Abstract
This article explores one US residential community corrections facility and the ways that case managers navigate working with transgender women under supervision in a facility that relies on the sex binary for housing placement. Similar to other research on this population in prisons that has been conducted both within and outside of the US context, we find that case managers contend with significant uncertainty in their work with these clients because of a lack of specific and formal training. To contend with that uncertainty, case managers reported relying on Gender Responsive Training and the Prison Rape Elimination Act to guide their understanding of and work with trans clients. However, we also found a great deal of discretion in the ways case managers managed programming for their trans clients that disrupted the gendered organization of the facility. We conclude with specific programmatic recommendations based on these findings.
Introduction 1
In the 1990s, Dee Farmer, a trans woman 2 who was incarcerated in a federal prison in the Midwest region of the United States, reported to correctional officers that she did not feel safe around a group of men she was housed with. These men verbally and physically harassed her, and she had reason to suspect that these interactions would escalate. Correctional officers ignored her concerns. As she feared, those men physically and sexually assaulted her shortly after she warned correctional officers. As a result, Farmer filed a lawsuit against the prison for deliberate indifference (Smith, 2015). Farmer's case—Farmer v. Brennan 1994—made it to the US Supreme Court where the Court decided with Farmer. This ruling was pivotal to establishing the relevancy of the 8th Amendment in prisons; the Court wrote, “prison officials have a duty to protect prisoners from violence at the hands of other prisoners” and not doing so violates the Eight Amendment of the Constitution that prevents cruel and unusual punishment (Smith, 2015).
Although this court case did not rule on anything specific to trans identity, in the United States, it sparked a new legal discourse about incarcerated people who identify as trans. It also highlighted the importance of the relationship between corrections staff and people who are incarcerated, as staff are responsible for ensuring their safety and well-being. Initially, these shifts helped spark additional advocacy for issues confronting trans women in the correctional context including increased research attention. Researchers—often focused on the US context—have explored, for example, people who identify as trans and: the demographic make-up of those who are incarcerated (Sevelius and Jenness, 2017; Sexton et al., 2010), variables that enhance the likelihood of criminal justice involvement (Buist and Stone, 2014; James et al., 2016; Sexton et al., 2010; The National Center for Trangender Equality (NCTE) 2019a, 2019b) and police interactions (Dwyer, 2014; Graham, 2014; Nichols, 2014).
Additional research examines ways that the criminal legal system institutionalizes practices and policies that constitute gender in ways that marginalize or exclude trans women. For instance, in their ethnographic work at a halfway house, Kerrison (2018) describes the ways that correctional staff produced heteronormative surveillance that disadvantaged women and, especially, queer-identified women via gendered penal logics. Greene (2019) shows how biologically based understandings of gender organized the work of agencies that provide reentry services in ways that categorically exclude trans women. Finally, Yarbrough (2023) provides evidence that normative binary conceptions of gender increase the vulnerability of economically and racially marginalized trans women through criminalization of common survival strategies. In part, each of these studies illuminates ways that organizational policies enacted through criminal legal services create additional layers of marginalization and exclusion of trans women because of their reliance on the sex/gender binary.
The current study seeks to contribute to this body of work by examining the community corrections context. As we discuss in the literature review, the US community corrections context is a generally underexplored aspect of the criminal legal system which is surprising given that most people who are justice-involved are surveilled and treated via this type of agency rather than a jail or prison. Our own examination of this context draws on interview data with case managers at one government-run, residential facility who have experience working with trans women and are charged with their supervision, treatment, therapeutic interventions, and reentry planning. Here, we examine the formal gender rules that case managers explain they draw on as they navigate their work responsibilities. We show that, like other correctional organizations, the sex binary is the primary formal principle organizing client experience but that case managers in this study used other means to navigate this arrangement to better meet the needs of their trans-identified clients. We conclude by offering practice and programmatic recommendations.
The correctional context and gender
A small but burgeoning body of work examines the dilemmas people who identify as trans women and are incarcerated face. Research, for instance, illuminates gaps in healthcare provision whereby trans women cite incompetent care where they are misgendered, inappropriately examined (Sevelius and Jenness, 2017; White Hughto et al., 2018), and denied access to the medical care they need due to lack of understanding of the trans identity, lack of resources, or blatant discrimination (Brown, 2014; Clark et al., 2017). Research also establishes that trans women experience substantially higher rates of sexual assault in prisons than others (Jenness, 2010; Sexton et al., 2010) and, similarly, find themselves in a vulnerable position in relationship to other incarcerated people as it relates to prison culture and hierarchy (Jenness and Fenstermaker, 2014). The vast majority of the research on this group tends to be in the United States. However, recent work in Scotland (Maycock, 2022) as well as England (Gorden et al., 2017) provides evidence that transgender people experience marginalization, exclusion, and harassment directly connected to their gender identity while serving time (Maycock, 2022).
In researchers’ efforts to understand the experience of transgender in the US correctional context, related work examines correctional staff's interactions with, knowledge of, and attitudes toward this population. The most overwhelming theme from this emerging literature is that staff express tremendous uncertainty in their work with trans women (Marlow et al., 2015; Ricciardelli et al., 2020; Routh et al., 2017). For instance, Clark et al. (2017) highlighted how healthcare workers faced institutional constraints in their work with incarcerated trans women including a lack of facility provided training on ways to provide culturally competent care alongside a lack of resources to provide adequate care. Research more commonly focuses on correctional officers and establishes that these staff typically misunderstand what it means to identify as trans—for example—conflating it with one's sexual identity (Jenness, 2010; Riccardelli et al., 2020). Unsurprisingly, then, correctional staff also express confusion around how to meet the needs of trans women including how to keep them safe given their identity in the context of a facility organized along the sex binary (Marlow et al., 2015; Riccardelli et al., 2020). Given that correctional officers are required to protect people who are incarcerated, escort them to appointments, and have the most interaction with them, daily uncertainty can create confusion for staff, put trans women at risk for mistreatment, and put correctional officers at risk for lawsuits (Sumner and Jenness, 2014).
Although across these studies correctional staff express uncertainty in their work with trans clients, one US federal mandate does explicitly inform correctional organizations work with these clients and, thus, the training of correctional staff. In response to the case introduced at the outset of this article, Farmer v. Brennan, in 2003 Congress wrote and approved the Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA). All correctional facilities must subscribe to the PREA mandates or risk losing federal funds. In 2012, because of increased awareness of the substantially higher risk of sexual assault for trans clients, Congress added additional provisions to PREA to specifically address the unique vulnerabilities faced by this population in jails and prisons (Malkin and DeJong, 2018; Smith, 2015). Although this created movement toward creating a safer environment for trans women who are incarcerated, critiques of these changes include that it is often the only policy in place that provides any type of explicit guidance regarding working with this population but is not intended to serve this purpose (Sevelius and Jenness, 2017). Further, multiple lawsuits have been filed by trans women who are incarcerated in PREA-compliant prisons (Thompson et al., 2008) indicating that PREA as a stand-alone policy is not enough to safeguard incarcerated trans women (Sexton et al., 2010). Maycock's (2022) qualitative research on the experiences of transgender people incarcerated in Scotland supports the idea that formalized policies intended to reduce the vulnerabilities of transgender people do not necessarily provide clear pathways to safety and inclusion. In particular, he reports that participants in his study identified problems accessing healthcare, being unable to wear gender-affirming clothes, and experiencing transphobia despite national Scottish policies that provide prison staff with clear ways to house people according to their gender identity or, at minimum, other criteria unrelated to the sex binary.
The community corrections context
As described thus far and noted earlier, US-based research and advocates for trans rights have focused on the prison and jail context. In some ways, this is unsurprising given that much of that national conversation focuses on these forms of social control. However, many more people are under the supervision of the criminal legal system in a different context: community corrections. There are currently nearly double the number of people under community corrections supervision than jail and prison and this growth has been consistent and explosive since the 1980s (Kaeble, 2018). Although politicians have endorsed community corrections as a route to curtail mass incarceration (Cullen et al., 2017), research has also addressed the clear potential for net widening effects (Phelps, 2013). Clearly, then, this is a social context ripe for study.
In terms of its organization and approach, community corrections agencies across the US are diverse in function and form and can include, for example, the use of diverted sentences, wellness and drug courts, and the increased use of (public or private) probation, parole, and halfway houses. As with the facility in the current research project, community corrections can also be residential meaning that clients not only live at the facility and engage with treatment and programming but also leave to work, reconnect with family and friends, or access community resources. A variety of employees staff these agencies including case managers who work one-on-one with clients to oversee, counsel, and advocate for their clients. Research establishes that quality relationships between case managers and clients shape program success (Cantora et al., 2014; Cullen et al., 2017). Thus, while residential community corrections agencies parallel jails and prisons in some ways that are especially relevant for the current study—they are segregated by the sex binary—they also provide a unique context to examine the ways that gendered logics organize staff understandings and case management of clients.
Thus, this article examines the process that Westbrook and Schilt (2014) call “determining gender” in one community corrections context. Although this “process of authenticating another person's gender identity” (p. 33) can result from interactional processes, these researchers show how gender is determined and produced via formal organizational practices and policies. More specifically, we draw on Greene's (2019) notion of “gender rules”—or the specific ways that organizations structure and offer activities and the practices that help inform how they assign gender. Although research establishes that jails and prisons draw explicitly on biologically based determinations of gender to organize client housing and services, we wonder—given the focus of community corrections on case management—whether parallel logics exist in this context. To that end, the following research questions are explored in this paper: What gender rules do community corrections staff draw on in their work with trans women 3 clients? What are the consequences of these rules for how staff understand and work with trans women clients?
Methods
The study site under examination in this research is a government-run residential community corrections facility in a metropolitan area in the Western United States with the capacity to house over 300 people. As with all community corrections facilities in this state, clients come to it in one of two ways: a direct sentence that is often a diversion sentence from prison or, alternatively, a transition out of prison prior to release onto parole. Thus, clients are referred to the program through a variety of processes but are only accepted into the program after an individualized evaluation process that includes interviews with clients to determine whether the facility and its programming can meet the person's documented needs. Clients live at the residential facility, often for about a year, and receive a variety of treatment services while also being mandated to meet a host of conditions of supervision. Most clients who complete their residential sentence successfully then move onto a nonresidential sentence where they live in the community with substantially less supervision as well as treatment requirements.
The research presented here resulted from a partnership between the university team and the agency under study that developed because of the agency leaderships’ desire to understand how the organization could work more appropriately with trans clients. Because we were working with a specific organization with a small population size, case study methodology was an appropriate approach. A case study is “a comprehensive description of an individual case and its analysis, i.e., the characterization of the case and the events, as well as a description of the discovery process of these features that is the process of research itself” (Starman, 2013, 31). Although case study methodology has a reputation for being unable to produce generalizability compared to other qualitative methods and quantitative methods (Flyvbjerg, 2006), it is particularly useful to understand the workings of an organization and the meaning-making those participants produce within the context-specific setting or phenomena (Baxter and Jack, 2008; Flyvbjerg, 2006; Starman, 2013).
The population of interest for the project was case managers. Case managers were selected because these staff are responsible for doing the most direct service work with clients at the facility; they develop one-on-one relationships to determine treatment and programming need, assess programmatic progress, and develop reentry plans. Although it would have been particularly useful to also interview trans clients, at the time of the study there were no clients who identified in this way. Additionally, as the study began and concluded during the COVID-19 pandemic (April 2019 – December 2019), site visits were not possible. As such, the broader research project became much more focused on what we explore in the current paper: examining ways that case managers navigate working with trans clients given the facility's unique programmatic context and philosophical approach. We used a semistructured interview approach that focused on a variety of themes including learning about the case managers’ roles, their understanding of trans identity, experiences with and preparation for working with this population. The first author of the paper interviewed all participants in the study.
We invited all case managers employed at the facility (N = 28) and just under half (n = 11) responded and participated. Full ethical approval for this study was granted by Colorado State University. Prior to each interview, the research team sent each participant a consent form to read before the interview. At the beginning of each interview, the first author walked the participant through the form and answered any questions. Participants provided verbal consent, and after the interview was complete, they sent the research team the signed form over email (as all these interviews took place virtually, either over the phone or Zoom). Participants were assured that their names, roles, and any personal or client identifying information would remain anonymous and that they could discontinue participation at any point in the process.
In terms of the general characteristics of our sample, they worked in a variety of programs offered in the facility and had experience working with male and female clients. They were also educated as a group (all possessed at least a bachelor's degree which is common in this facility) and had varied experience working in community corrections (1–25 years). Four of the participants were men, seven were women, and all identified as white except one person who identified as black. Finally, seven had worked directly with a trans client as primary case managers while the other four had worked indirectly with these clients.
Preliminary analysis of the interviews began by the first author at the onset of data collection with a line-by-line in vivo coding approach. Saldaña (2016) explains that an in vivo approach means creating codes verbatim from participants which, he asserts, helps researchers stay closer to the intended meaning of the participants thereby limiting some researcher bias. By interview 10, the data had reached theoretical saturation (Guest et al., 2006) as case managers relayed similar stories, information, and experiences. At this stage, a second round of analysis occurred with the broader research team that was more analytical and thematic; results from that process make up the findings presented next.
Findings
The role of the sex binary and the creation of uncertainty
Like the other correctional institutions that research has examined and discussed earlier in this article, the facility under focus here relies on the sex binary to organize much of the life of clients. Men—designated as such by the presence of a penis—sleep on what the facility refers to as the “men's side” and women sleep on the “women's side.” Treatment programs, such as substance use and mental health treatment programs, are also separated in this way. Additionally, case managers often have caseloads that serve only women or only men, with a few exceptions of case managers who serve both. All trans clients that have come to this facility have been clients who are assigned male at birth and have not undergone sex reassignment surgery, meaning they still have their penis. Because of this biological marker, these clients are housed on the men's side. However, case manager Amy noted that sex reassignment surgery would make a difference in the housing designation, stating that “I’ve heard as long as this person got ‘that’ [a penis] she cannot sleep over there on the women's side. And that to me implies that if she did [have sex reassignment surgery] she could sleep over on the women's side.” As Amy describes here, the facility's policy is to assign housing based on current genitalia. We learned that this is always established via client self-report alongside State documents (e.g., driver's license or prior criminal records) but that urinary analyses (UAs) provide the opportunity to confirm since these are always monitored by staff. Indeed, anatomical sex determines placement.
Case managers had mixed opinions on this institutional practice. A substantial minority (n = 3, 27%) thought this policy was necessary because they agreed clients who were biologically male pose a potential threat to the cisgender female clients (which will be explored in a later section) and should not be housed on the women's side regardless of their gender identification. Fewer case managers (n = 2, 18%) professed a different belief: that housing segregation based on genitalia was an unnecessary and overly fear-based precaution. These case managers explained that not allowing trans clients to be housed with the gender they identify was setting them up for ridicule and danger. Although many case managers (n = 4, 36%) believed that trans clients would appreciate being housed with others who are trans women as they presumed it would increase feelings of understanding and safety, the facility was not designed to provide such a space.
Although the “gender rules” (Greene, 2019) of this organization drew first and foremost on the binary sex categories (and, more specifically, the presence or absence of a penis) to determine client gender which established housing and treatment assignments, the facility also enacted several policies that disrupted the traditional ordering gender researchers commonly witness in jails and prisons. For instance, it was easy for all clients, including trans clients, to access medical care, such as hormone replacement therapy; additionally, clients were able to express their gender through their own clothing choices (Jenness and Fenstermaker, 2014). Additionally, the facility provided accommodations to trans clients for pat searches and UAs, which is unlike most correctional institutions (The National Center for Transgender Equality, 2019a and 2019b); case managers reported they were required to give trans clients the opportunity to choose the gender of the staff member who patted them down and these searches were conducted privately. As for UAs, trans clients could opt to do oral swabs so that these clients did not have to urinate in front of a male staff member. Laura explained that these procedures were in place to make it easier for case managers to ensure their clients were appropriately accommodated and as comfortable as possible at the facility given the disconnect between their personal gender identities and the gendered organization of the facility. About this Laura recounted how she forgot to tell staff that her client wanted to do oral swabs instead of UAs before her first UA took place but was able to fix her mistake for her client's future experiences: It was that that first initial entry, I tried to get up front before she got here to let them know that she chooses to do oral swabs and not UAs because we can’t have males watching her go to the bathroom. And I didn’t get up there in time and I apologized to her and she said, “It's no big deal. You know, not the first time I’ve had to take a UA in front of a guy, so no big deal.” You know, but we made sure from there on after that she was doing oral swabs and just made sure that she understood that she has the right to say, “I would like a female patting me down.” Or if you’re indifferent, either [gender can] pat you down. Because it is normal for the same sex to pat someone down. So just let her know that you know, we won’t decide for her, she has to be able to say it out loud. And then we will honor that.
According to the case managers, then, the formalized gender rules of the facility were two-fold. First, the facility used genitalia to organize clients’ housing assignments and provide treatment services. Second, though, while one's gender identity certainly did not trump the first and primary gender rule, the facility provided case managers and trans clients with some limited but structured ways to navigate its strictures. This occurred primarily because a central goal of this community corrections facility was not just to incarcerate and surveil but also to offer individualized case management that responded to each client's needs.
What is notable, though, is that in this context of simultaneous restraint and flexibility the case managers in this study reported experiencing a great deal of uncertainty regarding their work with trans clients. The most pervasive issue throughout the literature on the experience of staff working with justice-involved trans women is a lack of training (Marlow et al., 2015; Ricciardelli et al., 2020; Routh et al., 2017). Case managers in the current study all reported a lack of training and, without exception, explained that the facility did not prepare them “at all” to work with trans clients. This created foundational issues for case managers as they were left without crucial information on how to work with trans clients including what factors lead trans women into the criminal legal system, trauma histories, medical needs, as well as contemporary vocabulary used to describe different LGBTI identities. Thus, the sex-segregated nature of the facility alongside some degree of institutional flexibility in total conformity to that standard mixed with a sense of being untrained to work with people who identify as trans women created significant uncertainty for the case managers. About this, Sam explained: So, some of the things that I would want [if we had training] are, like, what exactly are, you know, the kinds of medical needs that transgender people have and what exactly are the kinds of psychological needs that transgender people have that are different from cisgender individuals? Does this apply to all transgender people? Is there gender responsive programming from male to female transgender, that's different from female to male transgender? Yeah, there's a lot in there. What else would I want? What are my legal responsibilities for transgender individuals? Because I don’t want to get sued. Even if I mess up, if I make a legitimate mistake, I really don’t want to get sued.
Formal trainings and the fear of sexual violence
Case managers, alongside other facility staff, were required to participate in 40 training hours each year. Those in this study described how these formalized trainings provided through the facility or other correctional institutions and social service agencies provide some utility in terms of working with all clients—including trans clients. Trixie explained that in the absence of specific trainings on understanding and working with trans clients, these trainings often focused on, “just being human with anybody who sits in front of us.” Most of the other case managers echoed this sentiment explaining that general trainings—while absent a specific focus on gender and identity—fostered, as Sam explained, a “culture of inclusivity and acceptance.” As we show next, though, two formal organizational trainings and policies that focused explicitly on gender had important influence over the way that case managers viewed and worked with trans women: (1) an organizational commitment to gender-responsive (GR) principles—evidence-based practices designed to respond to the gendered needs and circumstances of justice-involved women (Covington and Bloom, 2007) and (2) PREA—the federal law designed to deter sexual violence in correctional contexts.
In lieu of specific training on working with trans women, case managers explained that training on using GR practices was the most applicable. If staff were assigned to work in the women's program, they were required to go through this training as it oriented much of the values, interactions, case management, and programming in this part of the facility. Research indicates that GR programming has several benefits for justice-involved women (Cantora et al., 2014) but that, in philosophy and practice, can be limited by a number of factors including its nonintersectional focus (Kerrison, 2018). More specifically in the current case, GR practices can have especially limited utility in their applicability to those who identify as LGBTI and/or trans (Irvine-Baker et al., 2019; Kerrison, 2018). That being said, the majority of the case managers in the current sample had received this training and explained that it played an important role in informing their understanding of the way gender intersected their work with trans clients.
The central way that GR programming ordered case managers’ understandings of gender was by emphasizing cisgender women's vulnerability to sexual violence and, thus, the importance of prioritizing caution and sensitivity because of these trauma histories. About this, Helena explained that GR training emphasized that: [a] lot of women have been sexually assaulted. And so, living with someone who is genetically male could be traumatizing… And so just having that part, I think it's what's hard for me because I am so supportive of the women and I love the women's program–also wanting to protect them from that piece of it [sexual assault].
Sam echoed Helena's sentiments that trans clients should be understood as potential risks to the cisgender women in the program. He explained, “regardless of that person identifying as a female, they have a phallus and it can be used for sexual gratification much more commonly and easily on the women's side than it can be on the men's [side].”
Here, then, GR principles—a valued focus of the women's program at this facility—oriented the case managers to the importance of the trauma histories of the cisgender women in their facility and, especially, to the fact that biological men are the sources of those trauma histories. Thus, in terms of seeing the logics that shaped the gender order of this facility, a focus on GR principles did help shepherd along the use of the sex binary in viewing and working with clientele.
PREA—a policy necessarily guiding the work of case managers and other staff at the facility because it is a federal mandate—shaped the case managers’ ideas in somewhat similar ways. One participant explained how PREA directed the experience of clients and the work of case managers beginning when clients entered the facility: We do a PREA screening when they initially arrive. That's an informative video that they watch. And then when they meet with their case manager, we go through a questionnaire that basically assesses if they are prone to victimization, if they are a victim, or if they are a predator. So, every client in the building is classified and has gone through that investigation. So, the people who are victims or could be prone to victimization, obviously, they’re in a room without anybody who is or had scored out as a predator.
PREA, then, has important implications for how the facility understands vulnerability based primarily on whether someone holds a marginalized status that increases their risk of sexual violence including, for example, age, a previous experience of sexual trauma, or holding an LGBTI identity. On the other hand, PREA—and thus the facility—defined “sexual predators” primarily through client criminal history—including whether they had a crime involving a sexual offense. Those with a sex offense history were housed separately to those without one.
In cases where trans clients were serving time because of a sex offense, case managers described needing to rely on the sex binary to determine housing placement. Beth explained how housing placement was determined for one of her clients who was both a trans woman and a sex offender: [H]ow they treated other transgender clients versus my sex offender transgender client- very different. They hardly acknowledged that I had a transgender [client] because it was a sex offender—our staff, are very biased with the sex offender population, I get it. But there were never conversations with management about how to treat her, or what were we doing with her? Whereas other transgender [clients] there's conversations.
Thus, GR practices and PREA mandates ordered a gender logic at the facility where male bodies were viewed first and foremost as risks, especially in the context of the sex offender label. However, while case managers in this study relied on these gender rules and the logics produced by them to contend with the uncertainty created by the lack of trans-specific direct policy and training, their direct observations and experiences did complicate their total commitment to these ideas. Specifically, half of the case managers described and provided detailed accounts of the ways that trans clients were subjected to transphobia and sexual harassment from other clients. Because of these vulnerabilities and heightened safety issues, participants explained they experienced increased anxiety working with trans clients and stressed to their clients that they keep them informed of their experience of safety. Moreover, this observation was one of the reasons that—as described in the previous section—most case managers in this study did not necessarily agree with the biologically based criteria used to house clients as it caused them to struggle with how to ensure the safety of both their cisgender and trans clients.
Navigating the sex binary: Case managers’ individual solutions
As discussed so far, (1) case managers experienced uncertainty in their work with trans clients because of a lack of formal training and, because of this, (2) relied on PREA and GR training to help guide much of their understanding of and work with these clients. To a significant degree, these trainings reinforced essentialized versions of gender—especially as it relates to the inherent vulnerability and risk of male and female bodies. One consequence of this was that relying on these trainings reinforced the logic of using the sex binary to house and treat clients. Notably, though, as case managers worked at the tension described so far, there were a handful of ways they navigated and decentered the primacy of the sex binary in their work with trans clients. About this, case managers—like Helena—stated that they understood that “gender” was indeed distinct from “sex” and to meet the needs of trans clients meant understanding that: We’re having these clients we’re identifying as female, so how do we bring that gender responsive piece into it for them? Because they’re not housed with women, where do we meet them where they are, and give them the support that they need, with the clientele that we’re just not really used to having?
Case managers also reported drawing on a second strategy to manage the uncertainty they experienced working with trans clients that decentered the sex binary in their work with these clients: broadening their knowledge about the identity via informal avenues. For instance, several case managers explained their own queer identities or close relationships with friends and family who shared those identities helped create a higher baseline understanding of being trans. In the course of their work, this typically meant coming to understand the importance of gender-affirming care by asking new clients about their “preferred names and pronouns.” Perhaps remarkably given what research indicates about the rigidity of the sex binary in other sex-segregated correctional institutions in the United States, all case managers in this study engaged this practice. About this, a few case managers explained how this specific practice assisted them in client rapport building. For example, Carmen described a recent encounter with a trans client in this way: “I, in no way want to be disrespectful to you: what pronouns would you like to use?” and he said “Wow, thank you for asking. He or him.” He says, “while I’m in this program, I will identify as he or him for my own safety.” … And honestly, that was probably the most enlightening conversation I’ve ever had with [that client]. It broke the ice with us… He seemed to be able to ask questions about anything. And I’m so glad I get to ask the same of him. And, you know, not that I go in and say, “Hey, can you explain this? And, you know, why are you that?” but it's an ever-evolving situation for me. Where, I guess I don’t know, I ask or look it up, because I don’t want to… the last thing I want to do is offend anybody.
As case managers described these informal strategies that upended, to some extent, the role of the sex binary at this facility, this did not come without patterned challenge or consequence. For instance, while most of the case managers spoke of the utility of adjusting programming to align with a trans client's gender identity and expressed needs, a minority also explained that they—alongside other staff—believed these clients tried to manipulate this arrangement to gain extra privileges. Beth explained, I think we struggle with them [trans clients] bouncing back and forth. It is conducive today to eat with the women and tomorrow to eat with the men. So, I don’t think we do a very good job. I think they almost get more perks, because we don’t police it very well. So, they might get a smoke break with the women because they want women's programming, and then come over and have a smoke break with the men, because it's an extra smoke break kind of thing. So, they will kind of manipulate the scheduling that way. You know, they play along with female drama, I guess I would say, like, passing notes – several of them have gotten in trouble for that. They will pass notes because they can go over there and be with them [the women]. And they come live over here [on the men's side]. So we’ve had trouble with that kind of thing.
An additional shortcoming of using staffings as a method to decenter the primacy of the sex binary in organizing the experience of trans clients at this facility is that it is a discretionary step that case managers can take and that supervisors may approve. In other words, because staffings take extra labor on the part of case managers as they decide what each trans client can and cannot do, it is necessarily a solution that will be applied inconsistently—first in the decision to do staffing, second in the programming choices chosen to create the individualized plan, and third in the supervisory approval process. This is also a consequence that can result from staff using their own personal experience or resources as a central method to enhance their understanding of trans identities. Indeed, while this informal way of learning did produce the use of gender affirmative processes for the case managers in this study, ultimately this kind of strategy cannot and should not occur in lieu of institutionally established practice and policy as the latter has a greater opportunity to create consistent knowledge, response, and experience.
Finally, it is worth noting that the case managers who spoke about the role of their own queer identities in creating access to knowledge that they used to navigate their work with trans clients also spoke about feeling like they were assigned to work with these clients because of that identity. Thus, relying on personal experience or identity to navigate gender rules established via the sex binary can also create the opportunity for differential treatment of staff with marginalized identities and allow other case managers to bypass learning about working with and meeting the needs of trans clients.
Conclusions
Research establishes that the sex binary is a primary gender rule that determines and organizes gender across most contexts (Greene, 2019; Kerrison, 2018; Westbrook and Schilt, 2014; Yarbrough, 2023). For trans women in the correctional space, this process produces notable consequences including increased risk for sexual assault (Jenness, 2010; Sexton et al., 2010), improper or nonexistent gender-affirming care (Brown, 2014; Clark et al., 2017), and lack of control around identity management (Jenness and Fenstermaker, 2014). In the current study, we sought to understand what these dynamics looked like in a US residential community corrections facility from the vantage point of those who do the daily work of reinscribing—or challenging—the sex binary: staff. In particular, we wondered: How do case managers in a residential community corrections facility formally organized by the sex binary work with trans-identified clients? Here we briefly summarize our findings but also offer several specific program and policy recommendations based on our research that may be transferable to other community corrections agencies, especially those that are residential.
As with other research on jails and prisons in the US context, we found that this community corrections facility used the sex binary as a central organizing principle to assign housing and treatment services. However, the facility also provided case managers with formal avenues—via UA procedures, pat searches, and enforcement of client dress code—that disrupted (to a limited degree) the necessary ordering of client treatment along that binary. Case managers in this study also explained that the facility provided no formal training or guidance on the unique circumstances of trans clients and, as a result, they wondered how to appropriately manage, interact with, and offer services to trans clients. This sense of uncertainty replicates other research on staff in jails and prisons both in and outside of the US who are charged with the supervision of incarcerated people (Marlow et al., 2015; Ricciardelli et al., 2020; Routh et al., 2017). In the face of this uncertainty, case managers explained they drew on other resources to inform their understanding and work with trans clients. In particular, case managers explained that the federally mandated PREA enacted by Congress with the intention, in part, of addressing the unique vulnerabilities faced by trans clients as well as Gender-Responsive Training were helpful in informing their work with clients. Notably, though, reliance on these policies primarily confirmed the sex binary as a way to understand and classify people given that they both train staff to view all male bodies primarily as risks to female bodies because of victimization vulnerability.
Based on these findings, we provide two specific recommendations that we hope will be useful to other community corrections organizations—especially those that are residential or engage heavy case management approaches. First, although research indicates that GR approaches can provide notable benefits to clients in a correctional context, we recommend some modifications to this framework. GR programming acknowledges the unique differences between male and female offenders, such as history of sexual abuse, drug use, relationships marked by intimate partner violence, and other forms of trauma (Covington and Bloom, 2007). Although GR programming is remarkable in that it recognizes these nuances for female offenders, studies have emerged that highlight its limitations when applied to trans offenders (Kerrison, 2018; Irvine-Baker et al., 2019; Kahle and Rosenbaum, 2021). This is not to say that GR programming should not be used when working with trans clients; rather, by incorporating an intersectional lens into existing programming (Kahle and Rosenbaum, 2021), GR programming can adequately serve clients who do not identify as heterosexual or cisgender. For example, in Kahle and Rosenbaum's (2021) study, they walk through the tenants of GR programming and insert ways to incorporate inclusivity for those who identify as trans. To accomplish this, they explain that cultural competencies outlined in GR programming should be expanded to include addressing the unique trauma histories of trans clients, much of which comes from familial and institutional exclusion, and addressing other institutional barriers, such as barriers to employment. They also recommend that staff should familiarize themselves with local LGBT resources to help clients gain access to the resources they need (Kahle and Rosenbaum, 2021). Incorporating these goals into GR programming will help foster a culture of inclusivity for trans clients.
A second recommendation, based on our findings, is to offer specific training to staff on working with trans-identified clients. Given that our findings indicate a desire among staff to establish a baseline understanding of what it means to be trans, we suggest that facilities should consider offering formal training that covers specific aspects of trans identity, such as terms, definitions, and language. It should also cover the trauma histories of trans people and factors that influence their likelihood to become justice-involved to enhance case managers understanding of client pathways into the system as well as vulnerabilities while a part of the system. Also, a review of trans medical and mental health needs would be useful. Although case managers are not healthcare or mental health providers and do not need to know the ins and outs of these needs, it is useful for them to have a baseline understanding of resources clients may say they need, such as hormone replacement therapy or counseling for gender dysphoria, depression, or anxiety (Sexton et al., 2010; Brown, 2014). Understanding these needs will help case managers better direct clients to the resources they desire. Finally, this training must cover how case managers should handle instances of transphobia that their clients face at the facility, including what transphobia looks like, how it can appear, and how to address it (Kahle and Rosenbaum, 2021; The National Center for Transgender Equality, 2019a).
There are several important limitations to the conclusions and recommendations we offer from the current study – most notably, the case study methodology alongside the focus on staff sentiment without triangulation of that data through client interviews or ethnography which resulted because of the COVID-19 pandemic. These shortcomings highlight the need for additional research on other community corrections spaces where, undoubtedly, different policy, philosophical, and funding approaches will animate a different set of gender rules and staff attitudes and approaches. For instance, although many countries rely on the sex binary to determine placement in correctional facilities, no research in other places examines whether and how these logics extend into other forms of correctional supervision like probation. Moreover, because there is variability across countries in terms of penal policies for transgender people who are incarcerated (Jamel, 2017) there are clear opportunities to examine the extent to which different policies shape the experiences of both staff and trans-identified people in alternate ways. This study, though, suggests that there are pathways toward rehabilitative and reintegrative programming in the community corrections context, that offers the possibility of gender inclusivity—and that staff, at least at this facility and we suspect others, desire to be a part of this movement.
Footnotes
Declaration of conflicting interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
