When I was 21 and – in many ways – not at all who I am today, I was convicted of possession of heroin with intent to distribute and possession of a needle and syringe. That was 54 years ago.
I didn’t sell drugs; I used them. I was teetering on becoming an addict. I was in love with a man who had already entered the land of addiction, who had crossed that border between his stint in Vietnam and his return to a country that still blatantly discriminated against Black men.
My charges were felonies. I faced time in prison. Following the advice of my lawyer, I straightened my huge afro. I am sure he nudged me with words that expressed how much more presentable, innocent or likeable I’d appear to the judge or jury. A young single Black mother facing prison time in 1970 in Charlotte, North Carolina, I was scared to death.
I arrived in the courtroom with my new long, pressed hair and realized the only Black people I saw were my mom and my aunt. When my lawyer suggested I take the plea deal I was offered, I followed his advice. The deal was to plead guilty and forgo a trial by jury, in which I would face the possibility of being sentenced to five years in prison. Instead, because of the plea deal, the judge sentenced me to five years of probation and a $2,000 fine.
It was a no-brainer. I was happy to become what our judicial system calls a convicted felon as long as I got to go home to my two-year-old baby girl.
What I didn’t understand, what I couldn’t even imagine, was that in this country, people who have been convicted of felonies are legally discriminated against. They are denied jobs, are denied housing and, in some states, are unable to earn certain licenses or certifications or even to vote.
Now, in 2024, something else has occurred that the 21-year-old me could not have imagined. A person convicted of 34 felonies has been elected president of the United States — president of the same country that discriminates against me and millions of other people guilty of committing felonies.
I feel betrayed by 76 million voters
If the playing field were equal, perhaps I could applaud President Donald Trump’s victory in overcoming the stigma of being a convicted felon. But the playing field is not equal. None of the people I know personally who have been convicted of felonies and are routinely discriminated against are wealthy White men.
Yet 19 million people in this country have a felony conviction, and an estimated 79 million have a criminal record of some kind, according to Bureau of Justice Statistics compiled by the Prison Policy Initiative, a nonpartisan nonprofit that does research to expose the harm of mass criminalization.
I am glad that a person who has been convicted of a felony is able to be president. It pains me that Donald Trump won the presidency despite his multiple felonies, while I have been discriminated against for decades because of mine.
In South Carolina, where I live, I can vote, but I can’t buy a gun to protect myself. One gun store owner told me, “It has happened that a convicted felon was allowed to buy a gun. But usually, you need to get a firearms attorney to work on your behalf.”
In other words, I need to spend money for a constitutional right that I may or may not receive in the end.
A plea deal, and 54 years of punishment
Just a couple of months ago, my application for Global Entry was denied. This benefit allows U.S. travelers easy reentry into this country, the convenience of standing in a different customs line that is not as long. I realize that this is what my daughter would call “a first-world problem.” The denial will not take food off my table or stop me from earning a living. Nevertheless, it is just the most recent instance of my knowingly being discriminated against because of my criminal record and felony status. Also significant is that the government continues to punish me for a crime I committed 54 years ago.
In my youth, when I struggled tremendously with my self-worth, the constant dismissal and rejection was more painful. Today, I’m angrier for my siblings who have been branded with labels like “criminals,” “offenders,” “ex-cons” and “felons.” I think of the types of undeserved debasement they experience on any given day.
My letter from the U.S. Customs and Border Protection of the Department of Homeland Security said, “We regret to inform you that your membership in Global Entry has been disapproved for the following reason(s): You have been convicted and/or arrested of a criminal offense.”
There is a lengthy appeal process. The letter made no mention of returning my $100 application fee. This fact made me immediately remember working with justice reform advocates to change practices that allow property management companies to reject people who have criminal records. Nevertheless, the companies rejecting those applicants kept the $600-$1,000 processing fees.
Companies – and government agencies – make millions off those of us labeled “criminal” or “felon.”
Companies – and government agencies – make millions off those of us labeled “criminal” or “felon.”
In 1970, I left the Charlotte courtroom with a fine of $2,000 to pay the government. I’m sure I needed all five years of probation to pay off the fine, because I was fired from my job before I went to trial, and for years no one hired me because of my record.
Meanwhile, I had a child to take care of. I lived off the goodness of friends and family at times. I once went to a social services office to beg for emergency food, and soon after that I began receiving what was called “surplus” food, the precursor to programs like the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (or SNAP). I remember the food included powdered milk, powdered eggs, canned meats and a huge block of cheese. Most of it didn’t taste good. But some days it was more than sufficient, and I was thankful.
Of course, I cannot name every incident of discrimination I’ve experienced. I am sure there were some I will never know. But two incidents illustrate how this type of discrimination against a specific group works over a lifetime to keep people impoverished, or at least poorer than the rest of the population.
To understand the first incident, know that I have excelled in many ways despite my criminal record. I have also had privileges that other people with felonies do not have. In my late 20s, I won a fellowship in a summer program that trained me to be a reporter. I wound up working for 16 years at The Washington Post. I later found out that when I was hired, my starting salary was substantially lower than nearly every other reporter’s salary — and that was before they knew I had a criminal record.
To correct this issue, eventually, the paper put me on a fast-track schedule for pay raises. The move was really to bring me up to the salary paid to other reporters with comparable experience. But while I was on the fast track, during my involvement in a lawsuit, I had to come clean about my criminal record. Management’s reaction? I was taken off the fast track. The editor at the time admitted that he probably would not even have hired me if I had included my criminal record on my application.
The second incident came years later, after I had embarked on my career as a freelance writer and author. I got a part-time job with the U.S. Census Bureau. But on the third day of my employment, my supervisor called to say, “I received a strange message from headquarters to immediately take your equipment and send you home. I don’t understand.”
I did. I told her it was probably because of my criminal record from 1970.
“It can’t be,” said the kind but naive young White woman, who I imagined looked at my gray hair and wrinkles and thought of her grandmother.
I had put the truth of my past on my application, but the background check had taken some time. Its completion clinched it; I was fired.
Lucky for me, I knew someone who was working for the White House. They explained that a memo had been sent to advise offices to make such decisions individually, case by case. The friend assured me I could have my job back. Before he intervened, though, I received a prestigious fellowship that meant I didn’t have time to work at the Census Bureau. Again, I cried, thinking about the countless people with criminal records who did not have a friend in the White House and who every day fought alone to get a job or a residence or to maintain sanity in a world of constant judgment.
We have a chance to stop labeling people
All of this is why I find myself in the awkward position of defending Donald Trump in a way. I object to media headlines that call him a felon or news analysts who constantly bring up his record.
I don’t want anyone labeled a felon.
“Most people in prisons and jails in America come from lives of poverty and discrimination. A label such as ‘felon’ or ‘inmate’ contributes to keeping them at the margins of society,” Carroll Bogert, president of The Marshall Project, wrote in a July 2024 blog post at the organization’s website. The nonprofit journalism organization is dedicated to covering criminal justice in the United States.
Bogert notes that the nonprofit was consulted about language for the new edition of the Associated Press’s stylebook, which states, “Do not use felon, convict or ex-con as nouns.” The stylebook advises journalists instead to use person-first language.
“Labels marginalize people,” Bogert continued in the post. “They turn a moving verb into a fixed noun. They dehumanize and subjugate. … By calling Trump a ‘felon,’ we risk rehabilitating a word that has fallen out of favor for good reason. Trump is a person convicted of felonies. So are millions of other Americans.”
My friend Divine Pryor, a criminologist who was convicted of multiple felonies some 40 years ago, said that at this moment in history, we have a chance to forever change this practice of using labels when talking about people with criminal convictions.
“The fact we have a person convicted of multiple felonies who is now going to be president gives us an opportunity now to use our criminal convictions as a means to accomplish what we never could before,” Pryor said in an interview. “A precedent has been set. A person with felony convictions can be president.”
Pryor envisions a national campaign in which people with convictions demand that all people with criminal convictions be treated equally.
My friend thinks this period in history might be a litmus test for justice.
My friend thinks this period in history might be a litmus test for justice. He said, “If we are denied anything, we should say, ‘Perhaps I should notify the president. I’m sure he will be outraged I can’t be a doctor, a lawyer or run for office because I’ve been convicted of a felony.’”
I don’t know that most people care at all about discrimination against people like me. But I agreed with Pryor when he said, “We have to make the argument.”
Those of us who are subjected to this disenfranchisement must take the lead or continue the fight.
A felony conviction should not automatically disqualify a person for a job, the ability to vote, an apartment or gun ownership. A person convicted of a felony should be able to be president of the United States.
A 75-year-old woman with a 54-year-old felony conviction should be able to get Global Entry.
