Wednesday, August 23 2017,
teel doors crashed shut behind me as I stepped outside onto the curb. Sunshine splashed down onto the back of my neck. In less than 2 months, I had lost 20 pounds, grown a full head of hair again, and gained a new appreciation for the virtues of solitude. When you’re a “violent offender,” after all, 20 hours a day in a cell is the standard, not the exception.
The world felt different. Not because I had just navigated an invisible minefield that could explode at any moment. Or still felt strangely engulfed by the primal screams that reverberated across the cell block each night as I lay in bed – waiting to learn my fate. But because I had just glimpsed into the abyss of human despair. I had, in a desperate attempt to escape a five-year prison sentence, confessed to a version of a crime that never happened. But at least I was free.
Little did I know that my true prison sentence was just beginning.
Little did I know that my true prison sentence was just beginning. Despite not owning a credit card, debt mounted from fines and fees. Despite having a stable work history, employers refused to hire me. And despite a clean rental history, apartments declined to rent to me.
The true reality of my situation sank in: While I could again feel a passing breeze on the back of my neck and till my fingers through the dirt on ground, I wasn’t free at all. I was still very much a prisoner – hostage to a stigma.
Naturally, unanswered questions still linger in the back of my mind: How long should someone suffer for past indiscretions once their debt to society has been paid? How much discretion and power should district attorneys be trusted with at the expense of lives and tax dollars? Why don’t violent offenders, like drug offenders, also deserve a second chance?……. Read More
