Occupational hazards: Resume of a convict
Photograph by Alan Bowman via Unsplash
Dan Grote
Despite being the most fatalistic and cynical person I know, I am generally able to pull a silver lining or two out of even the most dark and ominous of clouds. Decades spent on and off (mostly on) behind the walls of a maximum-security federal penitentiary, the marrying (and subsequent, inevitable divorcing) of the same woman, twice, and a lifetime and oft-lost battle with addiction should have me mired in darkness and more than ready to give up, yet here I sit.
So, what’s the logical thing to do when you’ve lost everything and everyone, when you wake up, yet again, in the six foot by nine foot concrete box you call home, to stare at your blurred reflection in the tiny square of polished steel that serves as your mirror and wonder where the last 50 years of your life has disappeared to? For some, the answer lies in suicide, but I’ve proven too cowardly for that. I’ve lived my life as a long, drawn-out death wish, but have never been able to “pull the trigger,” as it were, and just call it a day. While most of my yesterdays are little more than blackouts and blurs, I’m scared of missing what tomorrow might bring.
I’m not quite sure just what “polite society” thinks of folks like me these days, folks who have paid their debt to society and are facing down the bleak reality that is being turned loose, broke, and, to a certain degree broken, back into the free world. Let me tell you, the thought of trying to enter the workforce at an age when most normal people are starting to think about retirement is scary. Couple that with a lengthy criminal history and the fact that I don’t have much in the way of marketable skills and, well, things don’t look too good.
I know what you’re thinking, and that is that the prison system has offered me a multitude of vocational rehabilitation/education opportunities, right? Wrong. As I said at the start of this ramble, my time’s been spent at the maximum-security level of corrections, and the sad truth is that the higher security the facility, the less opportunity for programming. However, in the federal system, everyone who is able is expected to work and that led, somehow, to me becoming a GED tutor. Turns out, teaching is something that I am pretty good at and I also enjoy. Matter of fact, I was the first inmate to complete the Teacher’s Aide apprenticeship program at this facility. That’s right, I spent 4,000 hours of learning and teaching and got myself a piece of fancy paper from the U.S. Department of Labor proclaiming me a “Teacher's Aide I.” Not that I’ll ever be able to use that certification in the real world because, as hard up as society seems to be for teacher’s aides, the whole “ex-con” thing won’t go over too well.
So, again, what to do? What does one do when he or she has failed at everything else in life? There’s an old adage that you can be anyone that you want to be when you come to prison, and it seems to be true. Patricia McConnel once said, “When you've failed at everything you ever tried, what’s left? To become a writer, of course.” Sounds good to me, and let’s face it, society’s not going to expect much from someone desperate enough to claim literature as a vocation.
To date, having published several volumes of poetry and having appeared in a wide range of print and online publications, I guess my career as an incarcerated writer has been a success. However, poetry, much like crime, does not pay and the $5.25 per month that I am paid to teach doesn’t do too much either. The days keep passing and my release date keeps inching closer. I am just over a year or away from the door, to homelessness and the need to find a real job.
What opportunities are out there for a thrice-convicted felon like me? According to the Prison Policy Initiative (PPI), there are over 19 million people with felony convictions in the U.S., all of whom, like me, face serious hurdles when it comes to employment. Nearly 40% of prisoners were unemployed before their arrest and, of the estimated 600,000 prisoners released each year, most will struggle to find employment — no wonder the jobless rate for people with a criminal record is five times higher than that of the rest of the population.
I can tell you from experience that the two biggest needs of someone just walking out of prison are housing and employment, in that order, and providing newly released prisoners with access to both of those things costs much less than reincarceration.
The truth is, most jobs available to an ex-convict are low paying and offer little in the way of benefits, job security, or advancement potential. Believe it or not, numerous states even seem to go out of their way in making things more difficult for those with criminal convictions by implementing arbitrary and nonsensical licensing restrictions on certain careers. For instance, in Mississippi, convicted felons are presumed to be without the “good moral character” needed to sell automobiles. In Florida, a felony conviction will keep you from tending bar for 5 years, and North Carolina requires an ex-con to wait 3 years before even thinking about securing employment in the pest control field!
And it doesn’t stop there. While the outright disqualifications are frustrating enough, the discretion given to certain state licensing boards further discourages people like me from even applying for certain jobs. In New York, a former prisoner needs special permission from the Secretary of State to obtain a real estate license, and in Texas, a felony conviction adds a mountain of paperwork to becoming an apprentice plumber.
I can tell you from experience, and there is no shortage of statistics to back me up, that the two biggest needs of someone just walking out of prison are housing and employment, in that order, and numerous studies have shown that providing newly released prisoners with access to both of those things costs much less than reincarceration.
The closer my release date gets, the more dire my situation appears to be. According to the numbers, I’m pretty much destined to fail. The odds of somebody with my perfect storm of the lack of outside support, somebody with a current release address of “homeless,” are horrible, boasting an over 70% chance that, within 5 years, I’ll be arrested again.
But, as I’ve said, somehow a hard life has made me into a silver linings kind of guy, and the same 70% chance of failure still leaves me with a 30% chance of making it and, if nothing else, my flounderings as a writer have taught me how to write a good ending. Where there’s a will, there must be a way and when not sitting around and feeling sorry for myself, I’m always looking for proof that someone like me can make it.
Just look at Mike Carter, Executive Chef of Down North Pizza in Philadelphia, PA. In 2017, Mr. Carter was just being released from the latest of 3 prison terms. Like me, he was one of the millions of Americans who found ourselves trapped in the revolving door of our nation’s correctional system. But, over 12 years of incarceration, Mr. Carter never gave up. Instead, he adapted a natural curiosity about cooking to a less-than-ideal environment. Whereas free-world pizza is as simple as some mozzarella, dough and tomato sauce, those simple ingredients can prove elusive in a cell block. A penitentiary pizza, a creation borne of ramen noodles, BBQ sauce, and crushed up Cheez-Its, isn’t as bad as it might sound, which reminds me, I’m hungry. And Down North Pizza, which hires mostly ex-convicts, reminds me that there’s hope. None of us are the sum total of our worst mistakes – and sometimes the solution lies in just deciding not to be the problem anymore.
Dan Grote is an incarcerated writer who has turned decades of poor choices and bad decisions into a mildly respectable pile of published poetry and prose, including his two latest poetry collections, We Are All Doing Time (Iniquity Press/Vendetta Books, 2023), and Read This When I’m Gone (Aji Press, 2025). They are available from major online retailers.
The views expressed are those of the author and not necessarily those of American Baptist Home Mission Societies.
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