FRESH ON THE BRICKS
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    It's a convict's dream - getting out of the joint. But reality can be a true-blue bitch. Most of us view getting out as an end in itself. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Getting out is a beginning, a process. And it ain't a cakewalk, mis amigos. I was not your garden-variety convict and thus am not your average ex-con. But some of what I have encountered since my release a month ago is universal.
    But let's back up a wee bit here. Let me give you an idea of who and what I am. I am 45 now and I just finished a ten-year bit. This wasn't my first bit, but it was my longest. I had fourteen years inside in pieces before this fall for various crimes of violence (nothing perverted), plus two before that in a juvenile facility. I spent this time down as a Jailhouse Lawyer 24/7 and did fairly well. My major successes were overturning others' convictions for first degree murder (twice), attempted first degree murder (once), and a host of lesser convictions. At the same time, I acquired two two-year college degrees: an Associate of Arts (AA) in General Studies and an Associate of Arts and Applied Sciences (AAAS) in Business Administration. I walked the yard, I never told on anyone, and I left many good friends behind, several with whom I continue to correspond.
    On the day that I processed out of the joint, I was handed copies of my several Judgments and Sentences, a bill for my accumulated DOC debts, i.e., an old work release rent debt, indigent postage, and medical co-pay, and an envelope with two twenty dollar bills. That was it.
    But I'm not the dullest tool in the shed. Several years before I fell on this beef I'd met a woman who worked privately with prisoners and ex-cons, preferring us aging burnouts over the usual yard monsters. There was a day when she used to go into some of the joints, but she quit that because of the bullshit the DOC kept putting on her plate. Over the years she has provided a room or two in her home for one or two of us. Her philosophy has been that if a fellow gets out and has the opportunity to live in a decent place, the transition from prison to the bricks will be easier and he may just aspire to live in such a way as to acquire such a home and lifestyle for himself. It seems to be a good philosophy because I can put names on several grizzled ex-cons who have filtered through her home and remain on the bricks these four, seven, twelve or more years later. I got in touch with her a year before my release date and made arrangements.
    In addition to this I borrowed three hundred dollars from mom. With that money I went to a thrift store and bought a small wardrobe for seventy bucks, a backpack to haul my lunch and stuff, a pair of decent shoes, and a bus pass so I could get around. I also set aside twenty-five bucks for a bus pass for the next month. Then I went to a printer to get some business cards and set out to pound the pavement and get that job.
    I had made a name for myself in some circles within the greater legal community. Naturally, I figured this factor, my skills in general, and my college degrees would make getting a job in the field a real breeze. Few things were ever farther from the truth.
    In Washington State there is no requirement for a paralegal certificate or license in order to work as one. But I quickly discovered that the local bar association had a stranglehold on the market. In addition to this, the local law school floods the community with eager students seeking experience, often for credits in lieu of money. The more I pounded the pavement, the more discouraged I became.
    I began to branch out in my search for work. I went to the employment securities office, poured over the classified ad, and filled out application after application. I got on the Internet and peppered the web with copies of my resume. I applied for work at businesses with a sign in the window. I went to employment agencies and took test after test to assess my office skills, and I did rather well, thank you very much. But I was in for a rude awakening.
    One of the first obstacles I encountered was that I was unable to fill out a complete job application. Not only had I been out of the job market for ten years, but also the businesses for which I used to work no longer even existed. (Before I fell I ran boiler rooms--telephone soliciting--for a couple of fly-by-night outfits.) Thus, there were no previous employers for a prospective employer to contact. In addition to this, everyone wanted two or three references that they could contact. I had one. In other words, there was no one a prospective employer could contact to ascertain my work skills or habits.
    Oh, and let's not overlook the interesting responses to my truthful revelation about my recent release from prison. It had been suggested to me that I lie about this. I refuse to do so for a couple of reasons. First, to do so would deny a large part of my life, not to mention the circumstances under which I acquired my credentials. Second, were I to lie now and have it discovered later, my application would be fraudulent and grounds for termination. I know. This happened to me nearly twenty years ago. But it gets better.
    I have discovered that many businesses have adopted a corporate policy of excluding ex-convicts from hiring, period. I went to boiler rooms who used to hire us all the time. Now, since these enterprises often hire teens and there have been perverts who have victimized co-workers, the doors are closed to us. Several of the employment agencies I went to informed me (after a couple of hours of testing) that they exclude ex-cons per corporate policy. It's discouraging as hell.
    One rainy afternoon I was on the sidewalk, just having left Kelly Services where I'd taken the tests for three hours and gotten the boot. I asked the woman why there wasn't a sign or something that said they wouldn't take on ex-cons so we could save our time and theirs. She shrugged her shoulders. I told her to give me back all the forms I'd just filled out. She said she couldn't. Then she saw that I was ready to take them, and she handed them to me. As I walked away I was filled with bitterness, rage, and despair. I found myself thinking, "What's the use? Why not just get a gun . . ." I shook my head and actually slapped my own face.
    I swallowed my pride and the next day I applied for and received food stamps. At least that way I could contribute at home and I wouldn't starve while the doors were slammed in my face. But I continued pounding the pavement. And I decided to go back to school in order to acquire more credentials. I'm enrolled at a state university for Fall Quarter and have qualified for financial aid. Even there I learned that for anyone with a prior drug conviction can no longer qualify for educational financial assistance, or food stamps for that matter. And I continued pounding the pavement.
    And it has paid off. After five weeks of perseverance, I was able to get a part time job working weekday mornings in a law firm, doing office grunt work, gofer duties, and research. I will be able to build upon this by doing appellate and post-conviction research and brief writing when that work starts to roll in. And I will be able to do all of this and go to school.
    Yet, I've often thought about how different it could all be. What if I hadn't served my time in such a manner as to acquire skills and credentials? What if I didn't have the personal resources to live in a decent home until I can get on my own feet? What if I hadn't determined to persevere in seeking employment? What if I was more like the average convict fresh on the bricks? What if I had bought a gun with my gate money?

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© 2000 Shep
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

as of June 17th, 2000

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