. So unprovoked and aggressive. And Ethan just holds his head and takes it, frozen.”

Chloe moved forward in her chair, clenching her knees.

Mrs Nibs continued. “Ethan came to me in such a state, shaking and crying. He hadn’t wanted to come to me. The other students brought him because he was in such a state.”

Chloe nodded, and hummed. I interpreted this as approval for Ethan not “grassing”.

“He had to go to hospital; he had a great lump on his head,” Mrs Nibs said.

Mrs Nibs then addressed Tyler directly. “You know you can come to me, and I’ll do mediation. We’ve done that before. You don’t need to be doing this in school. Rumours are just that – don’t believe

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anything unless you hear it come out of someone’s mouth personally. We’ve spoken about this. And all it takes is one kick to kill someone. If they fall and hit their head in the wrong place.”

The coordinator joined in at this point. “There was another recent case involving two girls in this school. They were in the community, when one heard rumours and punched the girl and kicked her in the face. It was much worse than this one, she was badly injured.”

This prompted the teacher to talk about her friend’s daughter who died 18 years ago today. “She was trying to stop a fight and the girls kicked her in the head a few times and killed her.” “Louise Allan,” Richard’s mother and father said at the same time. “The mum will never get over that,” Mrs Nibs continued. “She lost herself that day, and the girls who did it – their lives are ruined. So much destruction with one kick.”

“I don’t know if I mentioned it,” the coordinator said, “I used to be in the police force as Sergeant for 30 years; I probably mentioned it to the lads.”

The parents seemed not to be aware of this. Richard’s father shifted in his chair.

“I was actually on duty at the fair the night it happened,” the coordinator explained. “I was also on duty another time, when a lad was kicked to death, off the kerb. He died, and the lads involved are now serving life sentences for murder.” There was a pause. “But back to this, there can be devastating effects, even with one hit.”

Jim took over the facilitation again. He asked Ethan what he wanted from the conference. “Nothing,” Ethan said, “it’s over now.”

“Is there anything you want anyone to say?” Jim prompted, with no response. “One word?” There was a pause. “Maybe a ‘sorry’?”

“Oh yes, yes,” Ethan said, as though he was in class and had forgotten the answer to something obvious.

Tyler instantly said sorry. Jim missed it, but Tyler’s mother said he had said his “sorry”. Richard also apologised.

“Is there anything anyone would like to add?” Jim asked.

Tyler’s mother spoke. “He didn’t fight back. But at least the boys have said they are sorry.”

Richard’s mum responded, “I was just so shocked with it, and as a mother if that was my son I would have reacted in a very aggressive way.”

“If I’d seen the footage, I probably would have,” Chloe said. “I didn’t realise how bad it had been.”

Richard’s father spoke, “I’m grateful you didn’t go to the police, ’cus I would have done in that instance. It was a dirty fight and they picked on the kid.”

**

After the conference, Richard and his parents spent time together in the back corner of the room. At the end of a heated discussion, Richard’s parents hugged him. He swallowed back tears.

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During this time, Chloe said to her son, “do you know whose daughter that is?” When Ethan shook his head, she said, “It’s Paul on the van’s.” Ethan’s face lit up, as did Tyler’s. They both started telling me about different times they had been on the van. Ethan said he wanted to work with my father, and asked if he could make mix bags or help load the van one day.

To me, Ethan came across as an enthusiastic boy, more innocent than other young persons his age in Corby. He seemed the type of boy who would excel in a protected environment, but he was an easy target living in a rough part of Corby.

**

I met Ethan and his mother a few months after the conference to discuss how it had gone, and how things had been since. Ethan was almost unrecognisable. He was wearing fashionable clothing, with his hair styled. He was less interested in talking to me this time, and he chose to walk around town while his mother and I spoke.

Chloe reflected on the conference as follows:

“It was very good, and it actually works. It puts everyone on the same level and gives people a chance to talk. It’s the communication which is really useful. And ’cus of the parents being there, the boys were embarrassed in front them, it made a difference. [. . .] The other lad had a chance to say that he thought Ethan had said something about his grandad, which explained why it happened. [. . .] Now, Ethan and him are friends, they hang out together all the time. They’re actually in trouble for picking on another lad. Ethan shoved the lad and got in trouble at school. [. . .]

When I heard what had happened to Ethan, I felt ashamed, or that’s not really the right word, but yeah ashamed almost that Ethan hadn’t hit the boy back. He just took it. He should have stood up for himself. [. . .] The teachers were pleased Ethan didn’t hit back. [. . .] His dad was very angry when he heard what had happened and Ethan just took it. He was very angry. You see, he was bullied as a kid and he said you must hit back or people will walk all over you. [. . .] Now Ethan is standing up for himself, he grabbed a boy in school and got in trouble for it. [. . .] He’s getting excluded, and they’re talking about sending him to a school in Kettering [a neighbouring town]. [. . .] But at least now he knows to fight back and not be a walkover.”

Both scholastic and street norms were affirmed in this conference. The teacher, who was a

member of the young persons’ community of care, and the NRF coordinator, who was a

member of the geographical community, sought to affirm the norm of “no fighting”. The

teacher and the coordinator reminded the participants of the dangers of fighting, and the

terrible potential consequences. In Paul’s community, we saw how the use of force was

encouraged in certain circumstances, such as in response to insults, bullying, or as a pre-

emptive attack. However, the norm of “no fighting”, which I recurrently heard enforced by

teachers, volunteers, and YOS workers, appears to be a scholastic norm; physical violence will

not be tolerated in the scholastic field, even though it may be inevitable in the street field.

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In addition to affirming the scholastic ideal of no fighting, the teacher suggested a

scholastic method of conflict resolution as an alternative way to manage future grievances.

Instead of using violence to respond to rumours, the teacher encouraged the offender, Tyler,

to inform her, so that she could then provide mediation for the young persons to resolve

conflict without anyone being hurt. Thus, rather than resolving conflict with the power of the

fist, mediation would move the conflict into the forum of discussion, negotiation, and the

power of vocabulary (cf. Cook, 2006). However, whereas young persons with street capital

may “win” an argument using physical force, if they lack scholastic capital, engaging in a

dispute on scholastic terms is a fight they are bound to lose. Moreover, responding to a conflict

by informing the teacher requires working with professionals and “grassing” on peers.

The scholastic norm-enforcement in this case had limited efficacy. Following the

conference, the teacher and the coordinator expressed the belief that the main offender, Tyler,

had not taken heed of their advice; in fact, rather than being worried by their warnings about

the dangers of fighting, Tyler was described as “impressed” by the violence described.

According to the coordinator, when he talked about cases of escalated violence, this was the

point in the conference when Tyler “started to listen”. Following the teacher’s and the

coordinator’s predictions, Tyler was involved in fighting again soon after the conference.

Moreover, Ethan, once on the receiving end of violence, became a perpetrator himself. These

outputs indicate that efforts to enforce scholastic norms were unsuccessful.

The conference did, however, have a powerful impact on Richard, the second offender

in the conference. I understood the operative factor here to be that street norms were affirmed,

not their scholastic counterparts. For example, Richard’s father did not reprimand Richard for

fighting; “lads will be lads”, it was said, but this was a “dirty fight”, which amounted to bullying.

Thus, it was the street norm “only fair fights” which was used to shame Richard, and then

reintegrate Richard back into his community of care (Braithwaite, 1989). In this case, Richard’s

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parents (i.e. his community-of-care relational ties) were able to affirm street norms (see

Bottoms, 2003: 90–91).

Different street norms were enforced by Tyler’s and Ethan’s community-of-care

supporters. For example, Ethan’s mother expressed the concern that her son did not fight

back. Similarly, while Tyler’s mother reprimanded her son’s behaviour, and assured the other

participants that Tyler’s brother had given him “a kicking for it”, the mother also expressed

surprise that Ethan had “stood there and taken it”. Thus, both community-of-care supporters

were affirming the street norm “always fight back”. As we saw in Paul’s community, the norm

to fight back is strongly encouraged; those who do not support themselves physically risk

becoming easy targets in the street field. Again, the community-of-care norm-affirmation in

this instance appeared to work. Instead of being a victim, Ethan dramatically changed his ways

and developed street capital in the form of ability to fight his corner physically.

For Ethan’s mother, Chloe, it was more important that Ethan be able to survive in the

street field, in which he was growing up, than it was for him to follow the scholastic norms

being enforced by his school. In the long-term, for Chloe, being able to stick up for himself

was a more valuable skill for Ethan than his commitment in (a low-performing) school. Thus,

depending on perspective, the outcome of this case may be viewed in different ways: as

desirable, since Ethan subsequently developed street-cultural capital and will cope better in the

street field; or undesirable, since Ethan, once a victim of aggression, having now learnt to fight

back, has the potential to victimise others. This case raises an important question: Which

norms does, or should, restorative justice seek to affirm? Should it, perhaps, maintain the

status quo by affirming scholastic norms, and with it, the subordination of dominated

socioeconomic groups, as alleged by critiques (Coker, 2002; Delgado, 2000; Gil, 2008; Koen,

2007)? Or alternatively, should restorative justice allow participants to resolve conflicts on

their own terms, even if these comprise street norms, such as in the above example?

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In all three instances, with Ethan, Richard, and Tyler, the community of care was

successful at norm-enforcement, albeit the enforcement of street norms. Thus, contra

Crawford and Clear’s fears (2001), the relational ties in this instance were strong enough to

induce norm-enforcement. Returning to the communitarian theory I noted in Chapter 1, this

may be due to the nature of the relationships involved; being family members, the community-

of-care supporters in these instances were members of the young persons’ constitutive

communities (Bell, 1993: 94–103). That is, close familial relationships formed an essential part

of the offender’s and victim’s identities. Hence, simply choosing to leave these relational

communities was not an option. By contrast, norm-enforcement by the weaker community-

of-care ties of the teacher, and the looser geographical community ties of the coordinator, had

much less say in forming participant identities, and so were insufficient to ensure enforcement

of the scholastic norms. Notably, in this connection, Rossner also found strong ties to be

important for emotional turning points in the conference (2013), which may have a bearing

on effective norm-affirmation.

In my dataset, participants in violent conflicts often came from the same

socioeconomic background; that is, victims and offenders both had experience of the street

field. Despite this joint familiarity, the restorative conferences tended to affirm the unfamiliar

scholastic norms of “no fighting” at all, and advise the use of other conflict resolution means.

Notably, such cases were the least successful at norm-affirmation. In line with Daly’s findings

(2008), the tension of girl-on-girl violence appeared particularly difficult to overcome during

conferences.48 Instead, volunteers felt that offenders were “paying lip service” to the

programmes, but were not truly remorseful and committed to changing. Volunteers attributed

these negative outcomes to the individual failings of offenders, to their being of a particular

48 I recorded six such fights referred to the NRF programme, four of which progressed to full conferences, and two of which did not. I observed two of the four NRF conferences, and received feedback on the other two.

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“type”. As one volunteer commented, the advice she gave the young offender went “in one

ear and straight out the other”.

However, rather than explain negative outcomes by appealing to the obstinacy of

participants, I contend there is a much deeper explanation available. Outcomes tend to be

negative when the norms which a conference seeks to affirm are predominantly scholastic, yet

the conflict itself consists of street norm violation. Young participants in these conferences

may well be aware of the standards required of them in the scholastic field, but they also know

that in the street context, other norms apply. Thus, the scenarios in which young offenders

are hesitant to affirm scholastic norms may produce different descriptions. Thinly described,

the hesitance may appear simply as “lip service” or stubbornness, but thickly described, it may

be that young offenders are not in a position to put their sincere weight behind scholastic

norms.

Accordingly, there is a case for welcoming street-normative discussions during

restorative conferences. Indeed, some disputes will necessitate this approach. As we saw in the

last chapter, contra Christie (1977), conflict is not absent prior to state involvement in many

community disputes; often, conflicts are of an ongoing nature where multiple harms may have

been caused by both parties before the dispute is referred to the police. This is particularly

apparent in cases involving offences against the person. Observations in Paul’s community

indicated that violence was often used to restore a violation of respect. In such cases, then, a

community norm was often violated, which, at the street level, justified the use of violence.

Thus, to address only the violent act in these cases risks leaving the core of the dispute – the

alleged disrespect – unaddressed.

A benefit of having street discussions within the restorative conference is the potential

to prevent disputes escalating, and hence to “nip conflict in the bud”. The escalation of

grudges in Corby have been significant in the past, demonstrating how a seemingly minor

conflict can escalate into severe forms of violence or homicide. Even in the present day, levels

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of violence against the person in Corby are high compared to the national average (Police.

UK, 2016). I think, indeed, that a forum where early stages of a given dispute can be discussed

could be invaluable for defusing long-running feuds before they escalate out of control. This

is apparent in the next case I outline, “A stolen bike and a baseball bat”.

A stolen bike and a baseball bat

Kelly and Beth were messing around by the chip shop when they spotted Tim’s bike left outside unattended as he was inside waiting for his order. According to the girls, they took the bike for a laugh, and road it to an alleyway. They then told Tim where they left the bike, but he refused to pick it up. Instead, Tim phoned the police.

On a later day, the girls bumped into Tim on the estate and they had an argument. Tim called the police again and reported that the girls had tried to beat him up. The girls said that Tim’s mother was threatening to kill them if they went near her son.

Tim’s mother told the NRF coordinator that she drove around the estate looking for the girls with a baseball bat in her car boot. Tim’s mother had a boyfriend when she was younger who was killed in a fight, and she was adamant nothing like that would happen to her son. With an expressed lack of faith in the police, Tim’s mother was prepared to protect him herself.

The conflict and two-way threats of violence continued for around 6 months before a restorative justice face-to-face conference was offered.

At first, the girls were unsure about the process. Kelly explained, “at the start, I didn’t really want to go, I was like ‘nah, I’m not sitting in the same room as her’. [. . .] Then the police gave us like the law and that – we weren’t allowed to hang around with each other. [. . .] And also if we didn’t do the circle thing we would’ve got taken to court.”

When the girls’ parents heard about what had happened, they convinced them to take part in the conference.

On deciding which community-of-care members to take to the conference, Kelly chose her mother and Beth chose her stepfather. In their descriptions of their chosen supporters, the girls’ street capital became pronounced. Kelly explained, “I wouldn’t bring ma dad, he don’t like the police and he would probably swear and everything [. . .] Ma mum’s helped me with police issues before, for like GBH and stuff like that.” Beth explained what happened when she brought her stepdad. “I brought my stepdad with me, which was the worst decision ever. ’Cus he’s been in and out of prison forever, and all the police knew him, so he was talking to them for ages, so I had to go in there on my own for a bit ’cus my stepdad was outside talking to the police officer.” Such familiarity with the criminal justice system indicates that the girls were familiar with some of the street norms of Paul’s community. In fact, both Kelly and Beth knew Paul well.

The NRF coordinator described the conference as a success, since the parents bonded. Tim’s mother shared what had happened to her boyfriend when she was younger during the conference, and it transpired that Kelly’s mother knew her; they then began chatting about life when they were younger. The girls agreed to pay £20 compensation each so Tim could purchase a new bike, and at the end of the conference, Kelly, Beth, and Tim made tea for their parents so they could continue chatting.

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Kelly and Beth had mixed views about the conference. Kelly was more cynical, as she felt that £20 compensation each was too much, since Tim’s bike was in a terrible condition, as though “it was straight from the scrap yard.” According to Kelly, it would have been better for her cousin to have dealt with the problem through violence. In Kelly’s words, “I know I shouldn’t say this, but I’d rather my cousin went to go threaten them than anything else, ’cus then I don’t have to go through any other stuff.”

On reflection, however, Beth was much more positive about the process. “I’d rather the circle thing ’cus I think it solved it so next time we see each other we don’t just talk to each other or give each other evils and that, we solved it, so we just walk past each other like normal and that.” Here, Beth is recognising the benefit of having nipped the conflict in the bud. They are not friends, yet they no longer have to fear the use of violence on either side. The feud is over.

In the above case, the face-to-face meeting put an end to an ongoing conflict where threats of

violence were made on both sides. Since the eruption of violence, particularly in young

persons’ disputes, was a common occurrence in Paul’s community, a process which enables

the diffusion of conflict is a positive thing. Two older offenders with whom I spoke during

my research period described a situation where they were unable to walk alone in particular

areas of the town due to ongoing conflicts which were likely to end in violence. At times, this

would leave them bound to their own homes, or resorting to carrying weapons, such as a

screwdriver or hammer. One of these offenders said the idea of restorative justice sounded

“great”, but for the people he grew up with, apologising and backing down would result in

losing face. Interestingly, Blagg’s study conducted in Corby in 1985 documented a similar

phenomenon in two cases (1985: 98–99): one involved a fight between young females on

Lincoln Way (next to my house), and the second involved a boy who smashed a house window

as part of a longstanding grudge between himself and another young man. Blagg suggests that

the pre-existing nature of these conflicts made them unsuitable for the restorative process, and

better suited to an alternative form of mediation instead. Accordingly, in street field situations

such as these, the opportunity for both parties to air their grievances in street terms could well

be fruitful.

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5.9. Bridgingsocialcapital

In the above example, “A dirty fight”, the victim, offenders, and their supporters were from

the same class background. I contend that this feature is what made street norm-affirmation

feasible. However, what about cases in which victims and offenders are from different class

backgrounds? In such instances, I argue that restorative justice offers a ripe opportunity for

norm-affirmation between participants, and in the process, for bridging social capital.

Bazemore and Schiff present restorative conferencing as a chance for community members to

clarify the parameters of acceptable behaviour, and (re)build social capital (2005a: 78; Cohen,

2001: 211). When social capital forms between loose ties, such as strangers, Portes suggests

that social capital bridging occurs, which can lead to enhanced opportunities (1998: 22–23). My

data indicates that, rather than the social capital bridging between volunteers and offenders, as

Bazemore and Schiff predict, it is more likely to bridge between victims and offenders. In this

subsection, I first briefly outline evidence of social capital bridging in my data and then reflect

on this in relation to norm-affirmation.

Social capital bridging between YOS volunteers and young offenders was non-existent

in my dataset, and it was, in fact, actively discouraged. As with Rosenblatt’s study of a number

of YOS programmes in England and Wales (2015), the YOS volunteers I interviewed did not

view forming a relationship with young offenders as part of their role. For example, one male

volunteer explained that it would be inappropriate for volunteers to go beyond the facilitation

of the panel, because once the young offender’s Order was “spent” (completed), it was

important to move on. Indeed, there were times when I would have liked to impart skills, to

help young offenders with activities like writing university applications and curriculum vitae,

however, I was advised by the youth panel coordinator that this was be inappropriate for

volunteers to do in light of safety for the young persons.

In contrast to YOS, bridging social capital between volunteers and offenders was

actively supported and nurtured by the NRF coordinator. The NRF coordinator was sensitive

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to participants’ needs, and he would try to include volunteers who might be able to offer

supporting services. For example, a younger volunteer, Martha, was a local youth worker, and

when young persons in her area were involved in conferences, the coordinator would try to

match her to the case. In an attempt at bridging, Martha regularly recommended a local youth

group to younger participants; however, while they sounded interested, none of the

participants subsequently attended. There was another near-bridging between a young

offender and an older male volunteer, Jim. Jim managed to create a connection with the young

offender, who opened up to him about his ambition to become a carpenter, which he had not

spoken about to anyone in school before. Accordingly, Jim found information about training

opportunities at the local college, and offered the young person contacts in the trade. Building

on this, the NRF coordinator suggested that Jim join the young offender during his reparative

work in school. Unfortunately, the young offender did not attend his reparation, and the

relationship between Jim and the young person fizzled out. Thus, in the NRF there were

concerted efforts to encourage bridging, though volunteers experienced barriers to generating

and sustaining momentum.

However, in one NRF case, a longer, sustained relationship formed between a female

participant from a Traveller background, Nina, and a local worker in a woman’s organisation.

During the follow-up to a neighbourhood dispute case, the NRF coordinator became aware

that Nina, about whom noise complaints were being made, was the victim of severe and

sustained domestic violence. Instead of pursuing the NRF conference, the coordinator found

a woman’s organisation who were able to offer Nina support. Consequently, a close

relationship formed between a woman’s worker and Nina, which led to Nina receiving welfare

support and access to a literacy programme. While the volunteers experienced limits to

sustaining the bridging of social capital, the support worker in Nina’s case was better placed

to provide the necessary, ongoing support that Nina’s circumstances required. Similarly, YOS

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were well-placed to support the welfare needs of young offenders within their remit (Willis,

2016b).

The most common and sustained bridging of social capital I observed was that

between victims and offenders involved in both YOS and NRF restorative conferences. I

recorded 11 instances of social capital bridging between these parties.49 Examples range from

an older couple who were burgled by a young offender, and during the conference offered

him an open door if he ever needed anything, to organisations which offered permanent

employment to young persons who had carried out their reparative work. In the next box, I

show how a young offender in a care home and a youth worker who had been assaulted

bridged social capital. Although I did not observe this conference first hand, I interviewed all

of the participants. Spending time with the young offender and victim during observations in

the care home, I was struck by how close they had become.

Building a Bridge

Billy walked into the games room in the children’s home and pressed his finger against Charlotte’s hand.

"Is this cold?" he asked her.

"Yeah, it is," she said, looking at his hand.

"Billy, your finger’s turned blue!"

Charlotte inspected the band of plasters tightly wrapped around Billy’s index finger, cutting off the blood circulation to the tip.

"What happened?"

"I cut my finger, so I put some plasters on, then my finger went blue" he explained.

49 These cases include young offenders involved in the following offences: 1) theft of a child’s go-cart, 2) a dwelling burglary, 3) burglary at a youth centre, 4) hoax emergency service calls, 5) criminal damage at a youth centre, 6) criminal damage at a sports centre, 7) assault of a member of staff in a children’s home, 8) assault of a teacher in school, 9) theft in school, 10) criminal damage of a teacher’s computer, and 11) a homicide case involving manslaughter.

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"Maybe take it off, before your finger falls off?"

Billy thought about it for a minute. He then attempted to pick at the plaster with his blunt nails.

"I can’t get it off, Charlotte,” he started to panic, “can you help?"

Charlotte took Billy’s hand, and patiently unpicked the plasters from his finger. The blood began to flow back, and Billy’s finger regained its pinkish tone.

**

Billy was 14 years old. He had lived in Primrose House since he was 12. Charlotte had worked at Primrose for nearly four years, ever since she joined the home after university for temporary work experience. She fell in love with the place and stayed longer than originally planned.

At first, Billy and Charlotte did not get on. Staff at Primrose House made efforts to build a relationship between them, to no avail. The strained relationship eventually reached breaking point when a physical incident broke out, and Billy gave Charlotte a black eye.

They were at Primrose House when the conflict occurred. Billy was playing around and throwing pillows. Although Charlotte initially played along, the situation became more aggressive, and Charlotte asked Billy to calm down. Billy continued; he chased Charlotte around the room, put her in a headlock, and hid her keys. Charlotte and the other member of staff on duty decided to use a restraint position. Billy kicked and hit against them, knocking Charlotte in the face during the struggle. Accordingly, Charlotte left the room and locked herself in the office. When Billy calmed down, Charlotte re-entered, yet Billy became angry again and threw a DVD player. They called the police.

Billy was arrested and taken to the police station. The police put Billy in a cell, and eventually took him back to Primrose House. Billy had never been arrested before, but he said he was not too concerned by it. Being arrested is a frequent occurrence for young persons at the home. When asked about the arrest, Billy said it was not that bad; he was given three cups of Yorkshire tea, which is his favourite.

Charlotte felt divided about whether to take the matter further. On the one hand, she was upset about the assault and wanted Billy to know there were consequences for his actions, but on the other hand, she felt guilty about criminalising a young person who had already been through so much in life. The local police offered Charlotte an opportunity to participate in an NRF face-to-face restorative conference. Charlotte, with the support of managers at Primrose House, decided to give it a try.

The NRF coordinator met first with Charlotte and then with Billy, in order to ensure that they both understood the process and wished to proceed. And so with their consent, a forum was organised at Primrose House. Billy was anxious about the forum. Unlike the arrest, which involved things being done to and for him, the forum required Billy to find the confidence to walk into the room, sit face-to-face with Charlotte, and talk about what had happened. Indeed, Charlotte did not expect Billy to go into the room, but by the very act of doing so, he showed her that he was sorry for what he had done. This was all Charlotte said she needed.

Billy, Charlotte, a supporter from Primrose House, a community volunteer, and the NRF coordinator all attended the conference. The volunteer asked Billy to explain what happened, and to think about the people affected by his actions. Similarly, Charlotte was given an opportunity to speak, and so she explained to Billy that she had to go to her daughter’s first birthday party with a black eye, and that now all of the photographs will have her black eye in them. In the course of the conference, the volunteer gave Billy a chance to make up for the harm, which he did by apologising to Charlotte. Charlotte accepted the apology and said that they should draw a line under what happened and move on.

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In the days and weeks following the forum, staff at Primrose House set up a strategy so that if Billy needed anything he would have to go to Charlotte and ask for it. Billy soon realised what the staff were doing, and it became a joke between Charlotte and him. In the year following the conference, Billy and Charlotte formed a close relationship, and if Billy needed to go anywhere, he would ask for Charlotte to take him.

**

Sitting in the games room at Primrose House in the year after the conference, I watched Charlotte tenderly remove the layers of plasters from Billy’s shrivelled blue finger, all the while teasing him about his smelly feet. Watching them together, it was hard to believe that conflict had ever existed between them.

Cases which sustained the building of relationships were also those which presented

opportunities for victims and offenders to continue the relationships after the conference. In

“Building a bridge”, Charlotte and Billy were able to develop a continued relationship within

the residential facility. Similarly, following successful conferences between students and

teachers in schools, the school location provided an opportunity for relationships to blossom.

Another prime example involves young offenders offering direct reparation for the victims,

which thereby allows a relationship to form (Willis, 2016b). On at least four occasions, young

offenders were offered jobs by victims. These natural opportunities to form relationships

between victims and offenders contrasted with efforts to bridge relationships by volunteers.

My observations indicate that when the ideal restorative conference takes place – that

is, when both sides have an opportunity to speak freely in a conference – there was effective

norm-affirmation and consequently social capital bridging. If offenders attempted to justify

their behaviour in a conference, e.g. on the grounds that the young offender thought that the

victim “could afford it” (Sykes and Matza, 1957), these justifications usually dissolved when

victims had a chance to explain their position. For example, the victims of a burglary explained

to an offender that they were frightened for their children’s safety during the break-in. And

Billy, in “Building a bridge”, was particularly moved by learning about Charlotte’s black eye in

all of her daughter’s birthday photographs. In these instances, discussion and sharing between

the participants created the space for norm-affirmation. Accordingly, I term this a process of

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horizontal norm-affirmation. Horizontal norm-affirmation contrasts with the norm-affirmation

I observed between volunteers and offenders, which tended to be top-down or vertical.

Vertical norm-affirmation tended to be ineffective. I recorded a number of incidents

during volunteer-facilitated meetings that took on a “lecture-like” tone (cf. Marsh and Maruna,

2016), and I noted a tendency for the relationship between the young persons and volunteers

to mirror that of a teacher and pupil. During these lecture-like moments, volunteers sought to

affirm dominant norms, whether it be encouraging offenders to try harder in school, advising

offenders to avoid further “trouble” such as additional criminal convictions, or to find

employment or training opportunities. In the “Dirty fight” case, in the previous section, we

saw how the teacher and NRF coordinator sought to affirm the dominant norm of “no

fighting”, in contrast to the norm of “no dirty fighting”, familiar to the participants. The

difference between these cases and the successful cases was that the norm-affirmation between

volunteers and offenders was vertical. That is, the dominant norms were imposed, top-down,

on oppressed individuals, which led to lectures rather than reciprocal conversations which

share and establish acceptable parameters of behaviour. Indeed, the horizontal norm-

affirmation is more in line with the restorative justice ethos, and what most advocates of the

restorative justice model envisage the process to be (Braithwaite, 2002a; Pavlich, 2002: 1;

Prannis et al., 2003: 195).

5.10. Sectionsummary

In response to my third research question, there were instances in my data where community

norm-affirmation was effective. Norm-affirmation seemed effective when community-of-care

members were able to enforce the relevant norms that accorded with the normative

environments of the young persons. Moreover, I also observed effective norm-enforcement

between victims and offenders in restorative conferences, who were usually members of the

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same geographical (but not relational) community. When victims were middle class and

offenders were working class, successful norm-affirmation provided opportunities for social

capital bridging. However, norm-enforcement between volunteers and participants, who were

also often geographical community members, did not appear to be effective. Instead,

volunteers’ attempts to affirm norms took on the structure of a top-down lecture, which was

not conducive to norm-affirmation. Thus, community-of-place relationships between

volunteers and young offenders did not suffice for effective norm-enforcement. However,

norm-affirmation between other kinds of community relationships was effective.

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Protectingwhoserights? My fourth research question considers proportionality concerns about restorative justice, such

as those put forward by Ashworth (1993, 2001, 2002). Ashworth expresses a worry that

restorative justice, unlike traditional criminal justice, does not attempt to achieve uniformity in

sentencing (see also Levrant et al., 1999). Whereas traditional criminal justice limits an

offender’s sentence in relation both to the severity of the offence and to offender culpability,

restorative justice does not monitor outcomes in the same way. In fact, rather than treating

like cases alike, restorative justice seeks to empower participants, and communities, to

negotiate an effective way to repair the harm. This is why Braithwaite suggests that rather than

aspiring to sentencing uniformity from an offender perspective, restorative justice seeks a

fairer outcome from the victim’s perspective, by focusing on the level of harm caused by

offences (2002a: 158–160). However, this approach risks causing unequal outcomes on

account of participants’ ethnicity, gender, disability, class, sexuality, and so forth.

To consider this fourth question, I first examine how volunteers in my study

recognised and expressed distinctions between themselves and other participants during

restorative justice processes. In exploring Paul’s community, we saw how distinctions can be

drawn between different types of people on account of how they behave, either by being

categorised as “decent” or “street” (Anderson, 1999), or failing to meet the middle-class

standard of “respectability” (Skeggs, 1997b). Restorative justice forums, which involve the

sharing of personal information about individuals and families from different socioeconomic

backgrounds, are a potential hothouse for such distinctions to arise. Judgements in themselves

are not a problem; everyone makes judgements. What matters is whether these judgements

lead or contribute to prejudicial outcomes; that is, if persons are wrongly treated differently

because of their gender, ethnicity, class, sexuality, age, disability, and so forth. As such, after

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presenting data on volunteers’ descriptions and assessment of participants, I move on to assess

whether (dis)proportional outcomes ensued.

5.11. Perceptionsofparticipants:Decent&street

I recorded many instances of volunteers drawing distinctions between “types” of participant

in restorative justice programmes. These distinctions involved differentiating between “good”

and “bad” offenders, thus reflecting Anderson’s notion of decent and street, respectively

(1999). Volunteers referred to “good” or decent offenders as “really nice” and “lovely”, and

dismissed their behaviour as one-off “silly” events. I recorded three instances of volunteers

noting surprise at the way certain girls had behaved, making comments such as “she’s lovely,

you wouldn’t expect her to be having such problems at home” about an articulate teenager

who dressed in fashionable feminine clothes. Similarly, one volunteer described, in surprise, a

young petite girl who dressed in floral dresses as not being “your usual rascal. [. . .] She’s a very

young, pretty, nice little girl to talk to and you wouldn’t for a moment think she would do

these things, but she does.”

In contrast to describing “decent” young offenders, I frequently observed volunteers

refer to other offenders as “bad”, such as a female offender described as “a real bad girl”. I

recorded words such as “menacing” and “sinister” referring to male offenders, and a volunteer

portrayed one young man as seeming “like a little shit”; a diagnosis apparently affirmed by a

female volunteer who taught the boy in school: “he is a little shit”. I noticed a trend: when a

young person was described in negative terms, such as “a little shit”, they were directly from

my father’s community, and knew him well. Often, offenders described in this way lived close

to my house. Although described in negative terms by some volunteers, my father had a

markedly different perspective and had many good things to say about these same young

people.

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Further, I encountered distinctions which invoke the idea of respectability, based on a

person’s appearance (Skeggs, 1997b). For example, in one of my interviews with a female

volunteer, she made references to dirt, describing one young offender as from “a dirty hostel

background”. Another volunteer also noted on a couple of occasions the cleanliness and good

presentation of children for school as an indicator of a decent home. One of the limited times

I observed participants making comments about each other also drew on appearance as a

distinguishing factor. This was in a neighbourhood dispute, in which the female adult victim

commented, before the offenders were in earshot, that the offenders looked as though they

were going camping because of way they were dressed: one in jeans, the other in tracksuit

trousers, both wearing trainers, and holding plastic supermarket carrier bags. I understood the

camping reference as one linked to the idea of being “trampy” and thus as delineating

respectability.

Homes were another source of potential judgement. YOS were less intrusive in this

respect since volunteers relied on reports of home life instead of first-hand observations. The

reports YOS volunteers received were limited compared to the full Asset documents kept on

file by YOS, and these did not go into detail about the environments of the young participants,

beyond the type of area or place. However, the reports did make, for example, observations

like the following: “[the] house is very clean and tidy with no signs of neglect”, or conversely,

“the place was filthy […] It’s messy, chaotic, and dirty [. . .] they are reluctant to let people into

the house”. Again, we can see how persons and places are described, and potentially judged,

by cleanliness. It was not possible to draw a link directly between the young persons’ level of

cleanliness and comments made by volunteers; however, this was one among a number of

details that led to volunteers’ overall assumptions about a young person prior to sitting before

the panel.

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Unlike in YOS, NRF volunteers did take part in home visits, which offered insight

into the condition of homes, as well as how families interact in these environments. Volunteers

described some residents as “strange”, for example, for not letting visitors into their homes:

The [victim’s] mother was guarding the door, and she wouldn’t let me into the house. It was really strange. She was talking to me on the doorstep. And there was something like seven kids running about in the house. Then the mother said that the girl [victim] doesn’t live with her ’cus she’s 17. She lives with her boyfriend somewhere else. I asked how old he was, and she said he’s 16. [The volunteer raised his eyebrows.] And he has his own house which is surprising. We just stayed there on the doorstep chatting.

Other volunteers also noted homes as an important source of information that helped them

build up a picture about the parties to a dispute. As with YOS, NRF volunteers commented

on the cleanliness of a place, about whether or not the television was turned off during the

meeting as an indication of the family dynamic, as well as on the smell of the house, with a

strong smell of cannabis detected by a volunteer during a home visit. Here, there are signs of

participants being judged against middle-class benchmarks; perhaps, in the quote above, the

mother’s unwillingness to let the volunteer into her home indicates her unease about meeting

these standards.

NRF volunteers also noticed how nice and clean a house was. For example, a male

volunteer remarked that “[the victim’s family] live in a terrace house, normal type. But it’s

clean on the outside, with clean window frames. You can tell they look after it. Her mum really

goes the extra mile.” The same volunteer commented on another house: “it was a really nice

house, really tidy. The Dad has a job.” During a conference, the mother of a young offender

hinted at similar distinctions in order to indicate her family had a respectable background,

compared to the other “street” offenders:

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I couldn’t believe how loud it is up there. We’re from a quiet area, and I was shocked to see where [my daughter] was hanging out. And the other parents were unbelievable. When I went up there, they thought I had gone up to have a go at the police!

When a recipient of a home visit was on state support and lived in a “nice” house, I interpreted

the comments to have a judgemental undertone, such as “it’s alright for some” and “this is

how the other half live!” Accordingly, we can see how the distinctions present in Paul’s

community can be used to develop a picture of the types of individuals involved in restorative

justice processes.

As the last cited comment made by offender’s mother indicates, locality matters. YOS

case reports, read by volunteers, referred to the estate a young person was from and how easy

it was there to attain drugs or the police presence. One youth worker wrote a comment in a

report to say that “although [the young person and his family] live on a council estate none of

his family are involved in criminal activity”. The two YOS volunteers present on this panel

took offence since they too lived on council estates, albeit in owned, ex-council properties. In

my NRF field notes, I noticed observations being used as markers for the type of participant;

for example, volunteers regularly commented on whether a given house was owned, whether

its occupants were a working or unemployed family, or were social housing or council house

tenants. Volunteers and workers from both programmes signalled my area as a particularly bad

estate for young persons to come from. Indeed, on two occasions, YOS volunteers boxed

young offenders into a “bad” category before the panels had started. On both of these

occasions, the young persons lived very close to my house and knew my father well. Similarly,

“troubled” young persons involved in the NRF programme tended to be from my estate, and

on a number of occasions the really so-called “bad” ones were my neighbours.

Volunteers commonly assessed families, and parents in particular, in order to

determine whether or not an offender was from a decent or street background, or used parents’

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lifestyles to predict young offenders’ limited prospects. When volunteers perceived parents as

decent, they made positive assumptions, such as “he [the young person] won’t be hanging

around doing nothing with a mum like that”. In YOS, the case reports written by youth

offender workers, and viewed by volunteers, compounded positive assumptions volunteers

made about the young persons due to their parents. See how favourably one mother was

reported, for example:

[. . .] very supportive and upset that her son was arrested. She brought him up with good boundaries and there have been no serious behavioural problems at home. The family is not known to the social services […] His mother appears to care deeply.

Conversely, volunteers identified “bad” parents by having an offending past, by prior drug

addiction, and by employment and marital status – factors which seemed to indicate to

volunteers “a sign of things to come” for the young person. On six occasions, young offenders’

reports described young persons as from families who were either hostile toward the

authorities, or who did not like working with professionals, both instances of legal cynicism

that are indicative of street culture.

Further, volunteers described certain families as either “troubled” or notorious,

connoting that the cycle of offending behaviour was likely to be repeated throughout the

generations. A female volunteer, for example, explained that she used to go to school with a

young girl’s mother and that the mother was always in trouble; now, she said, the next

generation is still getting into trouble. Another female volunteer sat on the same panel, and

nodded in agreement; she could tell the girl was from “that type of background” from reading

the case report. The report concerned described the young female offender as coming from a

family who were “dependent on benefits”, and noted that her mother’s partner had recently

been in trouble with the police. Volunteers often highlighted the marital status of parents, and

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the word “trouble” recurrently occurs in both the NRF and YOS – as in the example above,

certain young persons were described as from a “troubled” background or indeed as being on

the “troubled families” programme.50

“Trouble” is a loaded, mostly negative term. In the Oxford Dictionary of English, for

example, “trouble” is defined in the following ways:

1) difficulty or problems [. . .]; the malfunction of something such as a machine or a part of the body [. . .]; effort or exertion made to do something, especially when inconvenient [. . .]; a cause of worry or inconvenience [. . .]; a particular aspect of something regarded as unsatisfactory or as a source of difficulty [. . .]; a situation in which one is liable to incur punishment or blame [. . .]; informal, dated used to refer to the condition of a pregnant unmarried woman [. . .]. 2) Public unrest or disorder.

References to families and offenders by use of this term thus indicate undesirable

characteristics, which we might see as akin to the notion of street in Anderson’s study. Whereas

“street” in Anderson’s study is intricately related to a poor black American context, in the

English context “trouble” conjures images of the dangerous and unruly white elements in

society (Skeggs, 1997b).

Mothers of young offenders were especially vulnerable to having assumptions made

about them (cf. Hoyle and Noguera, 2008). An older female volunteer, for instance, made a

sweeping judgement about a young male offender’s behaviour towards women:

It’s something to do with his mum, the way he treats women. It’s strange, I don’t know anything about his mum, but he’s in care so that’s saying something.

50 This was an initiative set up in 2011 by the British government, which targeted “troubled families” to help “turn them around” (see Fletcher et al., 2012; Levitas, 2012).

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I recorded a number of other volunteer assumptions about the parenting techniques of

mothers, cited as reasons for the young person’s behaviour. A male volunteer announced that

he was not “a trained psychoanalyst”, but nevertheless proceeded to explain the reasons for

the young person’s behaviour related to the mother. A female volunteer in the same case

commented that “it doesn’t take Sigmund Freud to work out what’s happening”, again

referencing the mother’s choice in men as the root of all the offender’s problems. In a different

case, a male volunteer suggested that a young girl’s smoking was “copycat behaviour” of the

mother. In another instance, a female volunteer described a male offender’s mother as a

“wicked woman”, due to the harm she reportedly inflicted on the young offender when he

was an infant. The volunteer in this case further sympathetically referred to “the poor father”

who had raised the boy, following this incident. Additionally, volunteers described three young

persons raised by single fathers as being vulnerable to offending behaviour; one volunteer, for

example, referred to a participant as the “poor son being brought up by [the father] alone.”

These sentiments give weight to Cohen’s fears that certain individuals may be considered as

particularly “shameworthy” in restorative justice spaces, such as single mothers, wayward

fathers, or gang youths (2001: 219).

Here, we can see gender coming into play. Volunteers certainly made different

assumptions about female and male offenders, as well as mothers and fathers of offenders. I

captured a prime example of how gendered assumptions surface during one of my interviews

with a middle-class female volunteer, who described the deplorable environment that a young

couple were living in. As a result, the volunteer gave the couple some bedsheets during the

conference.

I gave them some sheets because there was nothing on the bed, absolutely nothing on the bed. They would have gone in the tip anyway. And I felt, you know, the mother was going ’round anyway and I felt – sorry this is me being judgemental and I know we shouldn’t be – but as a mum myself, I couldn’t

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understand how the mum wasn’t making sure they had sheets on the bed and a cover on the duvet, just a bare mattress. […] The room was not, not good. And you know the path they’re going on. It’s sad […] She was desperate to get pregnant; she thought she was pregnant; she told everyone she was pregnant.

The volunteer’s assumption that the young girl was “desperate to get pregnant” draws on a

gendered stereotype that poor young women will intentionally resort to early motherhood at

the earliest opportunity. It was common for volunteers to express concern about the decisions

made by some mothers; for example, shock expressed when a mother allowed her teenage

children to move out of home at an early age or did not do more to prevent her children’s

behaviour. Yet again, it was the role of motherhood which was very much up for scrutiny

(Hoyle and Noguera, 2008). Only once did a volunteer explicitly blame a young person’s

misbehaviour on the father.

Female sexuality also came under scrutiny: volunteers described promiscuous

behaviour, such as sexting (sexual text messages), as “shocking”, and made comments about

young girls being wild and running away from home to have sex with boys. Rather than

depicting the girls as vulnerable, some volunteers suggested that the girls were predators of

young men. In one case, the volunteers expressed sympathy for a boy who was receiving sexts

from a girl in his class, whom he met in the woods, only to find out she had been cheating on

him with another boy in their school. In response, the boy picked up stones and started

throwing them at the girl. Although the girl in this case was the victim, the volunteers felt the

young offender had been led astray by her. It is worth noting here that young female offenders

seemed to be better protected in YOS from such judgements. A “girl offender” programme

was set up by YOS staff members in order to educate the team about issues specific to female

offenders. Further, YOS taught their volunteers about young female offenders, and their

vulnerability despite their “hard” persona (i.e. vulnerable even though exhibiting street-cultural

capital).

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Do you see what I see?

Before the start of an initial panel, I sat with two other volunteers, and a YOS case worker, reading the young offender’s case report. One of the volunteers, Simon, was in his late thirties, and the other volunteer, Justine, was in her early thirties. They were both local and appeared to be of white ethnicity.

“Oh no,” Simon muttered as he read through the case report of the next young offender to walk in. No one responded.

“Have you read what I have,” he continued.

“Yes,” Justine said. No one said anything more.

Confused, I said, “I’ve not seen?”

“It’s Traveller,” Simon informed me.

“Careful now Simon, no discrimination,” the YOS worker present cautioned. She then explained to me that the whole family had been through YOS at one point or another in time.

I asked whether any of them had been involved in a Traveller case before.

“I had one with a girl, who was going to be on My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding,” Justine said. “She came in with short skirt on, full makeup.”

“Tacky,” Simon muttered.

“It was a really interesting panel,” Justine explained, “I learnt a lot from it.”

“I’ve not had one before,” Simon said.

We continued to discuss the case.

When fifteen minutes had passed, the YOS worker gave the young person a call. He had forgotten he had a YOS panel. The panel was rearranged for the next week instead.

“Of course he’s not coming,” Simon commented, “and it’s not like he can get someone to give him a lift down or anything. I guess it’s his bedtime.”

“Don’t be prejudiced Simon,” the YOS worker warned again.

“I’m not, that’s just how it is!”

Another aspect of a person’s identity that may lead to immediate volunteer judgement is

ethnicity. I only witnessed explicit racism once, in the form of a male volunteer’s judgements

about a young offender from a Traveller background, as detailed in the box above. While I did

not record additional explicit racism, our window into Paul’s community indicates that there

may be unexpressed racism just below the surface. Reynolds, for example, suggests that racism

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might not be vocalised within middle-class communities, even though an ethnic-minority

individual may have a strong feeling of covert racism, hidden just under the surface (2000;

Reay et al., 2007). Moreover, NRF volunteers mentioned that one of the retired volunteers

was a member of the British National Party, a far-right political party in the UK, often

embroiled in claims of racism.

Participant victims in the restorative justice programmes I observed were just as

exposed to the type of judgements that offenders were, especially if they too were more

experienced in the street field. In YOS, there was less evidence of such distinctions being

drawn on account of reduced victim involvement. Yet in the NRF programme, volunteers

were just as likely to describe victims as street/decent, respectable/non-respectable, and to

scrutinise their behaviour and home life; for example, consider the victim’s mother who

refused the volunteer entry into her home, discussed above. In addition to the classed

distinctions experienced by offenders, volunteers made judgements of victims as “petty”,

“intolerant”, or “vindictive”. On two occasions volunteers used phrases such as “psychotic”

and “off her head” to describe female victims, and on one occasion described a woman’s

husband as “the voice of reason” in the relationship. While some volunteers portrayed female

victims as irrational, one volunteer interpreted a male victim as someone who “liked being the

victim”. Another volunteer expressed his surprise that a male teacher who was the victim to

an assault in school cried during the conference. Accordingly, victims were just as prone to

classed and gendered judgements as offenders. As with offenders, such judgements become

problematic if they contribute to unfavourable treatment.

So far I have presented evidence that distinctions are made by volunteers about

participants in restorative justice. These distinctions relate to class differences, along the lines

of street/rough and decent/respectable. Further, we saw that gender and ethnicity

intersections contribute to the initial views formed by volunteers. Formulating assumptions

and views about unknown individuals is inevitable, and occurs in all situations, by all persons,

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and only sometimes explicitly. What matters here is whether these views unduly impact on

sentencing outcomes, and, if so, whether there are sufficient safeguards to protect vulnerable

participants from disproportionate and unfair treatment.

5.12. (Dis)proportionaloutcomes

My data indicates that volunteer distinctions about participants may impact on the sentencing

outcomes, aligning with Cook’s earlier findings (2006). For example, volunteers in YOS had a

degree of flexibility over what activities went into an offender’s Youth Referral Order contract,

which is designed to address the harm caused by an offence. In a case relayed above, in which

the volunteer commented that a young male offender “sounds like a little shit” in the pre-

panel discussion, this same volunteer suggested twice as many reparative hours for the young

offender than the offender’s YOS caseworker had recommended in the report. The volunteer

commented that “12 hours would be better, as it’s only two days’ work, and he has nothing

else to do.” However, the YOS worker present to oversee the processes drew the volunteer’s

attention to the maximum number of reparative hours permitted for the length of the order –

half the amount suggested by the volunteer. The volunteers on this panel agreed to give the

maximum number of hours permitted instead. Here we see how volunteers’ reactions toward

an offender can influence the outcome that they deem suitable for the offence, rather than the

outcome being directed by the offence itself.

Whereas the YOS worker acted to limit the potentially disproportionate sentence in

the aforementioned example, in another instance, it was a volunteer who ensured

proportionality was achieved. This case involved three girls who were charged with attacking

another girl at school; two of the offenders were expelled from school because of the offence.

All three offenders were charged and given a Youth Referral Order, and two were

recommended for similar activities and reparation by their YOS workers. However, the third

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offender’s YOS worker recommended her for extensively more reparative hours and activities

than the other offenders. Notably, this third offender, from my estate and expelled from

school, was not the main perpetrator of the violence. Two female volunteers sat on the panel.

Alison had sat on the earlier cases, and had requested to join this case in order to try and

achieve similar outcomes for all of the girls. The other volunteer, Mary, was older and new to

the case. After reading the YOS worker’s report, Mary expressed shock at the level of violence.

As noted in the first part of this section, Alison commented about the girl coming from a

“rough” family, and Mary commented that she could tell from the report that the girls was

from “that type of background”. As such, Mary agreed with the YOS caseworker’s

recommendations. However, Alison then explained that the number of reparative hours were

twice as many as the other girls’, in addition to more activities. After persuasion, Mary

reluctantly agreed with Alison to give the offender a similar contract to the other girls. In this

instance, the female offender’s street characteristics made her susceptible to a being given a

more intensive Order than the other offenders who were deemed less “rough”.

In addition to impacting the outcome of YOS contracts, distinctions between

rough/street and respectable/decent also seemed to affect whether or not the Referral Order

was revoked. In limited instances, YOS Orders were recommended for early revocation if

some of the following conditions were met: all the elements of the contract had been

completed; the young person was assessed as having a low likelihood of reoffending; and/or

good progress had been made (Ministry of Justice, 2015: 46–47). For the most part, when a

YOS worker recommended to revoke an Order, the panel agreed. In the first revocation I

observed, for example, in the pre-panel meeting one of the volunteers said they “were happy

to be able to revoke the order” because “he was a lovely lad”, with a “caring mother”.

By contrast, consider the following case in which the panel turned down the YOS

worker’s recommendation. Discussed above, this case involved a young offender from a

Traveller background. The young offender was charged with common assault and minor

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criminal damage following a fight with an older man in the town. The young person explained

that the fight started because the victim was calling him a “pikey” and “gyppo”, which his

community find offensive, and this led the young person to hit the man and push over his

bike. The young person received a 12-month order for this offence. Other experienced

volunteers and YOS workers with whom I spoke about this case, agreed that the length of the

order appeared harsh for the offence, since most offenders received a six- or nine-month order

at most, even for showing more severe levels of violence. One YOS worker suggested the

Order may have been longer than usual on account of the young person’s family, who had a

history with the criminal justice system, and the sentencing judge at the youth court was

perhaps taking preventative measures.

When the young offender in this case had completed all of the elements of his contract

and had made good progress, in accordance with the Guidance, his case worker recommended

him for an early release. However, the panel heard that a recommendation to this effect would

be denied by the courts since the young person was not in education or formal training, as the

Guidance required. During the conference, I asked the young person whether he was involved

in any paid activity, and it transpired that he worked with his brother to fell trees. Nevertheless,

the panel considered this work to be informal and thus inadequate for a revocation.

Accordingly, it seems particularly difficult for a young person from a Traveller background to

conform to the required dominant culture, and so to have their orders revoked early.

As Ashworth fears, victims’ views were another factor that appeared to impact on the

intensity of an Order and whether or not it would be revoked early when recommended (1993).

In addition to the case just discussed, a YOS employee informed me there were at least four

other cases in which the panel felt it was unsuitable for a case to be revoked, each time contrary

to a YOS worker’s recommendation. In one of these cases, just before the young person sat

on the panel, the victims’ worker attended and presented the victims’ feelings on the matter

to the panel volunteers; the report was strongly against the young person’s Order being lifted

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early. The volunteers decided that in this case it would be inappropriate to recommend the

case for revocation. The YOS worker felt that the case could have gone either way and that

the victims’ views swung it against a revocation.

Despite disproportionality surfacing in YOS, there were safeguards in place to mitigate

this and reduce the impact of potential unfair outcomes. In accordance with Rosenblatt’s

findings, YOS volunteers mostly followed the guidance of the YOS caseworker in the reports

(2015). When volunteers departed from the reports, they were limited by a set minimum and

maximum number of reparative hours (Ministry of Justice, 2015: 38), and restorative

conferences counted as part of these hours. Moreover, there was a YOS worker present on

the conference to oversee and monitor the process. The YOS worker received training on

working with vulnerable groups and appeared to be sensitive to power imbalances that may

be present on account of ethnicity and gender (though class was not an area of training (see

Sayer, 2005: 15)). Therefore, while disproportional sentencing was a risk in YOS, the state

involvement in the process appeared to afford a level of protection.

There was evidence too of disproportional sentencing in the NRF, but unlike YOS,

there were no safeguards here. The NRF was especially successful at setting up direct

reparation by the offender to the victim as a restorative outcome, which contrasted to

reparation in YOS which was mostly indirect “payback” to the symbolic geographical

community harmed by an offence. Direct victim reparation appeared to have a positive impact

on an offender’s ability to recognise the harm, and the need to repair it. However, the number

of hours’ reparation in NRF was markedly higher than the number of hours in YOS. Whereas

an offender in YOS would often be given a six-hour day of reparation activity, the NRF

programme recommended days and even weeks of reparation work. Notably, however, the

offenders in these cases spoke positively about having engaged in these activities; undertaking

direct work for the victim made sense because of the offence (see Von Hirsch et al., 2003).

And for some young offenders, direct reparation led to offers of permanent employment

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(Bazemore, 2005b; Bazemore and O’Brien, 2002: 36). While offenders in these cases spoke

positively about their experiences, it is unclear how participants would feel if they compared

their undertakings to like cases. Moreover, if disproportionality in cases resulted from

individual characteristics of offenders (i.e. ethnicity, gender, sexuality, class, disability, and so

forth), then this would be of wider societal concern.

More problematic is disproportionate amounts of compensation in the NRF

programme. Although there were no guidelines for the amount of compensation to be paid,

the NRF coordinator tried to implement consistency by encouraging young offenders to agree

to pay around £20 to £25 to cover the cost of an insurance claim, and adult offenders covered

the cost of the damage caused. A male adult offender, for example, paid £250 for a taxi

window he broke, and a female adult offender paid £200 for a public-house window she broke.

The adult offenders were happy to pay the compensation to avoid being charged with criminal

damage. It is unclear whether the young offenders benefited in the same way, since many of

the NRF offences were recorded as a community resolution by the police, which they would

have been even if the young offender had not engaged in a conference or paid compensation;

hence, an example of potential net-widening (Blagg, 2001; Delgado, 2000; Levrant et al., 1999).

While the NRF coordinator did well to manage the difficult task of monitoring compensation

levels, the next case below highlights the potential for disproportional outcomes, especially for

more vulnerable participants.

The Hazardous Potato

Lee was riding his motorbike when schoolboys on the bus in front of him started throwing large potatoes out of the back window onto the road. Although Lee managed to avoid a couple of potatoes, one of them caused him to hit a speedbump and crash. Lee fell off his bike, and into oncoming traffic. Avoiding serious injury, Lee got back on his bike and caught up with the bus. The culprit of the hazardously targeted potato was a 14-year-old boy, Michael, originally from Poland. Lee wanted compensation for the damage caused to his bike, and accordingly the police forwarded the case to the NRF programme.

Michael’s mother had limited English-language skills. According to one of the volunteer-facilitators involved, the mother was very upset at what had happened, and she wanted it to

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be over as quickly as possible. The offenders’ family agreed to an amount of £150 in damages. However, as the case progressed, the victim’s father demanded that the family paid more in damages, arguing that the damage caused was over £400. One of the volunteers involved described the case as escalating from there; the amount increased to £240, but then the coordinator managed to block any further increases by arguing that without proof, there was nothing more that could be offered. The victim’s family eventually agreed.

A conference was then held at the police station. On the offender’s side, Michael was accompanied by his mother and sister, Michael’s sister acting as the translator for the mother. Lee, the victim, opted to attend alone. The family requested time to be able to save up in order to pay the compensation. As such, a second conference was scheduled for eight weeks later, so that the family could put aside 2 months’ wages. The money was transferred directly to Lee by the family as promised.

Lee found the conference stressful, but the coordinator said he was pleased to have received compensation and to get his bike fixed. Without the conference, Lee’s best chance of compensation would have been the small claims court. The victim’s family was relieved the process was over, yet without the NRF, Michael would have been given a youth caution at most, and had no compensation requirement.

When the “Hazardous Potato” case is compared to some of the other young offender criminal

damage cases, the amount paid by Michael’s family seems disproportionate. For example, there

was an NRF case in which a group of four young offenders caused hundreds of pounds’ worth

of damage to a medical centre. However, instead of paying for the whole amount, the

offenders paid £25 each to cover the excess cost of the insurance claim. Similarly, when three

boys had caused damage to a neighbour’s fence over a period of weeks, each of the young

offenders paid £25 towards the cost of a replacement fence, even though the victim claimed

that the new fence had cost him £450 to replace, and he felt he should have received a higher

amount. Another case involved two girls who were accused of stealing a bike, and each paid

£20 to help the offender purchase a new bike. Compared to these cases, the offender in the

potato case paid a significantly higher amount in damages, even though he was arguably just

as, if not less, culpable than offenders in comparable cases. Here, the ethnicity and immigration

status of the offender’s family may have made them more vulnerable to accepting higher

payments to settle the case (Albrecht, 2010: 15). There were no safeguards in place to defend

the victim or his family against disproportionate compensation.

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Unlike traditional justice, which has developed safeguards that (at least attempt to)

reduce imbalances created by differing levels of socioeconomic advantage, restorative justice

has not yet developed these. For example, participants in traditional criminal justice are

represented by lawyers who are experts in the legal arena and can communicate in appropriate

legal language for participants’ benefit. While there are inequalities created in the legal system

due to a participant’s ability to secure higher-skilled representatives with economic resources,

and while victims are notoriously underrepresented in the criminal law arena, nevertheless

there are safeguards that seek to provide parties an equal platform (Ashworth, 2001). By

contrast, rather than striving to protect participants in restorative justice, via representation,

for example, certain models seek to eliminate professionalisation altogether (Bazemore and

Schiff, 2005a; McCold, 2000; Roche, 2003). But having no form of representation in

restorative justice, and leaving participants with an “equal” platform of response, at best must

assume that participants come to the forum equipped with an equal stock of cultural capital.

My study indicates that this is not the case.

5.13. Chaptersummary

In this chapter, I assessed whether the purported dangers of community surface in restorative

justice. I began this task by reflecting on the participants involved in restorative justice, to

determine how representative volunteers are of offenders and victims, primarily in terms of

social class. I found that volunteers were more likely to be middle class, or at least had

developed significant amounts of scholastic capital, compared to offenders who primarily

developed skills related to street field activities, and to some victims. In the NRF, class

distinctions between volunteers and offenders were more pronounced than in YOS.

Nevertheless, all volunteers showed a willingness to work with criminal justice agencies, which

contrasted with the legal cynicism expressed by many participant offenders and some victims.

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This indicates that the first danger of community, the unrepresentativeness of volunteers, is

apparent in relation to social class.

In the next section, I addressed potential power imbalances that may be present during

restorative justice due to participants being from diverse class backgrounds. I investigated how

differential skillsets and habitus responded to the restorative justice field and I demonstrated

that restorative justice is a forum which preferences scholastic-cultural capital, with which

volunteers come well equipped. Moreover, while working-class participants struggled to

express themselves, middle-class participants engaging in restorative justice took to the process

naturally, well-skilled at expressing opinion and asserting their interests. Hence, middle-class

participants were powerful players in the conference. Since volunteers implicitly assumed that

all participants are on a level playing field in the conference, when working-class participants

failed to live up to these standards, volunteers regarded these failings as personal in nature.

Therefore, in relation to the second danger of community, I found that restorative justice may

create a form of symbolic harm, in which class inevitably disempowers participants during

restorative justice processes.

On account of participants from both scholastic and street fields being involved in

restorative justice, in the third section, I explored the nature and efficacy of the norms being

enforced. I presented a case which illustrated how both scholastic and street norms may be

enforced in a conference by different community members. I suggested that when disputes

involve street conflicts, in order for norm-enforcement to be effective, there must be

discussion about violated street norms. When street norms are able to be discussed,

community-of-care norm-enforcement is effective. And when victims and offenders ascribed

to different norms, the restorative conference provided an opportunity for norm-clarification,

and social capital could be bridged. However, when scholastic norms were imposed on street

disputes, in a top-down fashion, the affirmation of community norms appeared to be less

effective. As such, my data indicates that community-of-care relationships are capable of

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norm-affirmation, in contrast to critics. However, community-of-place relationships, in the

form of representative volunteers, are insufficient for norm-enforcement.

In the final section, I assessed whether classed judgements and the differential skillsets

of participants affected the outcomes of cases, thus appraising Ashworth’s critiques about the

risk for restorative justice to result in disproportional outcomes. First, I demonstrated the

types of classed distinctions made by volunteers about participants, and then suggested these

distinctions appear to cause disproportional outcomes; the more street a participant was, the

more severe the sentence could be. Ethnicity, too, appeared to be particularly relevant in

relation to disproportional sentencing, and we saw how the intersection of class and ethnicity

may be especially problematic. Whereas legal safeguards existed in YOS in order to mitigate

potential disproportionality in sentencing, these were not present in the NRF programme, and

participants appeared to be exposed to greater risks of domination and unfair outcomes.

Consequently, my data indicates that Ashworth’s fears about disproportional sentencing in

restorative justice may be warranted.

305

ConcludingReflections A lasting friendship51

On a Christmas evening, Drew smashed the window of a local children’s centre and climbed inside. Drew had woken earlier that day on his brother’s sofa, where he was living in-between spells of homelessness. Drew’s festivities started with drinking cans of lager, and by the afternoon he could barely walk. After two packets of crisps for his Christmas lunch, Drew passed out. When he woke again, it was still Christmas. The house was now empty, so Drew opened another lager and walked into town. When he passed the youth centre, he thought he saw his brother inside. Drew and his brothers used to play in the youth centre when they were younger, and he remembered it fondly. Unable to find a way in, Drew smashed a set of windows and climbed through. Hands cut from the broken glass, Drew walked around the centre, looking for his brother, until he eventually passed out again. On waking for a third time that day, Drew left the centre, and walked back to his brother’s house to sleep on the sofa. Two days later, Drew was arrested and charged with a non-dwelling burglary.

John, the trustee of the youth centre, did not want to criminalise Drew. John had personally discovered the break-in on Boxing Day, when he was on his way to a family meal. Instead of meeting his family, John spent the day at the youth centre waiting for someone to arrive to secure the building. In spite of the inconvenience, John appreciated that nothing had been stolen and, aside from the broken windows, that no other criminal damage had been caused. John requested to meet the young person face-to-face. Drew agreed, and the police opted to give Drew a Youth Conditional Caution, supervised by the YOS.

The YOS facilitated a face-to-face restorative conference. The conference was attended by Drew, as the offender; Drew’s brother, as the offender’s supporter; and John, as the victim. Another trustee from the centre had planned to attend but was unable to be present, and so John decided to participate alone. Two experienced YOS employees facilitated the conference, held at the youth centre. Each party was given an opportunity to speak, and Drew apologised to John as soon as he could. John praised Drew for having the courage to meet him; in fact, although not mentioned during the conference, John’s brother had been in trouble with the police and John wished his brother had been brave enough to do something similar. John said that he wanted Drew to feel part of the centre, and showed him pictures of how run-down the youth centre had become, as well as photographs of community volunteers helping to restore the building. When John explained that there was still a lot of work to be done, Drew said he was good at painting, and would like to help. Delighted with Drew’s interest, John insisted that no others at the centre would know why Drew was there, unless Drew wanted to

51 The offender, Drew, and the victim, John, involved in this case were introduced in the first section of Chapter 5. Drew’s ethnographic portrait helped us to examine offenders in restorative justice, and John’s ethnographic portrait helped us to examine victims. See also, Willis (2016b).

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tell them, and that Drew could treat the place as his own. At the end of the conference, John invited Drew to look around the centre with him. The YOS facilitators stepped back, allowing Drew and John to do so together.

Drew completed two days of “direct reparation” at the youth centre as part of his Youth Conditional Caution, which involved painting the centre with John. John requested for Drew to work without direct YOS supervision so that they could talk, and for Drew to feel like any other volunteer working there. Familiar with John’s community youth work, YOS were happy to accommodate. During this time, John identified Drew’s practical skills in painting and decorating, and remarked that Drew “looked too comfortable with a paint brush in his hand,” taking to the task like a natural. Impressed with Drew’s practical skills, John hoped to offer Drew employment as the Youth Centre’s gardener; however, health and safety issues presented a problematic hurdle.

Drew continued to volunteer at the centre on a number of occasions beyond his reparation, helping John to clear and decorate rooms, and design the layout of the garden. Drew described his relationship with John in the following way: “Me and John, we get on good [. . .] he’s someone I can talk to and have a laugh with when I’m there [at the youth centre].” According to Drew, it was the face-to-face meeting that helped them to build this relationship because it gave Drew a chance to hear John’s point of view. Drew said that after hearing John talk about the break in, he wanted to make it up to him.

The restorative justice story presented in this thesis has been a mixed one. Rather than

concentrate on the benefits of restorative justice, as a wealth of previous research has done, I

responded to unaddressed criticisms in the literature, focusing on concerns about the “dangers

of community”. I clustered the dangers into themes, which I developed into four research

questions, to be addressed by my empirical study. Since the dangers were rooted in class-

related power imbalances, and because of my focus on community, I selected ethnography as

an appropriate method for this task. Accordingly, I presented a two-part ethnography of

community life and conflict in a working-class group, followed by an examination of how

restorative justice proceeded within this setting. By way of conclusion, I now return to each

of my research questions, and critically evaluate my findings.

My first research question examined the class backgrounds of restorative justice

participants, in order to assess the representativeness of volunteers. The theoretical framework

307

I adopted was based on Bourdieu’s work on class, which explored how a combination of

persons’ habitus, economic capital, social capital, and cultural capital affects their performance

in various social fields. Building on existing literature, I suggested that whereas middle-class

capitals and habitus are better-suited to success in the scholastic field, working-class capitals

and habitus are better-suited for survival in the street field.

Next, I incorporated Bourdieu’s theory into an analysis of my father’s working-class

community – a segment of my hometown where a number of restorative justice programmes

took place. This framework helped to express what daily life consisted of for most offenders,

and a good number of victims, who participated in restorative justice. I found that working-

class participants had limited scholastic-economic capital, scholastic-social capital, and

scholastic-cultural capital. Instead of scholastic-cultural capital, working-class persons were

likely to develop street-cultural capital, which encompasses skills, knowledge, and instincts

required to avoid violence and settle conflict in tough environments. In turn, these skillsets

helped working-class individuals both to survive and thrive in the street field. In contrast to

working-class participants, most volunteers in the restorative justice programmes were from

middle-class backgrounds, or had at least embodied large amounts of scholastic-cultural

capital. Thus, I argued that volunteers in my dataset were unrepresentative, in class terms, of

most other restorative justice participants.

My second research question was motivated by this finding: since volunteers are

unrepresentative of other participants, are those participants disempowered during restorative

justice processes? I discussed this question in relation to the Bourdieusian concept of symbolic

violence, which is figurative violence that occurs when working-class individual’s try, and

inevitably fail, to live up to middle-class standards. How participants communicate was central

to my discussion; specifically, how communication skills influence ways that persons from

different socioeconomic backgrounds manage conflict. In the first half of the ethnography, I

found that in the street field occupied by my sampled working-class community, working-class

308

skills were directed toward resolving conflict by particular informal means, such as the use of

verbal insults, threats of violence, actual violence, and severing ties.

However, in contrast to working-class methods of conflict resolution, restorative

justice processes involve extended vocabulary and negotiation to secure advantage. I pointed

out that communication styles such as these are not equally shared, and are more commonly

found among the middle class. Consequently, I illustrated how restorative justice privileges

middle-class cultural capital and habitus, thereby privileging middle-class participants during

restorative justice processes. Since volunteers overlooked differential communication abilities

as a source of advantage, valuable cultural capital for the restorative justice field, volunteers

assumed that participants fall short of the required standards due to their individual

deficiencies, not due to societal power imbalances. Accordingly, I concluded that without

safeguards restorative justice risks being a forum where symbolic harm may occur.

The third research question addresses which norms restorative justice affirms:

working-class norms, middle-class norms, or both. Working-class norms are those required to

navigate the street field, such as standing up to bullies, defending family members against

insults, and fighting fairly. Conversely, middle-class norms enforced in the scholastic field may

require individuals to ignore or formally report instances of bullying and insults, and to avoid

fighting altogether. I argued that when conflict involves a street field dispute, there is a strong

case for providing space for the discussion of street norms in restorative justice processes.

This has the potential to prevent conflict from escalating, and it may ensure that affirming

norms is effective.

Moreover, I suggested that the affirmation of middle-class norms may be more

effective between victims, offenders, and their supporters than between participants and

volunteer community representatives. Volunteers’ attempts to affirm dominant norms in my

dataset appeared to have a top-down structure, which for the most-part was ineffective. By

contrast, norm affirmation between parties to a conflict had value. In some instances, when

309

victims were from middle-class backgrounds and offenders from working-class backgrounds,

horizontal norm affirmation (that is, variant class norms shared between the parties) provided

scope for bridging social capital, and each party developed an understanding of the other’s

perspectives and needs. Since bridging social capital has great potential between parties of a

dispute, I question the value of the geographical conception of community, according to which

volunteers are abstract representatives, in restorative justice. Indeed, I suggest that community

volunteers may detract from effective norm affirmation that could otherwise occur.

The final research question tackled whether community involvement in restorative

justice led to disproportional outcomes for offenders. Affording attention to class distinctions

in particular, my data indicated a possible correlation between distinctions volunteers made

about offenders and the outcomes of their restorative justice disposals. Whereas traditional

criminal justice has implemented measures to safeguard against disproportional sentences, I

proposed that informal low-budget restorative justice has not. There was a marked difference

here between the two restorative justice programmes I observed: the state body, YOS, had

safeguards in place to protect participants’ rights during restorative justice processes, while the

low-budget NRF programme did not.

This conclusion began with a final case, “A lasting friendship”. Facilitated by YOS, it

was by far the “best” restorative justice conference I observed during my fieldwork. The

preparation was considerable. The offender, Drew, met with his YOS caseworker on several

occasions to discuss victim harm, and the consequences of his offence. Additionally, Drew

took part in a session with the YOS restorative justice facilitator to begin thinking about his

answers to the restorative justice questions. Likewise, the victim, John, was given a chance to

consider what he would like to emerge from the conference, and how he would feel if his

preferred outcome did not transpire. Further, unlike many of the NRF conferences, which

were hosted in the local police station, the YOS conference was set up in the youth centre

310

where the offence occurred. The youth centre was a more relaxed and informal space than the

police station, and, in my view, this was more conducive to flowing conversation.

Rather than use lay volunteers, the conference was facilitated by professional YOS

employees, who were highly trained in restorative justice,52 and had a wealth of experience

facilitating conferences. Prior to the conference, the YOS employees did not discuss the

personal characteristics of participants, nor did they discuss their personal opinions of the

offence. During the conference, the YOS employees stuck to the script, made no attempts to

lecture the young person, and did not try to speak for the victim. In contrast to the NRF

conferences I observed, time was assigned at the end of the YOS conference for the young

offender and victim to walk around the youth centre together, and discuss ways to “restore

the harm”. Moreover, YOS were well-equipped to arrange the direct victim reparation, with

resources at their disposal to ensure the young person’s safety. From the beginning to the end,

this YOS conference was an impressive display of the potential for restorative justice.

I share the optimism of restorative justice’s advocates: restorative justice offers a light

in the darkness caused by penal populism and mass incarceration. However, previously,

maximalist scholars have positioned restorative justice as a replacement for traditional criminal

justice, and purist scholars positioned it as a separate mode of justice to traditional criminal

justice. By pitting restorative justice as something alternative to the state, this scholarship

contributes to a narrative in which salient risks go unrecognised. Consequently, restorative

justice remains at the margins of criminal justice (Hoyle and Willis, 2016). In the peripheral

space it now occupies, well-intentioned restorative justice initiatives are reliant on the skills

embodied by lay volunteers, due to lack of funds. While volunteering is a commendable

52 The YOS restorative justice facilitators were certified by the national charity, Restorative Solutions, to be capable of training other restorative justice facilitators. Moreover, the facilitators gained volunteer accreditation (a professional qualification) from the national regulatory organisation, the Restorative Justice Council.

311

service, I question the role of volunteers in the administration of restorative justice. Without

trained and accountable professionals responsible for these processes, vulnerable participants

are left open to the whim of endemic power imbalances that exist in society, with no safeguards

in place. Thus, I contend that restorative justice ought to embrace the community-of-care

conception, and let go of the community-of-place geographical conception.

Attention must now be given to how participants’ rights will be protected in restorative

justice (Hoyle, 2010b). Otherwise, restorative justice will continue to deliver a poorer form of

justice, especially for the poor.

312

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