At the age of 21, I found myself in a situation that feels worlds apart from who I am today. I was convicted of possession of heroin with intent to distribute, along with possession of a syringe. That was 54 years ago.
Though I wasn’t a dealer, I was a user, on the verge of addiction. I became infatuated with a man wrapped in the throes of addiction himself, having returned from Vietnam to a nation that continued to openly discriminate against Black men.
My charges were felonies, bringing the possibility of prison time. Following my lawyer’s counsel, I straightened my voluminous afro, surely hoping to emerge more presentable and appealing to the judge or jury. As a young, single Black mother facing prison in 1970 in Charlotte, North Carolina, my fear was palpable.
Upon entering the courtroom with my newly pressed hair, I noticed that the only Black faces there belonged to my mother and aunt. When my lawyer advised me to accept a plea deal, I complied. The agreement entailed pleading guilty to avoid a jury trial—which could have led to five years in prison. Instead, thanks to the plea, the judge sentenced me to five years of probation and a $2,000 fine.
It was a clear choice. I was willing to accept the label of convicted felon for the chance to return home to my two-year-old daughter.
What I failed to grasp at the time—what I couldn’t fathom—was that those with felony convictions would face systematic discrimination in this country. Jobs, housing, and even certain licenses or voting rights could be denied across various states.
Fast forward to 2024, a reality that my 21-year-old self would barely recognize: a person with 34 felonies is now the president of the United States—leading a country that discriminates against me and countless others with felony convictions.
I feel betrayed by 76 million voters
Under fair circumstances, I might celebrate President Donald Trump’s triumph as a breakthrough for those with felony convictions. But the ground isn’t level. None of the individuals I know with felony records are affluent White men.
According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics, approximately 19 million Americans have felony convictions, with an estimated 79 million possessing some form of criminal record, as noted by the Prison Policy Initiative—a nonpartisan nonprofit dedicated to investigating the consequences of mass criminalization.
While I appreciate that a person with a felony conviction can ascend to the presidency, it’s disheartening to see Donald Trump achieve this status amid his numerous felonies, given the constant discrimination I have faced for decades due to my own.
In South Carolina, where I reside, I can vote, yet I am prohibited from purchasing a firearm for my protection. One gun store owner remarked, “There have been instances where a convicted felon was allowed to buy a gun, but typically you need to hire a firearms attorney to advocate for you.”
In essence, I must spend money to pursue a constitutional right which remains uncertain.
A plea deal, and 54 years of punishment
Recently, my application for Global Entry was denied, a program designed to facilitate easy reentry into the U.S. for travelers, allowing quicker processing through customs. I understand this is what my daughter might label “a first-world problem.” The denial won’t deprive me of my basic needs or livelihood, yet it serves as the latest example of the discrimination I endure because of my felony status. It underscores that the government continues to penalize me for actions taken 54 years ago.
In my younger days, battling with feelings of self-worth, the constant rejection was especially painful. Now, my anger is directed toward my siblings who bear the labels of “criminal,” “offender,” “ex-con,” and “felon.” I think about the unjust humiliation they confront daily.
A letter from U.S. Customs and Border Protection conveyed, “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’s a long appeals process ahead. The letter offered no mention of refunding my $100 application fee, reminding me of the advocacy work I engaged in with reformers, aiming to alter practices where property management companies can reject applicants with criminal records. Despite this, those companies often keep the $600 to $1,000 processing fees.
Entities—both corporate and governmental—profit immensely from labeling people as “criminals” or “felons.”
Entities—both corporate and governmental—profit immensely from labeling people as “criminals” or “felons.”
In 1970, I left that courtroom burdened with a $2,000 fine owed to the government. I likely required all five years of probation to settle that debt, considering I lost my job before the trial and struggled for years to secure employment due to my record.
During that time, I had to care for my child and at times relied on the kindness of friends and family. There was an instance where I sought emergency food assistance at a social services office, which led to receiving “surplus” food—an early form of programs like the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP). I recall powdered milk, powdered eggs, canned meats, and a hefty block of cheese—while some of it was unappetizing, on certain days it sufficed, and I was grateful.
While I cannot recount every instance of discrimination I’ve faced, there are two notable incidents illustrating how societal labeling perpetuates poverty for certain groups throughout their lives.
To grasp the first story, it’s essential to know that I’ve achieved considerable success despite my criminal record, even enjoying privileges that others with similar histories might lack. In my late 20s, I earned a fellowship in a summer journalism program, eventually working for 16 years at The Washington Post. I later discovered that when I started, my salary was significantly lower than that of nearly all my peers—even before my criminal history was disclosed.
To rectify this salary disparity, the paper eventually placed me on a fast-track for pay raises. However, during a lawsuit, when I revealed my criminal past, I was removed from that fast track. The editor admitted he likely wouldn’t have hired me had I disclosed my record in my application.
The second incident occurred years later when I started a freelance writing career and took on a part-time role with the U.S. Census Bureau. On my third day, my supervisor called to inform me, “I received an odd message from headquarters directing me to immediately collect your equipment and send you home. I don’t understand.”
Instantly, I understood, responding, “It’s probably due to my 1970 conviction.”
“It can’t be,” replied the kind yet naïve young White woman, likely associating my gray hair with her grandmother.
I had disclosed my past in my application, but the background check had taken time to process. Once completed, it sealed my fate; I was dismissed.
Fortunately, a friend working for the White House intervened, explaining that a memo advised offices to make such decisions on a case-by-case basis. He reassured me that I could regain my job. However, before that could happen, I received a prestigious fellowship, which precluded me from working at the Census Bureau. I found myself crying for the countless individuals with records who lack a powerful ally and must fight daily for opportunities in a judgmental world.
We have a chance to stop labeling people
This is why I find myself in a peculiar position defending Donald Trump in a way. I take issue with headlines that brand him a felon and analysts who repeatedly highlight his past convictions.
I wish for no one to be labeled a felon.
“Most individuals in U.S. prisons and jails stem from backgrounds marred by poverty and discrimination. A label such as ‘felon’ or ‘inmate’ exacerbates their marginalization in society,” wrote Carroll Bogert, president of The Marshall Project, in a blog post from July 2024. The organization’s commitment lies in disseminating information about criminal justice in America.
Bogert mentioned that the nonprofit was consulted on language for an updated edition of the Associated Press’s stylebook, which advises against using “felon,” “convict,” or “ex-con” as nouns. Instead, the guidance encourages journalists to adopt person-first language.
“Labels diminish the humanity of people,” Bogert continued. “They transform a dynamic verb into a static noun, leading to dehumanization and subjugation. … By calling Trump a ‘felon,’ we risk reviving a label that should remain discredited. Trump is a person who has been convicted of felonies, just like millions of other Americans.”
My friend Divine Pryor, a criminologist who experienced multiple felony convictions nearly 40 years ago, believes we stand at a pivotal moment in history. “The fact that a person with multiple felonies is now set to become president presents an opportunity to revolutionize the narrative surrounding criminal convictions.”
Pryor envisions a nationwide campaign wherein those with convictions advocate for equal treatment for all individuals with criminal histories.
My friend believes that this historical moment might serve as a litmus test for justice.
My friend argues this moment presents a litmus test for justice: “If we are denied any rights, we should proclaim, ‘Perhaps I should inform the president. I’m certain he would be appalled that I am barred from being a doctor, a lawyer, or even running for office because of my felony conviction.’”
I’m uncertain whether the broader public cares about issues like discrimination against individuals such as myself. Nonetheless, I agree with Pryor’s assertion, “We must make our case.”
Those of us facing disenfranchisement must lead this struggle—or continue the fight.
A felony conviction should not preclude someone from obtaining a job, voting, securing housing, or possessing a firearm. A person with a felony record should be able to serve as president of the United States.
A 75-year-old woman with a felony conviction from 54 years ago deserves to gain access to Global Entry.
