The Snake Sheds Its Skin: North Carolina’s Family Policing System Is Rebranding, Not Reforming

It’s been a long time since we’ve written a blog post—but this moment must be documented. 

What’s happening in North Carolina right now is not progress. It’s a performance. A sleight of hand. The system is under pressure, and like a snake, it is shedding its skin to survive. But underneath, the same violent core remains intact.

Over the last couple of years, North Carolina’s child welfare—or more accurately, family policing—system has come under growing scrutiny. Families have spoken out. Children have been harmed while in custody. Community organizations have organized and resisted. And now, the state is responding—not with accountability, but with a rebrand.

In the spirit of Black August, this post is rooted in the principle of study—not as an academic exercise, but as a tool of resistance. We must study this system as it sheds so we can clearly name it, track it, and fight it. Black August calls us to remember, to reflect, and to organize. And in this moment, that means refusing to be fooled by rebranding and demanding a future where families are free.

Cracks in the Mask: Public Pressure Forced the State to Shed Its Skin

This year, the North Carolina Advisory Committee to the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights released a report on the state’s child welfare system. The investigation focused on the implementation of Rylan’s Law and the disparate impacts of the family policing system across North Carolina.

The findings were damning: nearly a decade after Rylan’s Law was passed, the state had still not fully implemented key provisions. And what emerged from the hearings wasn’t a picture of a struggling bureaucracy—it was testimony that sounded more like an organized crime operation than a system designed to care for children.

Organizations like Movement for Family Power and Civil Rights Corps grounded these testimonies in historical context and abolitionist frameworks, making it clear that this system is not broken—it is functioning exactly as designed: as a racialized tool of surveillance and punishment.

Even as some members of the committee attempted to defend the system with racist and classist ideology, the truth was undeniable. In response, the committee’s Chair, Olga Morgan Wright, submitted a public dissent to the report that stated:

“Historical content shall not be erased, and my dissent is primarily based on the following language deleted out of the Report as follows: Testimony detailed that the racial and ethnic disparity within the child welfare system is deeply rooted in a historical pattern of systemic racial bias and punitive policies targeting marginalized communities…

Modern child welfare policies... have disproportionately targeted families of color. Classism and systemic inequities also shape child welfare outcomes.”

Yes—parts of the report said the quiet parts out loud. But the real power didn’t come from writing the report. It came from the parents and caregivers who bravely organized, testified, and refused to be silent. It was their collective voice that forced a response. They cracked the mask. 

The testimony made the cracks visible—but it’s the deaths of children in state custody that shatter any remaining illusion of safety, care, or legitimacy the system has. When a child dies in the care of their parents, the state often seizes the moment—using grief as propaganda to justify surveillance, removals, and the expansion of its authority. These tragedies are weaponized to reinforce the idea that the system exists to “save” children.

But when a child dies in state custody, that same urgency disappears. There is no press conference. No moral panic. Only silence and delay. The system that claims to protect children will do everything it can to bury its own harm.

One of the most recent tragedies is Kemari Morgan, a one-year-old Black child who died while in the custody of Person County DSS. His mother, Briuana Morgan, received a call on May 24, 2025, informing her that her sweet baby boy was dead. She was given no explanation. No timeline. No answers.

Kemari's life matters. His death is not just a personal loss—it is a systemic indictment. He was taken from his mother in the name of “protection,” and yet the state could not keep him alive.

This is what family policing looks like. It is violent. It is unaccountable. And it cannot be reformed. These deaths—alongside public testimony and organized resistance—have shattered the state’s moral authority. 

The state isn’t reforming out of compassion or conscience.
It is shedding its skin under pressure. 

Recycling Harm: The Illusion of Progress

As someone who worked on the inside of this system for ten years—privy to its inner workings and its playbook—and who has spent nearly five years studying it from the outside, I can tell you with certainty: the intent of this system has not changed.

What the state is calling “reform” is actually a defense mechanism. Under pressure, it’s trying to preserve itself by repackaging harm in more polished, palatable forms: recycled leadership, new technology, and new language.

Recycled Leadership

One of the most obvious signs of the system protecting itself is the return of familiar faces under new titles. The state has introduced a regional oversight model as part of its “reform” efforts. It’s being pitched as a step toward better accountability and coordination—but in reality, it places retired family policing directors into positions of renewed authority.

These are not outsiders bringing fresh ideas. They are career administrators—individuals who helped build and sustain the very system we’re fighting to dismantle.

Take Ben Rose, former director of Durham County’s Department of Social Services. His department was repeatedly called out for harm to families. He retired under public pressure. Now, he’s been appointed as the lead regional director—tasked with shaping the future of "child welfare" in the state.

This is not transformation. It’s rotation. The same people who enforced a punitive, racialized system are being recycled back into power. Nothing about that protects families. 

New Technology, Same Surveillance

In June 2025, the North Carolina Department of Health and Human Services launched PATH NC—a centralized data system promoted as a tool to “improve outcomes” in child welfare.

But in reality, PATH NC represents a deepening of state surveillance. The platform pulls together real-time data from across counties and uses Structured Decision-Making (SDM) tools to assess families and guide interventions.

This is not the state’s first attempt to use technology to modernize or streamline the system. Millions of dollars were previously invested in NCFAST, a technology platform that promised many of the same things PATH NC now claims to offer. That system failed—horribly. It was plagued by glitches, data losses, and inefficiencies that disrupted services and created even more confusion for staff and families alike.

Now, with PATH NC, we’re watching the same cycle unfold. Despite the glossy rollout, staff across the state are already reporting major concerns with how the platform functions. From inaccurate data to system delays, the early signs are clear: this “innovation” is headed down the same road as NCFAST.

These tools are advertised as scientific and neutral. But we know better. Research—and lived experience—shows that SDM tools replicate and automate the same racial and class-based biases that have always guided this system. They give the illusion of objectivity while reinforcing discriminatory outcomes.

Technology doesn’t fix harm when it's built on a foundation of control. It just makes that control faster, more efficient, and harder to challenge.

New Language, Same Intentions

Another layer of the rebrand is a shift in language and policy framing—especially in how frontline staff are trained to interact with families. The words have changed, but the intent has not.

One recent policy update now mandates that all children be interviewed alone by social workers, regardless of whether the case is a formal investigation or a family assessment.

This policy is framed as a child protection measure. But in practice, it strips children of support, increases their vulnerability to coercion, and creates openings for misinterpretation—especially when families are already navigating fear, confusion, and power imbalances.

Tip for parents:
Have conversations with your children about the family policing system. Help them understand what it is, what it does, and how to protect themselves. Teach them to say clearly and confidently: “I don’t want to talk to you without my parent.”

SB 625: The Civil Death Penalty Rebranded

Legislators are using this rebrand as an opportunity to push through harmful legislation that continues to incentivize adoption. Senate Bill 625 promotes post-adoption contact agreements, marketed as compassionate tools that supposedly allow birth families continued access to their children.

But in practice, these contracts:

• Pressure families to terminate parental rights
  
• Dangle false hope of future visitation
  
• Offer no legal guarantee that families will ever see their children again
  

SB 625 makes the civil death penalty more appealing. It’s a trap—a way for the system to dress up permanent loss, while quietly shutting the door on families forever.

Once again—the snake sheds its skin. Don’t fall for the trap.

As the Snake Sheds Its Skin, We Sharpen Our Resistance

We say all of this to urge vigilance—keep your eyes on the snake. When snakes shed their skin, they are vulnerable, weakened. This moment is ours to move forward with clarity and strength in our resistance.

We don’t want new systems that look like the old ones. We want an end to family policing—not its digital makeover, regional shuffle, or legislative bait-and-switch.

Abolition is not just about tearing down; it’s refusing to be fooled by promises of change from a system designed to harm. It’s the belief that families don’t need rescuing—they need resources. They need guaranteed income, housing, and childcare. 

That’s why mutual aid efforts like the Movement for Family Power's Thrive Fund are critical. The Thrive Fund is a grassroots mutual aid initiative that provides direct support to families impacted by the family policing system—helping with everything from rent and utilities to childcare and legal assistance. It’s about meeting families’ real needs, building community power, and resisting the system from the ground up. If you’re able, consider donating to the Thrive Fund to sustain this vital work.

If you’ve made it this far in the blog and want to get active, this is where your energy can make a difference. We are building power locally and pushing forward together.

Join us:
The Child and Family Coalition meets every 3rd Monday from 7–8:30 PM at the People’s Solidarity Hub.

Stay awake. Stay organized. Stay in community.
Keep resisting.

— Operation Stop CPS