Years ago, Clinical Assistant Professor Daicia Price swore she would never again have anything to do with the police. She could not have imagined that, one day, she would choose to collaborate with law enforcement agencies, that she would train police in mental health and anti-racism and that she would even count some officers as friends.
Price’s personal history at first made this turnabout unlikely. And then it made it necessary.
Fear and Anger
Price grew up in Ypsilanti, Michigan. Throughout her childhood, her uncle was imprisoned for armed robbery. Price remembers, “The constant theme in my family was, what did it mean that this had happened? To me, he was the best uncle in the world — kind and giving. Others saw him as a monster.”
As a teen, Price was ticketed for being out past curfew, even though she was working for a 24-hour answering service. At 20, she was a victim of domestic violence. She had acted in self-defense, but had previous traffic violations with warrants, so the police arrested her, not her abuser. “I decided then and there that I would never call the police again,” she says.
Eight years ago in Detroit, police, who were clearing an event space, thought Price and her guest were not moving fast enough. “She slammed us down and cuffed us,” Price recalls. “They charged us with resisting arrest. I was told to plead to a lesser charge and this would be taken off my record. I was a licensed social worker then, so I did.” Price also filed a complaint of excessive force, but it was never resolved.
Price’s most wrenching encounter with law enforcement happened in 2016. Her stepson had come into possession of a stolen vehicle. Price and her husband called the police to make the young man available for questioning. The police ran the car title, found it had been involved in a felony and arrested her stepson. He went into a lineup without a lawyer, the victim identified him and he was charged with carjacking. “Carjacking can be up to 45 years,” Price points out. “The stress triggered his mental health issues. We requested mental health support from 911, and they sent the police, which exacerbated the situation.”
Price, who once swore not to call the police, now swore not to call 911. Her stepson ultimately went to prison for carjacking. By then, Price was on faculty at the School of Social Work, and she mentioned her U-M affiliation when seeking help in getting her stepson’s conviction overturned. “Now, the county was willing to review the case,” she says. “They saw there was no way he could have committed the crime. He did have to plead to possession, so he is still incarcerated. But after seeing the power behind my position at U-M, I knew I had to do something to change the system.”
Action
“I was at a point in my life,” says Price, “where I knew: I could be angry, or I could share with law enforcement what I had learned about racism, social justice and behavioral health.” One of her colleagues had a family member in law enforcement who was working to connect policing and mental health. Price began to build relationships with law enforcement officials in southeast Michigan.
She partnered with Detroit Wayne Integrated Health Network to provide Crisis Intervention Training for law enforcement agencies. Last summer, she trained officers from the Wayne County Sheriff’s Office, Wayne County Jail and several local police departments in how to use trauma-informed policing with individuals experiencing mental health issues.
“I use my positionality — as a social worker who has experienced injustice and police brutality — to help police work with those suffering from mental illnesses,” Price says, “and to promote diversity and anti-racism in police departments.” Price has partnered with Chief Paul Tennies of Northfield Township, Michigan at a roundtable for diversity and racial justice, and at a mental health forum. “It was remarkable seeing a white police chief involved in public conversations about race. I have also learned more about how overburdened police are, and how they view themselves as protectors and defenders. Officers and chiefs share their humanness with me. As a social worker, if I don’t bridge the gap and build relationships, I am helping to perpetuate their racism. If they have relationships with me and others like me, they think twice.”
Price uses role play and scenarios to teach officers new ways of engaging with people. “We connect them with social service providers and clinicians,” she says, “and we listen to their challenges. Police are frustrated when they have to address mental health situations for which they are not prepared. It is powerful for me to hear how they want to help but do not know how. People have no idea that there are officers now trained in critical interventions and connecting with social services to access care."
Trauma and stress impact police officers, too. Price wants social workers to collaborate with police in two ways: supporting officers in processing traumatic experiences, and helping them understand others’ trauma. Police must also have a place to refer those with mental health issues.
“Today, in Wayne County,” Price explains, “when a 911 call comes in regarding social services or mental health, the operator can connect that person directly to social workers.” But when a client tells 911 or a social worker they are thinking about suicide, they may be routed back to the police. In Wayne County, there is only one physical location where officers can take people to see a social worker in person. “Integrated health care is a huge part of how we deliver services,” Price says. ”We need to provide the community with officers who have social services resources and trauma training.”
Listening
In early 2020, Price had a conversation with the Northville Township police department about diversity. Northville had just hired its first Black officer. “There is a culture of a certain type of white male officer who doesn’t understand community needs,” Price says. Northville Township’s chief of police wanted to change that. Price recommended a listening tour of communities in southeastern Michigan. The tour would be sponsored by the Conference of Western Wayne and the Western Wayne NAACP. The first stop was in Livonia, Michigan on June 24. (COVID then intervened, but the tour has now resumed online.)
The Livonia session invited community questions on policing. Price began by asking: “What words do you think of when you see a badge?” The most common response was “authority,” followed by “power,” “fear,” “brutality” and, less frequently, “security” and “safety.” She then asked the panel, “What do you feel is the primary responsibility of law enforcement?”
Responses included: “Make people feel safe....There does not seem to be humanity in the police force….Someone who calls for a wellness check should not end up dead….Talk to people before using force.” One woman spoke warmly of a Halloween block party where police distributed candy. But another told a story of a young Black man with known mental health issues, who was shot in the back by police. “Young Black men don’t get candy,” she said curtly.
Local law enforcement and officials said people have to have a better perception of what police officers do. “We get lots of mental health calls. We train the best we can but would love the help of experts. The frustration comes from the lack of resources and training.”
The crowd wanted the listening tours to expand and continue. “Dialogue is central,” said one participant. Many participants advocated for defunding the police, suggesting that a portion of police budgets go to communities, schools and mental health initiatives.
Applications to police departments are down. One chief announced 27 openings for officers, and he received two applications. Getting more — and making the new cohort of officers diverse—would be a challenge, because towns all around were recruiting just as aggressively.
The System
Perhaps most compelling are the stories, like the one of Price’s stepson. Tickets turn into warrants and jail time, which can lead to more crimes, committed for the sake of survival on the inside. Your record grows; even after release it follows you, regardless of the triviality of the charges or inaccuracies in police reports. Your family may give up on you. You may give up on yourself.
Today, Price’s stepson, although acquitted of carjacking, remains in the Michigan Reformatory in Ionia. “Once he had the carjacking charge, he stopped caring,” Price says, “so before he was acquitted, he did some other reckless things. They took away his visits, and we haven’t seen him in person since.”
In Livonia, a community member painted two contrasting pictures:
“When we grew up, the police lived on our street,” she said. “When I was 15, if I did something stupid, as 15-year-olds do, they called my parents. Today, an African American kid gets stopped by police who know nothing about him, and he has a record just for doing what the police officer did when he was 15, and that kid is held accountable for the rest of his life.”
Currently, Daicia Price’s stepson is due for release in 2032.
He will be 34.
He entered the system when he was 17.