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Journal of Family Strengths Journal of Family Strengths
Volume 18
Issue 1
Critical Issues: De;ning and Debunking
Misconceptions in Health, Education, Criminal
Justice, and Social Work/Social Services
Article 3
10-23-2018
Stranger Danger! Stranger Danger!
Aimee Wodda
Adler University
, awodda@gmail.com
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.tmc.edu/jfs
Recommended Citation Recommended Citation
Wodda, Aimee (2018) "Stranger Danger!,"
Journal of Family Strengths
: Vol. 18 : Iss. 1 , Article 3.
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.tmc.edu/jfs/vol18/iss1/3
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In the small town of Hawkins, Indiana, on a mild November evening in
1983, a 12-year-old boy named Will Byers was abducted by a creature
from the Upside Down, an alternate/parallel reality. This scenario forms
the premise of episode 1 of the Netflix throwback series Stranger Things.
Advance publicity for the show featured flyers
1
asking, “Have you seen
this child? Age: 12 Height: 4’ 8” Weight: 102 lbs” (Kutner, 2016). This
notice is reminiscent of the public awareness campaigns that appeared on
milk cartons and utility bills in the midst of the “missing children” panic that
rose to a fever pitch in the early to mid-1980s (Kutner, 2016). The
popularity of Stranger Things indicates, among other things, that stories
about missing kids continue to captivate audiences. As social and cultural
historian Paula Fass observes, “For many viewers, the threat of child
abduction or disappearance is scarier than any paranormal monster.
Perhaps what makes Stranger Things so frightening and captivating is that
it has both” (Kutner, 2016). Despite efforts to disprove the “stranger
danger” myth, many Americans remain under the false impression that
large numbers of children are abducted and murdered annually (Pimentel,
2012). Belief in this myth has led to the passage of legislation that not only
fails to protect the most vulnerable populations of children from harm but
also has created a milieu that leaves children at risk for criminalization and
stigma (Bonnar-Kidd, 2010; Center on Youth Registration Reform, 2016;
Schiavone & Jeglic, 2009; Shah, 2017; Stillman, 2016).
To demonstrate the roots, scope, and unintended consequences of
the myth, in this article I first discuss the historical origins of the myth and
the conditions that fueled the spread of panic (Best, 1987). I then explain
how the myth was bolstered by increased media coverage, emotional
appeals by parents, and public awareness campaigns. Next, I discuss the
racial element of the panic—in which a focus on “lost innocence,” largely
associated in the public mind with whiteness (Bernstein, 2011; Epstein,
Blake, & González, 2017; Goff et al., 2014; Ocen, 2015), means that the
victimization of Black children continues to be downplayed in the media in
favor of stories that “sell”—namely, those with young white girls as the
victims (Liebler, 2010; Min & Feaster, 2010; Simmons & Woods, 2015;
Stillman, 2007; Wanzo, 2008).
In the literature review, I define terms, share statistical information
about child abductions in the United States, and engage with two bodies
of scholarship—constructionist critiques of the “missing children” problem
and work that looks at the phenomenon through the lens of moral panic.
The next section examines a variety of social, legal, and ethical
1
The flyer can be viewed at
https://www.instagram.com/p/BIGgg6sDLfN/?utm_source=ig_embed.
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implications. The final sections assert the dangers of the myth, explain the
difficulties involved in debunking the myth, and argue for the need to shift
from fear-based responses to more rational responses that actually work
to protect the most vulnerable populations of children (e.g., those who
reside in abusive homes or experience harm at the hands of those known
to them) (Finkelhor, Shattuck, Turner, & Hamby, 2014; Finkelhor, Turner,
Shattuck, & Hamby, 2015; Glassner, 2010; Hughes, Kitzinger, & Murdock,
2006; Sedlak et al., 2010).
Early Spread of the “Stranger Danger” Myth
The “stranger danger” myth is most strongly associated with heightened
societal concern over what at first appeared to be an upsurge in the
number of missing children in the United States and the United Kingdom
during the early to mid-1980s (Best, 1993; Johnson, 1988; Kitzinger,
1999). Before the 1980s, stories about children who were abducted by
strangers rarely made the national news. This changed with the highly
publicized coverage of several disappearances between 1979 and the
early 1980s (Best, 1987). Readers across the United States encountered
news stories about kids just like their own who had disappeared and either
were never found or met tragic ends. Increasing national media coverage
and political attention fueled parental and societal concern about the
possibility of an epidemic of missing kids (Best, 1988, p. 84). A similar
phenomenon was taking place in the United Kingdom (Kitzinger, 1999).
Widespread and sensational media coverage led to the mistaken
impression that this type of crime was increasing—in both frequency and
ferocity. As Karen Ann Joe explains,
The missing children’s issue took on a highly dramatic and
intensely emotional quality. This simultaneously elicited
sympathy for parents and anger toward those who were not
“doing something” about the problem. This emotional
description of the problem, drawn from the experience of
victimized parents, many of whom were the campaign
leaders, dominated emerging definitions of the missing
children scare; it also gave competing interest groups an
opportunity to gain support for their “causes”. Ultimately an
uncontested and highly symbolic image of missing children
appeared. (1991, p. 39)
The so-called epidemic of missing children was thought to represent a
loss of innocence—for the children who disappeared and also for society.
Additionally, the disappearance of young people was (incorrectly)
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assumed to be related to a dramatic rise in sexual exploitation, murder,
and victimization, yet media reports tended to overstate the scope of the
problem (Joe, 1991, p. 42).
For example, increased media coverage of sensational cases of
murdered and possibly sexually violated children served to heighten the
sense that child abductions by strangers were becoming increasingly
common (APM Reports & Baran, 2016; Best, 1987; Fritz & Altheide, 1987;
Johnson, 1988). As Jenny Kitzinger writes,
Stranger-danger stories have great appeal to journalists. The
random and public nature of such attacks makes every
reader or viewer potentially at risk from the “pervert on the
loose.” Such cases often combine sex and murder. They
also have ongoing narrative momentum (the appeal by
parents for the missing child, the eventual tragic discovery)
and they come with their own available images (the little girl
in her school uniform, the security video footage of her last
journey, the police searching wasteland). By contrast, incest
cases are far less easy to report. This is sometimes because
of ethical and legal restrictions. (2004, p. 128)
The “stranger danger” warning has been used in a generic sense as a
device to caution children about dangerous “others” who might harm
them—generally, an element of sex panic is associated with this warning
(Chenier, 2012; Cowburn & Dominelli, 2001; Kitzinger, 1999; Lancaster,
2011; Levine, 2002). This narrative contributes to inaccurate beliefs about
the prevalence of the unknown “dangerous pedophile,” who is thought to
be the most common perpetrator of sexual abuse among young people
(Kitzinger, 1999). For example, the TV program To Catch a Predator
extended the “stranger danger” panic to online interactions, with host
Chris Hansen stating that sexual predators on the Internet were becoming
a “national epidemic” (Radford, 2006).
Child Abduction as an Affront to Traditional Values
In the 1980s, national media outlets began to report cases of missing kids
that previously had received only local coverage. Vocal media-savvy
parents brought attention to their children’s plight (Mokrzycki, 2015). For
example, the disappearance of three paperboys in the Midwest—two in
Iowa in 1982 and 1984 and one in Nebraska in 1983—became a national
media sensation (Mokrzycki, 2015). The disappearances were considered
an affront to traditional values; Paul Mokrzycki explains that the
disappearances “signaled a shift away from safety, order, and idealized
childhood and toward chaos, criminal depravity, and imperiled childhood”
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(2015, p. 31). He goes on to observe that these “tragedies helped
advance arguments about pornography, crime, prostitution, law
enforcement ineptitude, homosexuality, religious cultism, and other forces
ostensibly antagonistic to the ‘traditional’ American family” (Mokrzycki,
2015, p. 31).
For example, when President Ronald Reagan visited Cedar
Rapids, Iowa, during his 1984 re-election campaign, he delivered an
impassioned speech in which he used the romanticized ideal of the
American Heartland as he vowed to get “tough on crime” (Mokrzycki,
2015, p. 64). Toward the end of his speech, Reagan declared, “And I
pledge to you that none of us will rest until the streets in Iowa and
throughout this nation are once again safe, particularly for our children”
(Reagan, 1984 in Mokrzycki, 2015, p. 66). As Mokrzycki points out,
Reagan’s re-election campaign was founded on traditional values and the
idea of a return to wholesomeness; lost innocence could be reclaimed by
ensuring the protection of children from nameless evils. As Elise Chenier
points out,
Because the family is the main instrument of modern
technologies of power in the biopolitical state, an attack
against a (white) child is an attack against the entire social
body. It is for this reason that the state mobilises some of its
most expensive resources (behavioural scientists,
psychiatrists, and other treatment experts) and most
coercive powers (the police, the prison) to manage the threat
of pedophilia. (2012, p. 182)
Likewise, solutions associated with problem of “missing children,” are
similar in some ways to the “duck and cover” drills that arose in response
to the nuclear threat during the Cold War—ultimately futile but seen as
better than no protection at all (Heath, Ryan, Dean, & Bin, 2007).
Emotional Appeals Influence Legislation and Popular Culture
The now iconic milk carton campaign was initiated in 1984 after the
disappearance of Eugene Martin, the second Iowa paperboy to go missing
in 2 years
2
(Mokrzycki, 2015, p. 66). A Des Moines dairy volunteered to
print information about the missing boys on its milk cartons. Dairies in
other states followed suit (Howell, 2010; Mokrzycki, 2015, p. 66). Other
disappearances that stirred the public imagination included those of 6-
year-old Etan Patz (New York City in 1979), whose case was reopened in
2
A local campaign to find Johnny Gosch, another Iowa paperboy, had begun in 1982; he
was still missing when Martin disappeared (Mokrzycki, 2015).
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2010; 6-year-old Adam Walsh (Hollywood Beach, Florida, in 1981), whose
head was recovered several weeks after his disappearance; and 24
missing young people between the ages 7 and 17, who were found dead
shortly after they had disappeared in Atlanta, Georgia, between 1979 and
1981 (Best, 1987; Gentry, 1988). The milk carton campaign was
suspended in the mid-1980s because of concerns about creating anxiety
in children as they ate their morning bowls of cereal and also because
there were doubts about the effectiveness of the campaign (Howell, 2010).
Not only did the purported phenomenon of “missing [white]
children”
3
begin to feature more prominently in the news, it also began to
influence legislation and pop culture. The made-for-TV movie Adam
portrayed the emotional story of Adam Walsh’s disappearance and his
parents’ attempts to find him (Barnett, Landsburg, & Tuchner, 1983). The
movie opens with text suggesting that the abduction of this child
represents an affront to traditional values; “This film is dedicated to Adam
Walsh and the American ideal” (Barnett et al., 1983). The importance of
spreading the word about this “epidemic” was stressed in the movie’s
dialogue, particularly in a scene in which Etan Patz’s mother tells Adam
Walsh’s father, “We need your voice. Right now you’re in the spotlight and
you’re a father. Up until now it’s just been mothers of missing children. A
father has to speak” (Barnett, Landsburg & Tuchner, 1983). And so he did.
The next line in the film echoes John Walsh’s 1983 testimony in front of
Congress: “Over a million and a half children are reported missing every
year and for 50,000 we have no clue as to where they are” (Barnett et al.,
1983). Although these inflated numbers were soon amended, the
emotional appeal of claims such as these was retained in subsequent
news coverage and in legislative decision making (Best, 1988).
Bereaved parents became forces for legislative change, testifying
before Congress and forming organizations such as the National Center
for Missing and Exploited Children (NCMEC) and Child Find. These
parents had a point—when a child did go missing, the existing law
enforcement infrastructure was often not up to the challenge of supporting
a widespread search (Mokrzycki, 2015; Walsh & Schindehette, 1998).
Additionally, the law enforcement management of child abduction cases
was, at times, less than effective. For example, evidence went missing in
the Adam Walsh case—in 1996, when a detective wanted to submit for
DNA testing carpet samples that had been removed from a suspect’s
3
As Kathryn Boyd Stockton argues, “Children, as an idea, are likely to be both white and
middle-class” (2009, p. 31, italics in original). Stockton’s observation is well supported by
literature that examines representations of missing children in the media (Liebler, 2010;
Min & Feaster, 2010; Simmons & Woods, 2015; Stillman, 2007; Wanzo, 2008).
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vehicle, both the car and the samples were nowhere to be found (Miami
Herald Staff, 2017).
Missing Black Children and Media Silence
Unlike the sensationalized cases of missing white children in the late
1970s and early 1980s, the cases of Black children who disappeared were
often not taken seriously by the police, or despite evidence to the contrary,
the parents were assumed to be the culprits (Bambara, 2000). In her
posthumous work These Bones Are Not My Child, author Toni Cade
Bambara writes,
From the start, the prime suspects in the Atlanta Missing and
Murdered Children's Case were the parents. Presumed
guilty because, as police logic went in the summer of ’79,
seven or eight deaths did not constitute “an epidemic of
murder,” as the parents, organizers of the Committee to Stop
Children's Murders, were maintaining; because, as the
authorities continued to argue after STOP’s media sit-in a
year later, eight or nine cases was usual in a city the size of
Atlanta; and because, as officialdom repeatedly pointed out,
even as the body count rose from one to twelve, the usual
suspects in the deaths of minors were the parents. (2000, p.
5)
Additionally, in the essay “The Killings in Atlanta,” author Martin
Amis writes, “A year passed, and a dozen deaths, before anyone sensed
the real scope of the disaster, the serial catastrophe, that was overtaking
the city” (Amis, 1987, pp. 13–14). The contrast between the well-
publicized panic about “missing [white] children” and the lack of national
concern about missing Black children in Atlanta is striking.
The alleged kidnappings of a small number of white youth over a
diffuse area received extreme media coverage while, at the same time,
the concentrated disappearances and murders of more than a dozen
Black young people in one particular location were overlooked (Mancillas,
2018). The Atlanta Child Murders received national media attention only
after 14 young people between the ages of 7 and 14 had already
disappeared and 13 had been found murdered within a 14-month period
(Mancillas, 2018). Camille Bell, the mother of 9-year-old Yusuf Bell, who
disappeared in October 1979 and was found strangled on November 8 in
an abandoned elementary school, explained, “The fear just grew, all
through last year. I just knew it. Someone is stealing the kids off the
streets” (Amis, 1987, p. 14). In the case of the Atlanta Child Murders,
although the unusually high concentration of young people who
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disappeared and were later found murdered indicates that some degree of
public caution was warranted, media coverage reporting the plight of the
murdered young Black people was lacking and law enforcement
coordination was not present (Mancillas, 2018; Bambara, 2000). As Linda
Mancillas observes,
These black children were placed on the Atlanta special
police task force’s list of missing and murdered children,
which identified them as victims of serial murder. … Black
celebrities and politicians, such as Jesse Jackson, Marion
Barry, and Dick Gregory, and authors James Baldwin and
Toni Cade Bambara criticized Atlanta’s black political
establishment for the controversial racial overtones of the
police investigation and the later trial. Neither Time nor
Newsweek did cover stories on the Atlanta child murders. …
Some wondered whether the response would have been
different had the murdered children been white. (Mancillas,
2018, p. 76)
This phenomenon has been observed by more-recent scholars as
“missing white girl syndrome,” in which news outlets have tended to focus
on cases with young white female victims (Liebler, 2010; Min & Feaster,
2010; Simmons & Woods, 2015; Stillman, 2007; Wanzo, 2008).
4
In fact,
the victimization of children of color often goes unremarked in the media,
and routine messaging portrays children of color as less innocent and
more culpable for offenses than their white peers (Bernstein, 2011;
Epstein, Blake, & González, 2017; Goff et al., 2014; Mowatt, 2018; Ocen,
2015). The disparity between the treatment of children of color and that of
their white peers in educational and juvenile justice settings remains a
social justice issue that scholars, educators, nonprofit organizations, and
community activists are working to remedy (Lau et al., 2018; Llorente,
2014; Love, 2016; Schlesinger, 2018; Wun, 2016).
Literature Review
The stranger danger myth creates a culture of fear disproportionate to the
scope of the problem (Best, 1988; Glassner, 2010). The idea that
dangerous others are likely to abduct and harm great numbers of children
has influenced parenting style (Wax, 2016) and public policy in damaging
and stigmatizing ways (McBride, 2011). Media saturation ensures that we
4
An example of this phenomenon can be found in the contrasting media coverage of the
disappearances of Jahi Turner and Danielle Van Dam, who both went missing in 2002 in
San Diego, California (Moscowitz & Duvall, 2011).
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know the names of children who have been abducted and murdered by
strangers, creating an emotional response that is difficult to counter with
reason (Logan, 2011). As Wayne Logan explains, a phenomenon called
probability neglect “encourages individuals to focus on emotionally
charged negative occurrences, rather than their empirical likelihood”
(Logan, 2011, pp. 406–407). Therefore, although occurrences of stranger
kidnapping and murder are extremely rare, the public’s familiarity with
missing and murdered children who have become household names
prompts people to ignore statistics in favor of an emotional—fear-based—
response (Logan, 2011). In this section, I explain the official categories of
“missing,” discuss the incidence and prevalence of stranger abductions,
and briefly consider scholarly analyses of the phenomenon. This social
problem has most often been examined through the lens of social
constructionism and the moral panic frame (Best, 1987; Cowburn &
Dominelli, 2001; Fritz & Altheide, 1987; Gentry, 1988; Joe, 1991;
Websdale, 1996; Zgoba, 2004).
Categories of “Missing”
The stranger danger myth is predicated on the “stereotypical kidnapping.”
The Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) uses the term “stereotypical” not
because stereotypical kidnapping is the most common type but because it
is the type of kidnapping the public thinks about when it hears that a child
has gone missing. The term is a misnomer because stereotypical
kidnapping is actually the rarest type of abduction (Hammer, Finkelhor, &
Sedlak, 2002; Sedlak, Finkelhor, & Brick, 2017; Shutt, Miller, Schreck, &
Brown, 2004; Wolak, Finkelhor, & Sedlak, 2016). Official language
describes a stereotypical kidnapping as follows:
A nonfamily abduction in which a slight acquaintance or
stranger moves a child (age 0–17) at least 20 feet or holds
the child at least 1 hour, and in which one or more of the
following circumstances occurs: The child is detained
overnight, transported at least 50 miles, held for ransom,
abducted with intent to keep the child permanently, or killed.
(Wolak et al., 2016, p. 2)
As the term “stereotypical kidnapping” suggests, the phenomenon of
“missing children” has become linked with the least prevalent and worst
possible outcome: the stranger kidnapping leading to sexual assault and
murder (Finkelhor, Hotaling, & Sedlak, 1992; Moscowitz & Duvall, 2011;
Shutt et al., 2004; Stokes, 2009; Wolak et al., 2016). Instead, the majority
of individuals labeled as “missing children” are young people who have
run away from home or are considered “thrownaway” (Hammer et al.,
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2002). Parental abduction or abduction by another relative forms another
class in the “missing children” category—these abductions generally
involve a custody dispute, and in some cases the parent who reported
their child missing may know the child’s whereabouts and desires
intervention from law enforcement to help retrieve the child (Shutt et al.,
2004). Other children who are listed as missing are soon found—this
category is associated with young people who are temporarily lost or
briefly separated from their caregivers through miscommunication or
scheduling issues (Wolak et al., 2016).
The term “missing children” includes the larger number of runaway,
thrownaway, and lost young people as well as those abducted by parents
(Best, 1987). The stranger danger panic is excessively focused on
“stereotypical kidnapping” (low incidence) but aggregates all categories,
including runaway and thrownaway youth (high incidence), into the larger
“missing children” demographic. As Victor Kappeler and Gary Potter write,
“Incorporating runaways into missing children statistics produces the
perception of an epidemic. Emphasizing stranger abduction defines the
problem as criminal” (2018, p. 90). When the problem is defined as
criminal, resources flow toward preventing a rare and random event rather
than toward providing prevention and services for those most affected—
runaway and thrownaway youth (Morewitz, 2016). Likewise, use of the
term “children” creates a picture of innocence and helplessness—this
conflation ignores the difference between a 5-year-old who was kidnapped
by a stranger and a 16-year-old who has run away from an abusive home
(Levine, 2002).
Incidence and Prevalence
The majority of young people reported missing are categorized as
runaway or thrownaway, have been abducted by a family member, or are
temporarily lost (Hammer et al., 2002). Reports indicate that
approximately 90% of young people younger than 18 who have been
listed as missing fall under the “runaway and thrownaway” category
(Hammer et al., 2002). Young people who fall under the category of
“thrownaway” are typically asked or told to leave their homes or are
prevented from returning home, often for nonconforming and/or non-
normative behavior or identities (Hammer et al., 2002). Recent research
estimates that approximately 40% of homeless youth are lesbian, gay,
bisexual and/or transgender, and/or queer (LGBTQ), the majority of whom
have been rejected by their families because of their sexual orientation or
gender identity (Durso & Gates, 2012; Judge, 2015).
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The percentage of young people who have been abducted by
strangers is low (<1%) (Hammer et al., 2002); however, these are the
cases most likely to be reported in the news (Fritz & Altheide, 1987;
Johnson, 1988; Kitzinger, 2004; Lofquist, 1997). Furthermore, sensational
cases in which a child has been murdered are most frequently reported.
As mentioned earlier, cases in which white girls and young women are
victims also tend to be over-reported (Liebler, 2010; Min & Feaster, 2010;
Simmons & Woods, 2015; Stillman, 2007). The phenomenon of over-
reporting the abduction of white girls is a familiar media trope, as is the
portrayal of gay men as “dangerous pedophiles” (Kitzinger, 1999;
Kitzinger, 2004).
As previously mentioned, the rarest category of missing children
describes young people who have been kidnapped by a stranger—the
“stereotypical kidnapping.” This form of abduction accounts for fewer than
1% of all missing children in the United States per year (or somewhere
between 50 and 115 children) (Hammer et al., 2002). Of that number,
approximately 50% are typically found and safely returned to their parents
(Hammer et al., 2002). Unfortunately, the other 50% (somewhere between
25 and 50 children) may be murdered or never recovered (Hammer et al.,
2002). No child should ever be taken and subjected to trauma. Despite all
the potential harms (including death) that can befall a young person,
however, the dominant narrative continually refocuses on the extreme of
“stereotypical kidnapping” while ignoring the very real harms that befall
children in much greater numbers. As Warwick Cairns puts it, “It would
take your child, left outside, 500,000 years to be abducted by a stranger,
and 1.4 million years for a stranger to murder them” (Cairns, 2009, p. 45,
in Pimentel, 2012, p. 960). Far more children die every year in car
accidents than for any other reason, yet no public outcry is demanding
that children avoid riding in cars (Durbin, 2011; Pimentel, 2012). As
Dennis Durbin writes, “Motor vehicle crashes represent the leading cause
of death for children and youth older than 3 years in the United States.
Each year, more than 5,000 children and adolescents under the age of 21
years die in crashes” (2011, p. 1050).
Although stranger abductions ending in murder are indeed
terrifying, more children die preventable deaths every year with little
associated moral outrage. For example, as David Pimentel observes, “In
2001 it was estimated that 178 children had died from heat-related causes
in automobiles. Charges were filed in only sixty-five (37%) of these cases,
despite the fact that a child died” (Pimentel, 2012, pp. 981–982). The
psychology behind this inconsistency has to do with perceptions of risk
(Pimentel, 2012, pp. 983–984). As Bruce Schneier notes, “People
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exaggerate spectacular but rare risks and downplay common risks. They
worry more about earthquakes than they do about slipping on the
bathroom floor, even though the latter kills far more people than the
former” (2006, p. 26 in Pimentel, 2012). Of course, parents and schools
should continue to teach children about personal safety—including the
need to assess people unknown to the child. Many educators and
scholars, however, argue for a more nuanced idea of safety that includes
the notion of the “helpful” stranger (e.g., finding a mother with children to
help), replacing “stranger danger” with the concept of “tricky people,” and
teaching children the notion of consent and bodily autonomy from an early
age (Coleman, 2016; Long, 2018; “Prevention tips,” 2018; Rudolph,
Zimmer-Gembeck, Shanley, & Hawkins, 2018; Shumaker, 2016).
Although the “stranger danger” myth persists, the number of
missing children reported each year continues to decline. For example, in
2001, the FBI estimated the total number of reported missing children at
about 750,000 (National Crime Information Center, 2000). The FBI
estimated this number for 2017 at 464,324, with most cases resolved
within a few hours (National Crime Information Center, 2018). These
numbers include all categories of missing children: runaways,
thrownaways, those abducted by family, lost children, and victims of
stereotypical kidnapping.
Social Construction of the “Missing Children” Problem
A number of scholars have examined the phenomenon of “missing
children” as a social problem through the lens of the constructionist
paradigm—that is, looking at the process through which isolated incidents
of “stereotypical kidnapping” have become understood as representative
of a larger social problem (Best, 1987; Cowburn & Dominelli, 2001; Fritz &
Altheide, 1987; Gentry, 1988; Joe, 1991; Websdale, 1996). Constructionist
scholars look into how the phenomenon of “missing children” came to be
seen as a social problem, examining claims that have been made about
the problem as well as group interactions between the various players:
parents of children abducted by strangers, missing children’s interest
groups, political forces, law enforcement, the media, and the public (Best,
1987; Cowburn & Dominelli, 2001; Fritz & Altheide, 1987; Gentry, 1988;
Joe, 1991; Websdale, 1996).
Constructionist scholars who investigate how isolated cases of
missing children became regarded as a social problem posit claims-
making as a crucial component of the phenomenon. Cynthia Gentry
defines claims-making about “missing children” as stage 1—a period in
which “media reports and transcripts from congressional hearings on
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missing children were not only filled with the very real tragedies of parents
of abducted children, but also with an abundance of unsubstantiated
statistics used to legitimize child abduction as a serious problem” (1988, p.
414). Before this time, although several cases of missing children had
been widely reported, there as yet had been no call for action. As Joel
Best recounts, “By 1981, child-snatching had received a good deal of
attention, but the response of the press, law enforcement, and the general
public was ambiguous” (1987, p. 103). This changed when the label
“missing children” was linked with emotional claims made by the parents
of missing kids—the public’s sympathy was stirred most particularly by the
made-for-TV movie Adam, which aired in October 1983 and “ended with a
roll call of 55 missing children” (Best, 1987, p. 103).
The time was right for political involvement—this issue aligned with
Reagan’s “tough on crime” platform and allowed discussions about a
return to family values. More importantly, the issue was considered
“noncontroversial” and therefore perfect for politicians seeking re-election.
As Best writes, “One Congressional aide called it ‘the apple pie of the
’80’s’—missing children received widespread, bipartisan support” (1987, p.
103). Although social constructionist analyses of the “missing children”
problem differ in their particulars, constructionist scholars agree that
“missing children” became a social problem because of the definition of
the problem as that of “missing children,” which was animated by claims
about the prevalence, seriousness, and political dimensions of the issue.
The media contributed to the perception of “missing children” as a social
problem by amplifying the voices of claims-makers and politicians, and
subsequent social control policies, including legislation, established the
problem as legitimate (Best, 1987; Gentry, 1988; Joe, 1991).
Moral Panic and the “Missing Child”
Societal concern about “missing children” has also been studied under the
complementary lens of moral panic (Cohen, 1972). Erich Goode and
Nachman Ben-Yehuda (1994) examine moral panics through a social
constructionist perspective. They argue that although moral panics tend to
be short-lived, they “always leave an informal, and often an institutional,
legacy” (Goode & Ben-Yehuda, 1994, p. 149). In the case of the “missing
children” moral panic, the institutional legacy continues to develop. Goode
and Ben-Yehuda describe a moral panic in the following terms:
In a moral panic, the reactions of the media, law
enforcement, politicians, action groups, and the general
public are out of proportion to the real and present danger a
given threat poses to the society. In response to this
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exaggerated concern, “folk devils” are created, deviant
stereotypes identifying the enemy, the source of the threat,
selfish, evil wrongdoers who are responsible for the trouble.
The fear and heightened concern are exaggerated, that is,
are above and beyond what a sober empirical assessment of
its concrete danger would sustain. Thus, they are
problematic, a phenomenon in need of an explanation; they
are caused by certain social and political conditions that
must be identified, understood, and explicated. (1994, p.
156)
In short, the five elements of a moral panic identified by Goode and Ben-
Yehuda (e.g., Concern, Hostility, Consensus, Disproportionality, and
Volatility) are eminently applicable to the positioning of “missing children”
as a social problem. During the 1980s, growing political conservatism
contributed to fear and over-reaction as a response to isolated cases of
children who went missing; this response can be regarded as a classic
example of a moral panic (Mokrzycki, 2015). As Karen Ann Joe explains,
The missing children’s issue arrived on the political stage at
a time when broader policy concerns over the protection and
care of children emerged. In the early 1980’s, the political
conservatism of the Reagan administration started to replace
the liberal “free spirit” philosophy of the 1960’s and 1970’s.
Reacting to the missing children's crisis as well as other child
saving “causes”, political conservatives grew more and more
dissatisfied with, what they saw, namely, the demise of the
traditional American family - weakening of its structure and
attenuating its value system - and more generally, the
loosening of state social control over young people. In the
midst of this growing conservatism, the missing children's
movement provided a vehicle for its advocates to call for a
return to the values of the traditional American family and
stricter control policies over children. (1991, pp. 7–8)
First, missing (white) children became a social issue subject to heightened
concern (Goode & Ben-Yehuda, 1994; Simmons & Woods, 2015). This
concern manifested as increased hostility toward “dangerous pedophiles,”
resulting in the “stranger danger” myth (Cowburn & Dominelli, 2001;
Goode & Ben-Yehuda, 1994). Following a rising consensus that the issue
of “missing children” was a social problem, the response (e.g., formation
of the NCMEC and legislation first mandating a missing persons registry
and then a sex offender registry) was disproportionate to the threat.
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Although corrected statistics were quickly provided and the legitimacy of
an epidemic of missing children was disproved, concern about missing
children remains volatile and waxes and wanes with media coverage
(Goode & Ben-Yehuda, 1994). The media continue to contribute to this
panic by overemphasizing harms to children by strangers. As Pimentel
puts it,
The media has learned quickly that stories about harm to
children captivate audiences. The perfect teaser for a news
story is “could your child be next?” Such a come-on virtually
guarantees that the parent will watch. The story will be
compelling only if the risk to children in general, and the risk
to the viewer’s own children, appears to be immediate and
serious. The result is that public opinion on these topics is
being shaped by profoundly misleading media reports,
consistently calculated to overstate risks to children. (2012,
pp. 964–965)
The disproportionate response to the problem of “missing children” is
aided by erroneous media reports about the prevalence and misleading
fear-based rhetoric that obscures the exact nature of the reasons why
young people go missing.
The Sex Panic Element of the “Missing Children” Panic
Emotional, rather than rational, responses to the problem of “missing
children” have resulted in social policy aimed at preventing dangerous
others from abducting and harming children (Logan, 2011). Many of these
social policies mandate stricter controls over those who have committed
sex offenses, even though sex offenses are not directly related to the
kidnapping and murder of a child (Logan, 2011). In fact, the sex offender
registry can contribute to panic, as the list of legal infractions that can
mandate entry to the registry include public urination, prostitution-related
offenses, consensual sex between teenagers, and teen sexting as well as
more serious harms.
The wide variety of transgressions lumped under the heading of
“sex offenses” increases the population of those labeled sex offenders, but
most are not violent offenders. Unfortunately, the public is led to believe
that most people forced to register as sex offenders are violent criminals,
and worse, that they harm children (Quinn, Forsyth, & Mullen-Quinn,
2004). Under the earnest guise of “child protection,” measures put in place
in an effort to protect children from being abducted and killed by a stranger
have had the effect of criminalizing, rather than safeguarding, the very
children these laws are ostensibly meant to protect. Young people are
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added to the sex offender list for sexting and for consensual sexual
relationships with peers. In some states, underage same-sex relationships
are penalized more harshly (Wodda & Panfil, 2017). In fact, the Center on
Youth Registration Reform estimates that as many as 200,000 people are
listed on sex offender registries for offenses that occurred before they
were 18 years old (Shah, 2017).
Individuals as young as 8 years of age
5
have been included on the
registry for sex play characterized as “criminal sexual conduct” and for
pulling down the pants of a classmate, characterized as “indecency with a
child” (Stillman, 2016; Zimring, 2009). As Roger Lancaster writes,
In addition to producing new layers of statutory law,
contemporary panics have produced an expansive and more
or less permanent civil, government, and media apparatus
dedicated to the production of a constant state of panic. In
the process, ongoing sex panics have shifted the basis of
legal debates away from ideals of informed argument and
toward expressions of raw emotionality. (2011, p. 88)
Initial legislation required those charged with sex offenses to register with
law enforcement (Zimring, 2009). As a result of Megan’s Law, this registry
was required to be made available to the public (Zimring, 2009), and later
iterations included current address and photo identification, as well as the
legalese that characterized the offender’s crime. Laws also mandated
classes or tiers of offenders. The legal description of the offense can be
misleading in nature, as is evidenced by the case of a child who pulled her
classmate’s pants down; 10-year-old Charla Roberts was charged with
“indecency with a child” and placed on the registry (Stillman, 2016). As
children charged with sex crimes grow older, the stigma of the charge
attaches more firmly. Requiring recent photos of people like Charla
Roberts, who was charged with “indecency with a child” at the age of 10,
strikes a discordant tone. Profiles of people in their twenties or forties who
offended as children can be misconstrued, leading to public assumptions
that the violations occurred more recently (Stillman, 2016). Whereas some
states require registration for a limited amount of time, say 10 to 25 years,
in some states, 8-year-olds can be placed on the sex offender registry for
life (Center on Youth Registration Reform, 2016; Stillman, 2016).
5
According to the Center on Youth Registration Reform (2016), “In 39 states, laws exist
that require children as young as 8 years old to be placed on sex offender registries,
often for life, when adjudicated of what the courts deem sexual crimes.”
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As Sarah Stillman (2016) observes, “A growing number of
parents—along with legal advocates, scholars, and even law-enforcement
officials—are beginning to ask whether the registry is truly serving the
children whom it was designed to protect.” Indeed, the initial purpose of
creating a publicly available list of offenders was to protect children, but
mounting evidence suggests that laws mandating registration often harm
the children they are meant to protect (Zimring, 2009). Unintended
consequences, such as social isolation, difficulty finding employment,
being prevented from living with and seeing their children, and fear of
vigilantism, continue to haunt young people accused of sex crimes
(Stillman, 2016). These consequences emanate directly from the panic
related to the “stranger danger” myth. As Judith Levine concludes, “the
sexual politics of fear is harmful to minors” (2002, p.7).
Implications of the Myth
Although the “stranger danger” myth has been discredited over and over
again, sensational news stories featuring children who have been
abducted and killed by strangers continue to capture the public’s
imagination (Pimentel, 2012). Belief in this myth has contributed to a
number of interrelated social, legal, and ethical implications.
Social Implications
To manage risk, parents must routinely make decisions that potentially
affect the health and well-being of their children. Misleading statistics and
inflated concerns about stranger abduction encourage unwarranted levels
of parental concern about this uncommon risk. At the same time, more
potent hazards with a greater potential for creating lasting harm have been
downplayed (Cairns, 2009; The Annie E. Casey Foundation, 2017; U.S.
Department of Health & Human Services, 2018).
Although scholars have been debunking the “stranger danger” myth
since the mid-1980s, this fear-based narrative maintains its hold on
society (Pimentel, 2012). The statistical likelihood that any particular child
will be abducted and murdered by a stranger remains extremely rare, but
the thought of this ever occurring to a child is so terrible that an emotional
response is created in individuals that manifests as reactive legislation
(Griffin & Miller, 2008). Likewise, these preventative measures tend to be
unrelated to the most prevalent risks faced by children. The measures
include the following: maintaining constant surveillance over children and
their activities, instructing children to avoid interactions with strangers, and
enacting legislation that paints “sex offenders” as the core of the problem
(Pimentel, 2012; Zimring, 2009).
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For example, the term “sexual predator” was coined to describe a
particularly opportunistic category of person (Fass, 1997; Filler, 2003).
Special interest groups such as the NCMEC and legislative outcomes
focus on sexual offending even though it is extremely rare that a child
meets with sexual violence at the hands of a complete stranger (Levine,
2002). As Leslie Moran and Beverly Skeggs point out, “Most instances of
violence take place in the context of situations in which the perpetrator
and victim have a prior relationship” (2004, p. 149). Indeed, most of the
sexual violence that young people experience comes at the hands of
family members or close acquaintances (Finkelhor et al., 2014; Finkelhor
et al., 2015). A report issued by the U.S. Department of Health and
Human Services (2013) in conjunction with several other agencies
determined that the perpetrators in an estimated 30% of cases of child
sexual abuse are family members, about 60% of perpetrators are known
to the child (they may be family friends, coaches, babysitters, child care
providers, or neighbors), and only about 10% of perpetrators are strangers
(U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, 2013). Furthermore, the
study found that “an estimated 23% of reported cases of child sexual
abuse are perpetrated by individuals under the age of 18” (U.S.
Department of Health and Human Services, 2013). The term “sexual
predator” contributes to the panic associated with the “missing children”
problem and positions the issue as one of pedophiles preying on young
children (Chenier, 2012; Cowburn & Dominelli, 2001; Kitzinger, 1999;
Radford, 2006). Although there are indeed practical reasons to instruct
children to remain wary of strangers, framing the problem as simply that of
“stranger danger” does not protect children from harm at the hands of
family members and other persons known to them.
Instead, researchers argue that the kind of intensive parenting that
subjects children to constant surveillance and control is unhealthful for a
number of reasons (Pimentel, 2012). Intensive parenting creates
“geographies of fear” in which public spaces are assumed to be
dangerous for children and contributes to the (mistaken) belief that the
only safe place is the home (Hughes et al., 2006, p. 261). Of course, as
the numbers of runaway and thrownaway young people indicate, the
opposite is true for some young people (Hammer et al., 2002). As
Pimentel suggests, “Close control of children’s environments and the
insistence on constant supervision has been shown to impair the child’s
ability to develop independence, responsibility, and self-reliance” (2012, p.
958). Additionally, children who are intensively parented do not only
experience a loss of independence, their health may also suffer (Kimbell
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et al., 2009). The Centers for Disease Control (CDC) recommends that
children engage in at least 60 minutes of physical activity per day, yet in a
recent study, “only 21.6% of 6- to 19-year-old children and adolescents in
the Unites States attained 60 or more minutes of moderate-to-vigorous
physical activity on at least 5 days per week” (National Physical Activity
Plan Alliance, 2016). Pediatricians associate lower levels of activity with
an increased incidence of childhood obesity and diabetes (American
Academy of Pediatrics, 2006). Also, young people who are prevented from
making their own way to school are forced to travel in a more statistically
risky manner, as Pimentel points out:
Unwillingness to let children walk to school or even ride their
bikes in response to a virtually nonexistent risk of stranger
abduction has not only deprived children of the benefits of
physical exercise, but has exposed them to the far greater
risks of injury in automobile accidents. Indeed, the American
Academy of Pediatrics has published statistics suggesting
that “being driven to school in a passenger vehicle is by far
the most dangerous way to get there.” (Brody, 2007, in
Pimentel, 2012, p. 959)
When children are allowed the freedom to walk or bike to school or to play
in a nearby park on their own, the criminalization of parents who allow
their kids such independence becomes a possibility (Pimentel, 2012). A
prime example of this cultural shift can be observed in the case of Debra
Harrell, a working mother who was arrested for allowing her 9-year-old
child to play in a nearby park as she worked at her nearby job
(Friedersdorf, 2014).
During her daughter’s summer break, Ms. Harrell allowed her child
to work on her laptop and take advantage of the free Wi-Fi at the
McDonald’s where she worked. Unfortunately, their apartment was robbed
and the laptop stolen. When Harrell’s daughter asked permission to play
at the nearby park, usually teeming with kids, Harrell agreed and gave her
a cell phone to use, should the need arise. The child spent two uneventful
days playing at the park. On the third day, when an adult asked where her
mother was and the child replied, “at work,” law enforcement became
involved, Ms. Harrell was arrested, and her daughter was placed in foster
care (Friedersdorf, 2014). This situation traumatized both mother and
daughter and placed the child at risk for greater harm than playing in the
park would have done. As Conor Friedersdorf (2014) explains, “The
state's decision is coming at a time when it is suffering from a shortage of
foster families, as well as a child protective services workforce so
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overwhelmed that serious child abuse inquiries are regularly closed in
violation of policy.” The Harrell family story is an obvious example of a
child unnecessarily placed at risk precisely because of institutional efforts
to protect children from harm.
Legal Implications
Reactive “pathological” public policies have arisen as a result of pressure
from interest groups concerned about the problem of “missing children”
(Stuntz, 2001). As Logan argues, “By focusing on ‘stranger danger,’ harsh
laws have been adopted and Americans, while optimistically comforted by
the notion that danger emanates from unfamiliar others, have been
distracted from the troubling reality that the people they should fear most
are relatives, friends, and acquaintances” (2011, p. 395). Congressional
hearings prompted by special interest groups were held between 1981
and 1984. According to Joe,
These federal congressional hearings did more than simply
modify reporting procedures and provide more resources to
families and law enforcement. They led to passage of federal
acts which legitimized the missing children’s crisis. They also
served as a symbol of the national pledge to save missing
children, and as a policy directive for the states and U.S.
territories. (1991, p. 38)
The resulting legislation focuses on sex offenders, and each round of
subsequent legislation (Table) relies on false notions of recidivism rates
for sex offenders (Langan, Schmitt, & Durose, 2003). As Lancaster writes,
“In mid-2010 the number of people publicly registered for sex offenses
under Megan’s Law exceeded 700,000 and was growing rapidly” (2011, p.
62). Memorial or personalized legislation (e.g., Megan’s Law, the Jacob
Wetterling Crimes Against Children and Sexually Violent Offender
Registration Act, the Adam Walsh Child Protection and Safety Act) can be
problematic, as Roger Lancaster argues:
Personalization bends lawmaking to the passions of the populace;
it reinforces punitive trends to strip away rights of the accused and
protections for the convicted; and it ratifies the power of the special
case to steer the general rule. Whereas the use of surnames lends
gravitas to laws and policies, the use of first names condescends to
the public and has the effect of infantilizing the law and patronizing
the public. Stoking raw emotions, it prepares the public for political
manipulation: Who but a moral monster would oppose a law, no
matter how draconian, named for a murdered child? (2011, p. 98)
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Table. Legislation Enacted Through Activism by the Bereaved Parents of
Missing and Murdered Children
1982
Missing Children Act of 1982
(S. 1701 – 97th Congress)
Mandated creation of the National Crime
Information Center (NCIC) Unidentified Person
File (UPF) to keep track of missing persons
1984
Missing Children’s
Assistance Act (S. 2014 –
98th Congress)
Law enforcement coordination at state and
federal level. Mandated the National Incidence
Studies of Missing, Abducted, Runaway and
Thrownaway Children (NISMART). Established
the National Center for Missing & Exploited
Children.
1984
National Center for Missing &
Exploited Children (NCMEC)
Established by Congress, funded by the
Department of Justice (DOJ). Acts as an
information clearinghouse and educational
resource.
1990
National Child Search
Assistance Act of 1990 (S.
2317 – 101st Congress)
Eliminated waiting period to file a missing
person report, called for coordination between
law enforcement agencies and missing person
clearinghouses.
1994
“Three Strikes” Law
(California)
Habitual offender laws; 28 states have some
form of this law (e.g., Jessica’s Law, enacted in
Florida in 2005).
1994
Jacob Wetterling Crimes
Against Children and
Sexually Violent Offender
Registration Act (Federal
Violent Crime Control and
Law Enforcement Act of
1994)
Required registration of sex offenders.
1996
Megan’s Law: subsection of
the Jacob Wetterling Act of
1994
Required law enforcement to notify
communities about people named in sex
offender registry.
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1996
America's Missing: Broadcast
Emergency Response
(AMBER) Alert6
Began as a local emergency alert program in
Texas and grew to cover all 50 states as well
as the District of Columbia, Puerto Rico, and
the U.S. Virgin Islands.
1999
Missing, Exploited, and
Runaway Children Protection
Act (S. 249 – 106th
Congress)
Called for annual funding for the NCMEC.
Required the NCMEC to set up a 24-hour
hotline. Mandated that “NCMEC must also
coordinate public and private programs that
locate and recover missing children and reunite
them with their families; assist families and law
enforcement in locating and recovering missing
and exploited children; and provide training and
technical assistance in the prevention,
investigation, prosecution, and treatment of
cases involving missing and exploited children”
(Girouard, 2001, p. 1).
2006
Adam Walsh Child Protection
and Safety Act
Created three tiers of sex offenders. National
registry with identical criteria for each state.
Felony if offenders do not update/register. Civil
commitment for “sexually dangerous” people.
Ethical Implications
Ethical concerns related to the stranger danger myth are myriad and
include profiting from fear. The phenomenon more generally described as
the “fear industrial complex” (Glassner, 2010) manifests when politicians
and special interest groups, like the NCMEC, benefit from the millions of
taxpayer dollars allocated to the prevention of “missing children”
(Glassner, 2010; Klein, 2017). The NCMEC has attempted to remain
relevant and retain its funding by turning its attention to the problem of
“sex trafficking,” which many consider as socially constructed and based
on moral panic—very much like the problem of “missing children”
(Cojocaru, 2015; Klein, 2017; Lancaster, 2011; Weitzer, 2007).
Other industries that have profited from the “stranger danger myth”
include companies offering identification services for parents, on the basis
of the idea that fingerprints and current photos maintained in a database
will come in handy should a child be abducted by a stranger (Renfro,
2016). In the 1980s, at the height of “missing children” panic, entire
6
By 2005, all 50 states had AMBER programs. Since 2013, AMBER alerts have been
sent automatically through the Wireless Emergency Alerts (WEA) Program (Griffin et al.,
2007; Griffin & Miller, 2008).
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industries sprang up overnight to catalogue the particulars of thousands of
children across the United States (Renfro, 2016).
Dangers of the Myth
Perils associated with the “stranger danger” myth have been discussed
throughout this article, but I highlight a few of the more potent hazards in
this section: the over-criminalization of people labeled as “sex offenders”
and their (sometimes permanent) inclusion on the publicly accessible U.S.
Department of Justice National Sex Offenders Public Website (NSOPW)
and the overshadowing of child sexual abuse most often perpetrated by
persons known to young people.
The “stranger danger” myth over-criminalizes sex offenders and
portrays them as a criminal class largely comprising people who harm
children (Schiavone & Jeglic, 2009). As Hughes et al. explain, “The
predatory paedophile is a monster of common imagination” (2006, p. 277).
And as Kristen Zgoba puts it, “Unlike other offenders, child predators (as
well as other sexual offenders) are subject to community registration and
community notification, with the possibility of lifetime supervision, civil
commitment or chemical castration” (2004, p. 391). Misleading statistics
and false media reporting about recidivism rates legitimize social disgust
and lead to overly punitive policies and vigilante responses (Stillman,
2016). Sex offender registries create a false sense of security; most
people charged with a sex offense are first-time offenders not present on
any list (Vásquez, Maddan, & Walker, 2008). Furthermore, lists are not
always updated—even if they did work, some states (e.g., California,
Oklahoma, and Massachusetts) have less than ideal rates of participation
(Logan, 2011).
Mandatory registration with photo and location information
stigmatizes people on the list and has placed them in danger of violent
reprisals (Stillman, 2016). Realistically, risk cannot be contained by putting
people on a list and tracking them. In fact, most child victimization takes
place in private spaces and is perpetrated by persons known to the child
(Finkelhor et al., 2014; Finkelhor et al., 2015; Freeman-Longo, 2000;
Moran & Skeggs, 2004). As mentioned earlier, 90% of the perpetrators in
of cases of child sexual abuse are family members or otherwise known to
the child; only about 10% of perpetrators are strangers (U.S. Department
of Health and Human Services, 2013). These statistics provide clear
evidence that “the fear of ‘stranger danger’ is misplaced and should not be
used to justify the proliferation of registered sex offender laws” (Bonnar-
Kidd, 2010, p. 414). Yet, fear of strangers has undoubtedly led to policies
that punish people charged with sex-related offenses in overly harsh
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ways. For example, judges in some jurisdictions use the same criteria to
charge teens who have sent several sexts as they would to charge an
adult with a hard drive containing child pornography (Stillman, 2016).
Debunking the Myth
As mentioned earlier, although the “stranger danger” myth has been
discredited over and over again, sensational news stories featuring
children who have been abducted and killed by strangers continue to
capture the public’s imagination (Pimentel, 2012). Wayne Logan attributes
the persistence of the “stranger danger” myth, in part, to a phenomenon
called the availability heuristic, which “causes individuals to mispredict the
likelihood of readily imagined events” (2011, p. 406). To support this
assertion, he calls upon Cass Sunstein’s description of the mechanics of
the heuristic. Sunstein explains, “When people use the availability
heuristic, they assess the magnitude of risks by asking whether examples
can readily come to mind. … If people can easily think of relevant
examples, they are far more likely to be frightened and concerned than if
they cannot” (Sunstein, 2005, p. 26 in Logan, 2011, p. 395). Therefore, the
media frenzy that has accompanied the abductions of (white) children by
strangers over the past few decades, especially when the children are
named and details of their stories are shared, acts as an availability
heuristic, even though the incidence of cases such as these remain rare
(Logan, 2011, p. 395).
The effort to prevent an uncommon harm wrongly identified as a
major social problem has led to the creation of laws that stigmatize and
criminalize a category of person when only a miniscule percentage of this
population has actually harmed a child (Logan, 2011). This linkage
between the “dangerous pedophile” and “missing kids” is related to moral
panic, not to facts or evidence (Lancaster, 2011; Zgoba, 2004). It is a
“tough on crime” stance that does not actually protect children. Sex
offender registries are expensive to build and maintain and are not proven
to work. Moreover, states have not been successful in tracking sex
offenders. Finally, only a small percentage of individuals on sex offender
lists are there because they are adults who have harmed a child (Logan,
2011). In fact, many people (200,000 of 700,000) on the publicly
accessible U.S. Department of Justice National Sex Offenders Public
Website (NSOPW) are themselves children or were placed on the list as
children (Shah, 2017; Zimring, 2009). Sex offender registries over-
criminalize and stigmatize registrants and place them in the way of
potential violence. Additionally, false information about recidivism rates
and lack of understanding about the spectrum of offenses that can result
in being added to the registry contribute to the general public’s
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(mis)perception that most people on the list are child molesters who are
likely to reoffend (Bonnar-Kidd, 2010; Feige, 2017).
The reality that a child is more likely to be harmed by a person
known to them rather than by a stranger on a list is not reflected in policy
and legislation. Furthermore, incidents of child sexual abuse are not
reported in the news because they are not unique; their frequency
precludes newsworthiness (Hughes et al., 2006). Solutions include less
dialogue about “stranger danger,” and more informed conversations about
young people’s bodily autonomy. Additional solutions include less
discussion about “sex predators,” and more awareness of harms that
occur in the home (Letourneau, Eaton, Bass, Berlin, & Moore, 2014;
“Prevention tips,” 2018). As Emma Hughes, Jenny Kitzinger, and Graham
Murdock put it, “Ninety-six per cent of newspaper articles about how to
protect children focus on threats from strangers whilst only 4 per cent
even partially address abuse by fathers, uncles, step-fathers, brothers,
and other family members, the most common category of abuse identified
through organizations which work with children” (Hughes et al., 2006, p.
261). The kidnap and murder of Adam Walsh in 1981 seemed to beg for
a massive response with harsh measures, ironclad protections, and swift
justice. The problem remains—we cannot predict who might kidnap and
murder a child. One child harmed is one too many; however, the
apparatus that has been established in an attempt to protect children from
an exceptional event is not only weakly protective but also shifts the
narrative away from the most prevalent threats to young people. These
include car accidents and harm at the hands of people known to them—
their parents, relatives, family friends, and known authority figures
(Hughes et al., 2006; Sedlak et al., 2010). Ultimately, the “stranger
danger” panic has prompted individuals and institutions to apply extreme
prevention practices to an unpredictable and rare event, thus shifting
resources away from the prevention of youth homelessness, child sexual
abuse, and other harms that young people are more likely to encounter in
their everyday lives.
24
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https://digitalcommons.library.tmc.edu/jfs/vol18/iss1/3
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