As we pulled away, the towering walls, razor wire and iron gates of the prison grew even more awesome, and the looming gun towers more ominous. It was a bright early autumn morning, my 32d birthday was days away, and the last 10 years of my life had been spent in and out of men’s shelters, hospitals and prisons. I wanted to make it this time.
Alcohol and other drugs had been my failing. Realizing I would need help, I sought an organization of other recovering addicts. Within a few days I landed a job in a metal-plating factory and rented a tiny furnished room. On the urging of a new friend who had a similar past, I soon took my first college course. My first grade was a disappointing C, but before long I was scoring A’s and B’s. I also got better jobs, eventually landing a counseling job in a substance-abuse treatment program. On job applications, I left questions about past arrests and convictions blank. I’d read that this would probably go unnoticed and, if it didn’t, it would be better to discuss such matters in person. Time passed and, in a few short years, I completed college. I went on to get my master’s degree and, using my graduate thesis as its foundation, I wrote a book on drugs in the workplace.
Today I live a full life, enjoying what most people enjoy: movies, books, theater, good food and good friends. My significant other is a South Asian woman and her diverse circle of friends has enriched my life. My annual income as a substance-abuse specialist is adequate, my standing in the community solid and my commitment to continued recovery is permanent.
All of these qualities notwithstanding, I remain, irrevocably, an ex-convict. Although the years have removed all but hazy memories of addiction, hospitalizations, street living and prison, I secretly carry the baggage of a former offender. As my qualifications for higher-level positions grew, so, too, did the potential for a more detailed scrutiny of my past. Opportunities for better jobs that colleagues took for granted were not so available to me. On virtually every job application, the question continued to haunt me: “Have you ever been convicted of a felony or misdemeanor or denied bond in any state?” Staring blankly at the application, I would often wonder, will this nightmare ever end? For minorities, who have a higher rate of incarceration, the nightmare is even more likely to occur.
To the average person, the ex-convict is an individual of questionable character. And without the experience of meeting a rehabilitated offender, there is little chance that this image will change. It is reinforced by the fact that the only thing usually newsworthy about an ex-convict is bad news–another arrest.
Yet the real news is that many former offenders are, like me, rehabilitated members of society. No one would guess at our pasts. We don’t deserve kudos for not committing crimes, but our failings should not supersede decades of personal growth and responsible citizenship. Unfortunately, that’s often what happens.
Under employment discrimination laws, hiring decisions cannot be made on the basis of age, sex or the color of a person’s skin. A job applicant does not have to reveal a disability or medical condition, including former drug dependence. Employability is based on the ability to perform the essential function of the job. Yet the former offender, whose past may be directly related to substance abuse, is expected to reveal his transgression.
No one is born an ex-convict; the title is earned and the individual must accept responsibility. Yet wouldn’t it be nice if there were an ex-ex-con status? It would feel good not to panic at the sight of a job application and that dreaded question: “Have you ever been convicted of a felony or misdemeanor or denied bond in any state?” This question, without exclusionary criteria (i.e., within the last 10 years), serves no one’s interest. To those of us who have paid our debt to society, it’s a form of discrimination that undermines our efforts to continue to rebuild our lives.
