On October 17, 1995 – just two days after the famous Million Man March – I was quietly packing for a different trip. While the men on the Washington Mall were making amends, I was struggling to come to terms with the fact that, in less than 48 hours, I would be an inmate in the Federal Correctional System.
Five years earlier I was twenty and on a different path. I left Johnson & Wales University in Providence, Rhode Island with a newly minted Associates Degree in Food and Beverage Management and headed home for Memphis feeling pretty good about myself and my prospects. I would work at home that summer to save up for my journey west, for in the fall I would study at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas’ prestigious School of Hotel Management. I would be the first person in my family to travel so far.
The 22-hour road trip from Memphis to UNLV was daunting to say the least. My oldest brother took time off to help me make the trip, and while I tried my best to settle in, my transition was difficult. I found that making friends, juggling classes, and meeting deadlines was not easy. To add to all of this, I took a part time job at one of the many hotels in Vegas, just to keep spare change in my pocket.
This is when I had my first taste of credit card fraud. At the hotel, I manned the front desk with two other employees: “Charles” and “Cynthia.” During a moment of downtime we got to talking about vacation plans. I dreamily mentioned Hawaii, knowing full well that a dream was all a trip to paradise could be for a student like me. But Charles told me how Cynthia could get me a flight for a very low cost. All I had to do was pay her a small fee and I could be on the next plane out. It sounded too good to be true.
Cynthia wasn’t a travel agent, but in Vegas it’s not uncommon to meet someone who has enough “juice” to do you an occasional favor, like get your visiting uncle free tickets to a show, or comp your in-laws to a night at a hotel. Evidently, Cynthia had connections in the travel industry, and those connections were my good fortune. Before I knew it, I was booked on a flight to Hawaii, but I noticed something troubling: the name on the receipt wasn’t Cynthia's. Eventually, I asked Charles about it. Charles laid out for me the “system” Cynthia had used to get me the tickets. He called it “the credit card game.”
Understand that at that time a Hawaiian vacation was a welcome escape, and I had so much on my mind that I couldn’t have been bothered with where the tickets came from, especially after the fact. Perhaps I should have been more concerned, but I was just a mess on campus. I wasn’t focused, my grades were falling, and I was living way beyond my means. The university put me on probation and I couldn’t attend classes for a year. I kept working, having every intention of staying in Vegas and returning to school, but my morale sank lower and I decided to leave UNLV and return home.
Maybe that wasn’t the best decision. I left Las Vegas scared, hurt, confused, lost, and lonely; and, though familiar, Memphis felt small and restrictive. I knew I needed to get back to school, but my aunt who had invested a lot of money and time in my education to that point had completely cut me off. My plan was to regroup while I looked for other hospitality programs across country. Howard University in Washington DC accepted me into their program but I didn’t have money for tuition or housing. I didn’t know what to do at this point. With the feeling of defeat weighing heavily on me, I made a decision to get some counseling.
It worked. Life began to look brighter and better for me both personally and professionally. I started temping at a local banking center doing data entry in their credit card department. I easily met my daily quotas, and the calm camaraderie of the work environment allowed me to meet some great people. I bonded with a fellow temp over a shared love of barbecue and cokes, and the stories she told kept me in stitches on daily basis. But I still couldn't escape the nagging feeling that I had failed, that this wasn't where I was supposed to be.
The bank's trust in me grew. I was even asked to take on more work when my manager went on vacation. This involved getting the mail, separating it by department, and then getting it to the right people. I was also responsible for processing returned cards. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, one day a damaged card came in, but instead of me sending it off to be destroyed, I held on to it. Maybe I was greedy, or just felt entitled. Maybe I was trying to exorcise the demons I brought back with me from Vegas, looking for ways to physically show my family, my aunt, that I wasn’t a failure. Regardless, the rules of the credit card game were swimming in my mind.
You see, not only did I have access to the card, but also to the cardholder’s records, including their pin number. I simply called upstairs, and all of this information was handed over to me without question. I was nervous about using someone else’s credit card, but I was also confident that I could get away with it, just as Cynthia had done back in Vegas. Pushed by a need to make myself look better than I felt inside, I made my first withdrawal from an ATM machine. Over the next two weeks, I withdrew over $3500 dollars, which I used to buy clothing and gear in the hopes that I could accessorize myself into the life I felt I deserved. Again – it came down to greed and entitlement.
That greed called me to go back to the teller one more time but this time the card was denied. I knew something was wrong.
The next week, I called off of work. I said I was sick, and – looking back – I was. Eventually my manager begged, and I agreed to come in. I think I knew what was going to happen. I think I wanted it to. When I arrived, security met me at the door and asked me to step over to the side. It was a relief to confess, but I’m not sure I understood the consequences I was about to reap until they called for transportation to haul me off to 201 Poplar Avenue: the address for the Shelby County Jail. My life, I knew, would never be the same.
Five years earlier I was twenty and on a different path. I left Johnson & Wales University in Providence, Rhode Island with a newly minted Associates Degree in Food and Beverage Management and headed home for Memphis feeling pretty good about myself and my prospects. I would work at home that summer to save up for my journey west, for in the fall I would study at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas’ prestigious School of Hotel Management. I would be the first person in my family to travel so far.
The 22-hour road trip from Memphis to UNLV was daunting to say the least. My oldest brother took time off to help me make the trip, and while I tried my best to settle in, my transition was difficult. I found that making friends, juggling classes, and meeting deadlines was not easy. To add to all of this, I took a part time job at one of the many hotels in Vegas, just to keep spare change in my pocket.
This is when I had my first taste of credit card fraud. At the hotel, I manned the front desk with two other employees: “Charles” and “Cynthia.” During a moment of downtime we got to talking about vacation plans. I dreamily mentioned Hawaii, knowing full well that a dream was all a trip to paradise could be for a student like me. But Charles told me how Cynthia could get me a flight for a very low cost. All I had to do was pay her a small fee and I could be on the next plane out. It sounded too good to be true.
Cynthia wasn’t a travel agent, but in Vegas it’s not uncommon to meet someone who has enough “juice” to do you an occasional favor, like get your visiting uncle free tickets to a show, or comp your in-laws to a night at a hotel. Evidently, Cynthia had connections in the travel industry, and those connections were my good fortune. Before I knew it, I was booked on a flight to Hawaii, but I noticed something troubling: the name on the receipt wasn’t Cynthia's. Eventually, I asked Charles about it. Charles laid out for me the “system” Cynthia had used to get me the tickets. He called it “the credit card game.”
Understand that at that time a Hawaiian vacation was a welcome escape, and I had so much on my mind that I couldn’t have been bothered with where the tickets came from, especially after the fact. Perhaps I should have been more concerned, but I was just a mess on campus. I wasn’t focused, my grades were falling, and I was living way beyond my means. The university put me on probation and I couldn’t attend classes for a year. I kept working, having every intention of staying in Vegas and returning to school, but my morale sank lower and I decided to leave UNLV and return home.
Maybe that wasn’t the best decision. I left Las Vegas scared, hurt, confused, lost, and lonely; and, though familiar, Memphis felt small and restrictive. I knew I needed to get back to school, but my aunt who had invested a lot of money and time in my education to that point had completely cut me off. My plan was to regroup while I looked for other hospitality programs across country. Howard University in Washington DC accepted me into their program but I didn’t have money for tuition or housing. I didn’t know what to do at this point. With the feeling of defeat weighing heavily on me, I made a decision to get some counseling.
It worked. Life began to look brighter and better for me both personally and professionally. I started temping at a local banking center doing data entry in their credit card department. I easily met my daily quotas, and the calm camaraderie of the work environment allowed me to meet some great people. I bonded with a fellow temp over a shared love of barbecue and cokes, and the stories she told kept me in stitches on daily basis. But I still couldn't escape the nagging feeling that I had failed, that this wasn't where I was supposed to be.
The bank's trust in me grew. I was even asked to take on more work when my manager went on vacation. This involved getting the mail, separating it by department, and then getting it to the right people. I was also responsible for processing returned cards. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, one day a damaged card came in, but instead of me sending it off to be destroyed, I held on to it. Maybe I was greedy, or just felt entitled. Maybe I was trying to exorcise the demons I brought back with me from Vegas, looking for ways to physically show my family, my aunt, that I wasn’t a failure. Regardless, the rules of the credit card game were swimming in my mind.
You see, not only did I have access to the card, but also to the cardholder’s records, including their pin number. I simply called upstairs, and all of this information was handed over to me without question. I was nervous about using someone else’s credit card, but I was also confident that I could get away with it, just as Cynthia had done back in Vegas. Pushed by a need to make myself look better than I felt inside, I made my first withdrawal from an ATM machine. Over the next two weeks, I withdrew over $3500 dollars, which I used to buy clothing and gear in the hopes that I could accessorize myself into the life I felt I deserved. Again – it came down to greed and entitlement.
That greed called me to go back to the teller one more time but this time the card was denied. I knew something was wrong.
The next week, I called off of work. I said I was sick, and – looking back – I was. Eventually my manager begged, and I agreed to come in. I think I knew what was going to happen. I think I wanted it to. When I arrived, security met me at the door and asked me to step over to the side. It was a relief to confess, but I’m not sure I understood the consequences I was about to reap until they called for transportation to haul me off to 201 Poplar Avenue: the address for the Shelby County Jail. My life, I knew, would never be the same.
* * *
I spent the next 12 hours in a holding cell.
I cried.
I prayed.
I thought about how stupid I was and how I was such a disappointment to my family.
In an ironic twist, that same night my church would visit the men in jail, and I had committed to give a talk. There I was, downstairs being processed while my brothers and sisters from church were waiting on me to show up for my talk just one floor above. Needless to say, I was a no show. Living a lie carries a huge cost, and part of that price is perspective. There was one moment where I actually thought that I might be able get out, go home, clean up and make my way to the chapel for the talk. The fraud I committed reflected the fraudulent life that I was living.
Eventually I was released on bond. The next 10 months consisted of court dates, attorneys, and a lot of fear, worry, and doubt. Looking back, it’s interesting to me that during the court proceedings the names of the people whose card I stole never came up. Prosecutors never made it about the cardholders, and how what I did may have impacted them. It was more about my fraudulent use of bank funds.
My lawyer encouraged me to accept a deal, and I did. I was eager to put the situation in my rear view. In exchange for a guilty plea, I would receive a suspended sentence along with 6 months in a half-way house. This would allow me to work and be productive but I’d have to live in a facility away from home and under someone else’s supervision. During the next three months I bounced around from job to job. It was difficult to maintain a stable position because I was now a convicted felon. I landed in a work program at the local cemetery, cutting grass and doing manual labor. The work wasn’t hard, it was just hot and humid, but it was steady.
Then one day, while talking to my sister who had come to visit me on her lunch break, I was told to report back to the half-way house. My heart dropped. The director of the facility was a moody person who had a reputation for revoking your stay on a whim and putting you back in front of the judge. That’s exactly what happened. Claiming I was an arrogant rule breaker (though she could not identify a single rule that I had broken), she expelled me from the program half-way through my sentence. I was going back before the judge with the very real possibility of going to jail now looming over me.
And that’s exactly what happened. The judge sentenced me to 95 days in prison, along with three years of probation. My attorney asked that I be allowed to self-report, which meant I could go home and turn myself into the jail when they called me. This request was accepted, but it would take three months before the system had room for me. The fact that I would have been finished doing time had I been allowed to stay at the half-way house was not lost on me when a letter telling me to report to the Millington Prison Camp arrived in the mail.
That fall day was like any other. But instead of getting up and getting ready for work; I got up and got ready for prison. I choose not to tell my grandparents or my aunt (who was still not speaking to me), and I said goodbye to my mother from behind my closed bedroom door. Shame can make you hide. Even from your own mother.
I reported to the camp at 2:00 pm. I was driven by a friend, and I remember her long embrace before I turned to walk through those doors. I was allowed to bring three books, and I chose The Bible, a journal, and James Cone’s Martin & Malcolm & America. I had $300 dollars to put on my account. They put me in a loud orange jump suit just like in Orange Is the New Black (as a matter of fact, the dorms in that show are just like the ones that I lived in during my stay). I thought this was the beginning of the end of my sentence, but it was really the beginning of a life-long journey to be free.
I cried.
I prayed.
I thought about how stupid I was and how I was such a disappointment to my family.
In an ironic twist, that same night my church would visit the men in jail, and I had committed to give a talk. There I was, downstairs being processed while my brothers and sisters from church were waiting on me to show up for my talk just one floor above. Needless to say, I was a no show. Living a lie carries a huge cost, and part of that price is perspective. There was one moment where I actually thought that I might be able get out, go home, clean up and make my way to the chapel for the talk. The fraud I committed reflected the fraudulent life that I was living.
Eventually I was released on bond. The next 10 months consisted of court dates, attorneys, and a lot of fear, worry, and doubt. Looking back, it’s interesting to me that during the court proceedings the names of the people whose card I stole never came up. Prosecutors never made it about the cardholders, and how what I did may have impacted them. It was more about my fraudulent use of bank funds.
My lawyer encouraged me to accept a deal, and I did. I was eager to put the situation in my rear view. In exchange for a guilty plea, I would receive a suspended sentence along with 6 months in a half-way house. This would allow me to work and be productive but I’d have to live in a facility away from home and under someone else’s supervision. During the next three months I bounced around from job to job. It was difficult to maintain a stable position because I was now a convicted felon. I landed in a work program at the local cemetery, cutting grass and doing manual labor. The work wasn’t hard, it was just hot and humid, but it was steady.
Then one day, while talking to my sister who had come to visit me on her lunch break, I was told to report back to the half-way house. My heart dropped. The director of the facility was a moody person who had a reputation for revoking your stay on a whim and putting you back in front of the judge. That’s exactly what happened. Claiming I was an arrogant rule breaker (though she could not identify a single rule that I had broken), she expelled me from the program half-way through my sentence. I was going back before the judge with the very real possibility of going to jail now looming over me.
And that’s exactly what happened. The judge sentenced me to 95 days in prison, along with three years of probation. My attorney asked that I be allowed to self-report, which meant I could go home and turn myself into the jail when they called me. This request was accepted, but it would take three months before the system had room for me. The fact that I would have been finished doing time had I been allowed to stay at the half-way house was not lost on me when a letter telling me to report to the Millington Prison Camp arrived in the mail.
That fall day was like any other. But instead of getting up and getting ready for work; I got up and got ready for prison. I choose not to tell my grandparents or my aunt (who was still not speaking to me), and I said goodbye to my mother from behind my closed bedroom door. Shame can make you hide. Even from your own mother.
I reported to the camp at 2:00 pm. I was driven by a friend, and I remember her long embrace before I turned to walk through those doors. I was allowed to bring three books, and I chose The Bible, a journal, and James Cone’s Martin & Malcolm & America. I had $300 dollars to put on my account. They put me in a loud orange jump suit just like in Orange Is the New Black (as a matter of fact, the dorms in that show are just like the ones that I lived in during my stay). I thought this was the beginning of the end of my sentence, but it was really the beginning of a life-long journey to be free.
* * *
Prison life is awful.
True, I was assigned to a prison camp; and, yes, it was minimum security. The facilities were nice, with a track, basketball courts, a library, decent food, and a safe environment. But it is still prison. Someone else is still in charge of your comings and goings, of when and where you eat, sleep, breath.
I worked in the cafeteria because my stay was short and they didn’t want to train me on another job. I took advantage of the library, checking out books, and making a point of reading the daily papers – which wasn’t easy because it seemed that everyone wanted to read the news, and the library only had a few newspapers to lend out. Daily news is important to so many people in prison because it’s a window to the outside. It was hard to get the guys to share the few papers available, but they did.
I spent as much time reading as I could, as it distracted me from thinking about and hoping to receive mail. Having your name said at mail call is like winning the lottery. We would be so excited to get letters, magazines, and pictures from outside. I frequently received mail from friends, and while no one in my family wrote, they did come to visit me. Except for my mother.
On Sundays, when visits were allowed, the men who knew they had visitors coming would get cleaned up. It would start on Friday with new haircuts, and guys begging to get new uniforms to look their best. I, on the other hand, did not care about all of the fuss of looking good, even though my siblings would often come, as would members of the men’s group that I was part of. I had a single visit from an old church friend named Regina.
Like most prisoners, I attended religious services but I couldn’t handle the theology of those who were coming to preach to us, so – despite my Christian faith – I ended up spending most of my time with the Muslims, learning from them. The prayer life of Muslims is what I enjoyed. I loved the rituals and their contemplative nature. I bonded with a young Muslim named Raheem, who would become like a brother to me. He was doing seven years for securities fraud. A brilliant mind. We would sit and talk and just laugh at the mess of our lives. He grounded me during my stay. Unfortunately, the Christian brothers didn’t like me hanging out with him, and soon they began to ostracize me. That was fine. I had no room in my life for their hypocritical judgement. Raheem taught me about the tenets of Islam and I gave him my ideas on Christianity. He would be released about a month before me, and it was hard to say goodbye. Men in prison do cry. We do form friendships.
Prior to my release, and despite my association with a nonbeliever, the Christian brotherhood asked me to speak one Sunday evening during worship and I agreed. The place was over capacity, so men spilled out of the room and on to the lawn where they could listen through the loud speakers that had been set up.
I think back and stand in awe of what happened to me that evening. My sermon was called, “The Fatal Flaws of Man” and it focused on the story of Lot from the book of Genesis. The idea came from Dr. Joseph Stowell who said, “there are three things that keep man running on this freeway of life: pride, passion, and possessions.” These things motivated Lot, and I could see how they motivated me to commit my crime. Lot let pride and profit drive him, so much so that he failed to protect his family. In pitching his tent towards Sodom, Lot reaped shame, fear, regret and loss. I too let pride, passion and possession rule me in my decision to take and use a credit card that wasn’t mine. I knew, too, that each man on that campus was there for the same reasons, and by the end of the sermon, so did they. As I finished, men streamed towards the altar to humble themselves in prayer. I have sat on panels at universities across this country, but – thus far – nothing has topped the energy we tapped into that night. I couldn’t believe I had a hand in it. I made my way out of the chapel with inmates and guards thanking me and shaking my hands. Later on, I just laid in my bunk looking up into the ceiling.
True, I was assigned to a prison camp; and, yes, it was minimum security. The facilities were nice, with a track, basketball courts, a library, decent food, and a safe environment. But it is still prison. Someone else is still in charge of your comings and goings, of when and where you eat, sleep, breath.
I worked in the cafeteria because my stay was short and they didn’t want to train me on another job. I took advantage of the library, checking out books, and making a point of reading the daily papers – which wasn’t easy because it seemed that everyone wanted to read the news, and the library only had a few newspapers to lend out. Daily news is important to so many people in prison because it’s a window to the outside. It was hard to get the guys to share the few papers available, but they did.
I spent as much time reading as I could, as it distracted me from thinking about and hoping to receive mail. Having your name said at mail call is like winning the lottery. We would be so excited to get letters, magazines, and pictures from outside. I frequently received mail from friends, and while no one in my family wrote, they did come to visit me. Except for my mother.
On Sundays, when visits were allowed, the men who knew they had visitors coming would get cleaned up. It would start on Friday with new haircuts, and guys begging to get new uniforms to look their best. I, on the other hand, did not care about all of the fuss of looking good, even though my siblings would often come, as would members of the men’s group that I was part of. I had a single visit from an old church friend named Regina.
Like most prisoners, I attended religious services but I couldn’t handle the theology of those who were coming to preach to us, so – despite my Christian faith – I ended up spending most of my time with the Muslims, learning from them. The prayer life of Muslims is what I enjoyed. I loved the rituals and their contemplative nature. I bonded with a young Muslim named Raheem, who would become like a brother to me. He was doing seven years for securities fraud. A brilliant mind. We would sit and talk and just laugh at the mess of our lives. He grounded me during my stay. Unfortunately, the Christian brothers didn’t like me hanging out with him, and soon they began to ostracize me. That was fine. I had no room in my life for their hypocritical judgement. Raheem taught me about the tenets of Islam and I gave him my ideas on Christianity. He would be released about a month before me, and it was hard to say goodbye. Men in prison do cry. We do form friendships.
Prior to my release, and despite my association with a nonbeliever, the Christian brotherhood asked me to speak one Sunday evening during worship and I agreed. The place was over capacity, so men spilled out of the room and on to the lawn where they could listen through the loud speakers that had been set up.
I think back and stand in awe of what happened to me that evening. My sermon was called, “The Fatal Flaws of Man” and it focused on the story of Lot from the book of Genesis. The idea came from Dr. Joseph Stowell who said, “there are three things that keep man running on this freeway of life: pride, passion, and possessions.” These things motivated Lot, and I could see how they motivated me to commit my crime. Lot let pride and profit drive him, so much so that he failed to protect his family. In pitching his tent towards Sodom, Lot reaped shame, fear, regret and loss. I too let pride, passion and possession rule me in my decision to take and use a credit card that wasn’t mine. I knew, too, that each man on that campus was there for the same reasons, and by the end of the sermon, so did they. As I finished, men streamed towards the altar to humble themselves in prayer. I have sat on panels at universities across this country, but – thus far – nothing has topped the energy we tapped into that night. I couldn’t believe I had a hand in it. I made my way out of the chapel with inmates and guards thanking me and shaking my hands. Later on, I just laid in my bunk looking up into the ceiling.
* * *
I was released January 6th, 1996.
Going home for an inmate is both exciting and nerve-wracking. So many emotions go through you. You are anxious to see your family and friends, and nervous that something might happen that could stall your departure. The day before my release I got to work cleaning out my bunk. I gave away things like shampoo and other toiletries. One inmate wanted my book, and I gave it to him with the condition that he pass it on before he left. The inmates actually have a ritual for those who are about to leave. The night before they are discharged, each soon-to-be former inmate gets a bucket of ice water thrown on him. I received this wake-up call followed by laughs, hugs and prayer. It is a moment which still brings me to tears.
My last breakfast inside was a coffee and a donut. I met with a young brother who I would consider a mentee. We had spent time talking and sharing with each other many nights on the track. That morning he confessed, “I’m not sure, how I’m going to make now that you and Raheem are both gone.”
I looked at him and said “You will do just fine. We both believe in you.” I put my arm around him and spoke a few affirming words. Just then I realized how much he depended on me. Little did he know that I depended on him just as much.
The call came over the PA system: “inmate 14815-076, please report to Receiving and Release.” I gathered my small box of belongings and walked slowly toward the doors. One of the inmates came up and offered to carry my box. I walked and let the tears flow.
I was released but I wasn’t free. I still had three months in a half-way house in Nashville, and then my three years of probation started. This consisted of paying fees, as well as random home and work visits. I was not going back to prison. I successfully completed my probation; and, although I had done my time, I am still a convicted felon.
The world is not a friendly place to former inmates.
Since my release, I have earned a Master’s degree and several certifications from major institutions, but the stain of that felony conviction still remains. I have to check a box each time I fill out a job application, and in telling the truth, I am punished again. Haven’t I served my time? Didn’t I successfully complete the sentence the law handed down for the crime I committed?
Going home for an inmate is both exciting and nerve-wracking. So many emotions go through you. You are anxious to see your family and friends, and nervous that something might happen that could stall your departure. The day before my release I got to work cleaning out my bunk. I gave away things like shampoo and other toiletries. One inmate wanted my book, and I gave it to him with the condition that he pass it on before he left. The inmates actually have a ritual for those who are about to leave. The night before they are discharged, each soon-to-be former inmate gets a bucket of ice water thrown on him. I received this wake-up call followed by laughs, hugs and prayer. It is a moment which still brings me to tears.
My last breakfast inside was a coffee and a donut. I met with a young brother who I would consider a mentee. We had spent time talking and sharing with each other many nights on the track. That morning he confessed, “I’m not sure, how I’m going to make now that you and Raheem are both gone.”
I looked at him and said “You will do just fine. We both believe in you.” I put my arm around him and spoke a few affirming words. Just then I realized how much he depended on me. Little did he know that I depended on him just as much.
The call came over the PA system: “inmate 14815-076, please report to Receiving and Release.” I gathered my small box of belongings and walked slowly toward the doors. One of the inmates came up and offered to carry my box. I walked and let the tears flow.
I was released but I wasn’t free. I still had three months in a half-way house in Nashville, and then my three years of probation started. This consisted of paying fees, as well as random home and work visits. I was not going back to prison. I successfully completed my probation; and, although I had done my time, I am still a convicted felon.
The world is not a friendly place to former inmates.
Since my release, I have earned a Master’s degree and several certifications from major institutions, but the stain of that felony conviction still remains. I have to check a box each time I fill out a job application, and in telling the truth, I am punished again. Haven’t I served my time? Didn’t I successfully complete the sentence the law handed down for the crime I committed?
Recently President Obama signed an executive order to ban the box on all federal job applications and I applaud his efforts. But it doesn’t go far enough. We need legislation to expunge records once a person has fulfilled the terms and conditions of their conviction and eventual release. Even though my transgression was not violent, and despite the fact that I have dedicated myself to becoming a productive citizen, it seem that l am confronted with my guilt on a daily basis. Senators Rand Paul (R - Kentucky) and Cory Booker (D - New Jersey) recently introduced the Record Expungement Designed to Enhance Employment Act of 2015 (REDEEM Act). If our nation truly believes that double jeopardy is unjust, then it is vital that the REDEEM Act becomes part of the law of the land. Until then, I may have been released from prison, but I will never be fully received by my country.
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Header art by T. Guzzio. Original photo by Jennifer Sullivan.
CONNECT WITH DAVID:
David Shawn Smith is a native of Memphis, Tennessee who has lived in Atlanta, Georgia since the summer of 1999. After working extensively in human resources in the corporate world, he took a leap of faith and opened I Speak Life Coaching in 2007. David specializes in the areas of communication and interpersonal relationship skills, conflict management, goal setting, and organizational development. His clients include business owners, universities, non-profits, and faith-based organizations and community leaders. David has a degree in Communications and Rhetoric from Oglethorpe University, and he is currently working on a Master's Degree in Leadership and Coaching from Bellevue University. In addition to Prodigal's Chair, David's work has appeared in Creative Loafing, as well as countless other on-line publications. Connect with David on Twitter and via his website: http://www.ispeaklifecoaching.com.
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