When a fourth-grader in Florida was frustrated about having to sit out his afternoon recess, he penciled a word on an outdoor bench: kill. A teacher asked him about it, and he said it was what he wanted God to do to him.
His mother, Marah Marino, guessed he was hurt and angry. “He’s not a mature 10-year-old,” she said.
But soon, a sheriff’s deputy who was working in the school stepped in, using a controversial state law to order an involuntary psychiatric evaluation and confinement for up three days in a mental health facility. Marino, who rushed to the school after getting a call about the incident, was stunned, pleading with the officer and asking to be with her son.
The deputy drove away with the terrified boy, and Marino followed closely behind them in her car, watching her son stare out the back window, sobbing, his hand on the glass.
Every day in Florida, children and adolescents are involuntarily committed for psychiatric assessments under the Baker Act, a 1971 law. In fiscal year 2020-21, involuntary exams happened more than 38,000 times to children under 18 — an average of more than 100 a day and a nearly 80 percent increase in the past decade, according to the most recent data. The law is so deeply enmeshed into the state’s culture that it is widely used as a verb, as in: The 6-year-old was “Baker Acted.”
Some children have been taken away in handcuffs.
Florida’s reliance on forced psych exams is rising amid a national mental health crisis among school-aged children. The percentage of girls who reported depressive symptoms and suicidal thoughts climbed in 2021, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. There are too few clinicians for the expanding need for mental health care. And in Florida, Baker Act intakes hit a high. By contrast, the number for adults dropped, according to a report by the Baker Act Reporting Center at University of South Florida.
While the law is useful for the most serious cases, critics say, it is too often used with kids who have behavioral issues, students with disabilities and those who say something they don’t mean. Children as young as 5 or 6 have been temporarily committed, and opponents contend that some mental health facilities are profit-driven and substandard and fail to keep parents informed about their children.
Supporters say that the longtime Florida law has helped keep people from hurting themselves or others — and that it can force a family to reckon with a child’s need for professional care. When police and others involved are sufficiently trained, the process can work well “as one strategy for intervention,” says Stephen Roggenbaum, chair of the Florida Suicide Prevention Coalition.
Florida is not alone in detaining children this way. But of the six states that keep publicly available data on the practice — including California, Colorado, Connecticut, Virginia and Wisconsin — Florida is an outlier, said David Cohen, a professor at the University of California at Los Angeles who studies the issue. In 2018, the state committed children nearly 16 times more often than Wisconsin, one of the less zealous users of its provision.
“The public has no clue how much involuntary commitment and coercion are going on right now,” Cohen said.