The Reality Of Reentry
Even With A Famous Case And A College Degree, Life After Prison Has Been A Rough Road For Genarlow Wilson. He’s Far From Alone.
By Genarlow Wilson As Told To Chandra Thomas Whitfield
It seemed like a fairy tale come true. Or a TV movie, one. The Black kid who many argued had been wrongly prosecuted and over sentenced by a deeply discriminatory criminal injustice system, abruptly released from a Georgia prison. The handcuffs, the shackles that had been his life for the past four years, now removed. The orange jumpsuit soon followed.
Now clean-cut, in a button-down and slacks, he stands before a sea of microphones, speaking to reporters about his hellish ordeal that was finally over, before leaning into tight hugs from his long-suffering Black mother. He embraced the no-nonsense attorney who took on the case when she didn’t have to next. Not a dry eye in the house, well this patch of concrete situated across from a menacing barbed-wire fence, as they wrap up the impromptu press conference. They load into the lawyer’s vehicle and drive away slowly.
I was that Black kid. And as I peered out of the window at the long windy highway, leading away from Al Burruss Correctional Training Center in Forsyth, Georgia I was totally naïve about what the road ahead, life, would be like for me after that day. Fast forward some 14 years later, no longer a kid, now a grown Black man with a lot of fame, but not a semblance of fortune for me to count on for my long-term survival.
Those first few hours out of prison inside my mother’s modest home, outside of Atlanta were blissful, sharing a meal with her and my young sister, hot wings and fries from our favorite spot. We were safely hidden from the horde of journalists crowding our front lawn while awaiting their next live hit. None of us seated around my mom’s beat up wooden kitchen table — me, my mom and definitely not my sweet baby sister — predicted the reality that I would face upon my release. Even with my 15 minutes of so-called fame that lasted way longer than any of us ever imagined, the reality was harsh: I was Black. Male. Convicted. A felon.
It all started with a horrible mistake that I made at the age of 17. The short version is that my friends and I, a mix of current and former high school students and recent graduates, had a wild New Year’s Eve party at a seedy motel in Douglasville, Georgia. All of us, guys and girls there that night were naïve, stupid, seeking acceptance in our own way, trying to be cool and sadly, acted out the very same stereotypes of Black youth that we’d all watched on television for as long as we could remember. We smoked weed and drank ourselves into alcoholic oblivion, telling ourselves that we were “going to bring in the new year right.” Oh, but it went so wrong. Things got out of hand as the night progressed. We engaged in activities that we weren’t old enough or mature enough to handle. I left the party early, trying to meet my mom’s curfew and to beat her home before she made it in from working the late night shift. I woke up to a call later that morning saying the police had been called to the motel and a videotape of our illegal and illicit activities, including the sexual activity, was found. Nevermind, that up to that point I had been a solid B student, homecoming king and a student-athlete potentially being scouted by big colleges and universities. That was all out of the window in an instant. We’d messed up like teenagers often do and charges, serious charges, were filed. Our lives would never be the same. One night of fun would definitely be causing us a lifetime of trouble.
One of the two girls I’d been with that night, was less than two years younger that me and under Georgia law she could not consent to the oral sex that she had engaged in with me and others. Eventually the five other guys caved in and accepted plea deals from prosecutors, but I refused, opting to take my chances at a trial. In my mind and heart, I felt that everything had been consensual. I was not a sexual predator. If anything, I was an ignorant teen unable to control the hormones surging through my body. Ultimately, I was convicted by a jury because after all, we’d foolishly recorded our actions that night. By law I had to be sentenced to 10 years in prison for aggravated child molestation, the mandatory minimum in Georgia. My body was shaking so hard when that sentence was read aloud, it felt like an out of body experience. Even some of the jurors got emotional, some cried. Deep down we all knew that my 10-year sentence would essentially be a life sentence. I’d be a convicted child molester and on the sex offender registry for life.
I had been locked up nearly a year, when an article about my case appeared in the January 2006 edition of Atlanta magazine. Instantly interest began picking up in my case. The article’s headline, written by my longtime collaborator Chandra Thomas Whitfield, read: “Why Is Genarlow Wilson In Prison?” And many people began asking that too. The question was, should I be? Let’s just say after reading more details about the case in that article, more people began to agree with me and my mother, Juanessa Bennett, that I should not be! Soon the cries for my release seemed to increase by the day. The article drew lots more media attention and before long, my story had been featured in The New York Times, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and on the BBC, CNN and ESPN to name a few.
The mounting pressure turned into a two-year battle to get me released, led by my mother and my bulldog of an attorney B.J. Bernstein of Atlanta, who took on my case at a steep, steep discount. Ultimately, Georgia Supreme Court justices deemed my sentence “cruel and unusual punishment.” I was credited with time served, about two years at that point, and was ordered for immediate release. As a result of my case, the law was later changed making sexual contact between teenagers close in age a misdemeanor in Georgia. Little did I know that when I stepped out of that facility and in front of those microphones on that mild October afternoon in 2007, the second leg of my sentence had just begun.
Don’t get me wrong, there were definitely miraculous moments and moments of unbelievable blessings. Syndicated urban radio personality Tom Joyner ended up awarding me a full scholarship to the prestigious Morehouse College (aka “Da House), the only historically Black, all-male college in the country. He kept his promise to help me after I was released. I’m forever grateful for the kindness Tom showed and the support of his foundation, because I earned a degree debt-free. Truly a gift.
It was an amazing opportunity and one for which I feel exceedingly blessed to have received, but even with a degree from one of the most acclaimed institutions of higher education in the world, (heck, the great Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and filmmaker Spike Lee and actor Samuel Jackson are alum and President Barack Obama spoke at my May 2013 commencement ceremony), but sadly even that so-called “Morehouse mystique” has not been enough to save me from the consequences of having a felony record. From the moment I walked across the graduation day stage on a rainy Sunday morning, I have been ill-equipped to provide for my then wife (we met while both students at different HBCUs) and infant daughter.
Looking back, I now see that in many ways a lot of what happened in my college days had foreshadowed the tribulations that color my post-prison time to this day. For example, when I tried as a sophomore to move off campus and into an apartment for the first time with some friends, I was confronted with that question on the housing application. You know the one that many activists are now working hard to get removed from job applications, especially for jobs in highly sensitive fields. Of course, when I would be honest and check yes, I have been convicted of a felony, I’d immediately get rejected.
Eventually, I had to resort, and reluctantly at that, to submitting a letter to the property managers from my attorney B.J, basically vouching for me as a person. Eventually we landed a rental house in the heart of the city that most would refer to as “the hood.” How many so-called “ex-cons” do you think can produce such a letter from a high-powered lawyer? My guess is very few. Again, I acknowledge that I am one of the lucky ones, but even with a college degree I struggle. Nationally it’s estimated that nearly 70 percent of all males in prison do not have a high school diploma. Their chance at making it after prison with a record is probably slim to none without very targeted help to transition back into society.
After graduation that same job application question hindered my career path for years, limiting or eliminating altogether what jobs I could get or even be considered for, including many that felt closer to my passion, which has long been mentoring, speaking and teaching. For example, with a felony record many positions in health care, at a bank, or most high security clearance positions were out of the question. As a result, my first job out of prison was a low-paying one as a detention technician at the Dekalb County Georgia Sheriff’s Office, a jail outside of Atlanta. Just the sight of that place would instantly trigger the PTSD I’d developed during my own traumatic prison experience being a teen, with no prior criminal record mind you, caged up like an animal in a high-security facility for years. I didn’t want to work there, but I had a family to support and needed the benefits. So, I did it.
From then on, with a few exceptions here and there, my career path has been one low-paying job after the other, basically positions that don’t pay enough for me to comfortably support my now three young children, who now are literally my entire world. As a man it hurts not being able to provide for your family like you want. After a while it messes with your mind and you begin to feel depressed and undeserving. As a result, I have struggled with my mental health. The financial stress of my low-paying jobs, among several other factors, undoubtedly contributed to the unfortunate demise of my marriage. Again, Genarlow Wilson, all fame and no fortune. A felony on your record is the scarlet letter that keeps on giving.
The dread that often hangs over my life creeped up again as recently as a few weeks before the pandemic began when I was asked to coach my young son’s, my mini me’s, Little League baseball team at a nearby park. I wanted so badly to be there for him and his team, but the anxiety was overwhelming knowing what would most definitely pop up in the required background check. Ultimately the season was canceled due to covid, so in a way, the pandemic kind of saved me from yet another dreadfully, embarrassing moment. It’s traumatic having to relive the mistakes of your youth over and over again. This is the reality of reentry.
I am happy to report that the felony has been removed from my record. It took me seven years, seven long years of blood, sweat and tears to officially get it off. Seeing the update in Black and white felt instantly freeing. It was a complicated process and there was no guidebook or anybody to hold my hand and lead me through it. In fact, several people actually discouraged from even bothering to try. Thank God I did not listen. “Just be grateful that you are out,” they would tell me, completely indifferent to how this would hinder my own success and that of my family. That’s easy to say when you and your loved ones aren’t affected. I was even told that there were bets on when I’d go back to prison. Yes, this is the treatment we receive as so-called reformed offenders trying to rebuild our lives.
Getting that felony off my record was so important. And I believe my success had everything to do with my own personal determination and, I believe, the grace of God, which is basically unearned favor. It took all of that for me to break free, at least to a degree, from the binds of a mistake I made as a stupid and ignorant teenager, far from the man I am today. Again, it took seven years and the Bible says seven is perfection, the number of completion. I’ll take it, but I don’t believe it should have been so hard. I can’t help but to think about the many others with felony records who likely will never have the opportunity to move past the worst mistake they’ve ever made. Never.
The reality is that reentry is a joke in this country. A person makes a mistake and they pay for that mistake by going to prison or paying in other ways. So, you do the crime, you do the time and, and only if you’re lucky you get to walk out of those prison doors like me one day. But sadly, when you do, the sentence continues. Indefinitely. Possibly forever. Nobody seems to care about your good behavior, the deep remorse you felt for your actions (I did), how you turned the corner or the spiritual awakening you experienced while locked up for umpteenth years. Many, and dare I say most people, yes, including many Bible quoting Christians, don’t want to consider that you’ve changed or even that you could change. All they see is a criminal. A screw up. A bad guy. A convicted felon. Someone to stay away from. And they do. You’re just another number in the system, state property with an assigned number.
If public safety and rehabilitation is the overall objective, it’s time to think about what we, as a society, are willing to invest into helping someone turn their lives around long-term, to help them become a better and more productive citizen after prison so as not to go back again. We need to commit to doing what has to be done to give someone a real second chance so they won’t feel the need after facing so many closed doors, to turn back to the streets or a life of crime in order to survive. Isn’t that inevitable if you never receive any real support? We need to think long and hard about what we, as a society, are willing to invest in, in terms of providing mental health services, housing, career counseling, educational opportunities and job opportunities to support those of us fighting hard every day to move past the “felon” label for good.
By definition, reentry is “the act of returning to a place, organization, or area of activity that you have left.” How can that be, when a person walks out of prison and is left to jump hurdle after hurdle usually with fewer resources than they had before they got there? It keeps them from meaningful and realistic opportunities to return to society. Successful reentry benefits everyone, except for the powers that be who’ve decided that investing resources into genuinely helping people become productive citizens is a waste of taxpayer dollars.
Reentry should be an organized, well-thought out and intricate process, much like the system that helps you get into prison. It should help flawed humans, like we all are in one way or another, gradually regain public trust and successfully integrate back into society; not just making a person pay forever for the worst mistakes they’ve ever made in their lives. We all need support, a real chance and, well, some grace.
