Like Diamonds and Herpes, Felonies are Forever
My plea bargain took more than my civil rights
When the state of Illinois offered me a plea bargain that would brand me a felon forever, I accepted. Why would anyone say they were guilty of something they hadn’t done?
The murder charge that followed my miscarriage had drained me of my money and my faith in the system. Accepting the plea bargain was the only way to guarantee that I would be free to care for my child who was waiting for me.
Jail cells and courtrooms had already stripped me of my liberty and my dignity. So, when my civil rights were also ripped away, I barely felt the additional sting.
It was when I tried to return to work that I realized I had also surrendered my human value.
The company that had promised to hold my job while I sorted out my legal misunderstanding (a pledge I had delivered to my probation officer as proof of my merit), now said, as a felon, I was no longer welcome—wrongful conviction or not.
My cubicle had been cleaned out. My toddler’s artwork, Employee of the Quarter certificate, and some framed photos were confiscated like evidence against the person I claimed to be. I was told to pursue their legal department if I wanted my things back.
Silenced by the fear of another legal onslaught, I gave up my possessions and slunk away — still feeling like a criminal who deserved nothing.
My plea bargain limited my career options forever.
My husband said he was willing to carry the financial burden. (Me. I was the financial burden.) But it wasn’t about the money.
It was about giving up the dreams I’d had since I walked across a stage in my cap and gown.
From that day on, every job application I filled out would cause me to break out in a cold sweat when I got to that question: Have you ever been convicted of a felony? And the opportunity would end the moment I checked that box.
When I was asked to chaperone my son’s field trip, I froze.
My felony was now affecting not only me. My children were receiving sideways glances of judgment from teachers and parents.
I could not pass out classroom cupcakes or ride along on museum trips.
You might think: Choosy moms choose expungement.
Not in my state. Erasing or sealing a criminal record are not options for people who accepted a guilty plea.
Acceptance of a plea bargain, no matter the outcome or the reasons — is an automatic profession of guilt.
Once my children got old enough, they wanted to know why I never voted. After all, it was our right. Our privilege. Wasn’t it?
With veiled answers, I discredited my voice while my children listened: I didn’t keep up with politics; I wouldn’t even know who to vote for.
I was not only a burden on my family; I had become a burden on democracy.
But that was just the tip of the bureaucratic iceberg.
Depending on the state, my felony conviction caused restrictions on travel, professional licenses, student loans, and even government assistance including food stamps — regardless of the lifelong employment discrimination that it created.
For more than two decades, I have bowed to institutional denigration.
Although I knew that silence sounded a lot like consent, I felt helpless to make a change.
When I heard about Brittany Watts (the Ohio woman who, like me, was charged with a felony after a miscarriage at home) I sat down and cried. I cried because of the unresolved pain and anger I still carried. I cried because it was happening again.
And I cried for my own daughter who has to fight for the autonomy of her own body — who could potentially lose other constitutional and human rights.
I’ve applied for restoration of my civil rights.
It turns out, the procedure varies by state. Mine tends to be one of the more difficult for felons to regain their rights, but I won’t give up.
I was in my twenties when I accepted the plea bargain and didn’t grasp the significance of what I was giving up. Now there’s a chance that I could vote for the first time this November alongside my children.
I will always wear the Scarlet “F,” but hopefully I will have shown that unless you’re in a movie theater or a monastery, silence is hardly ever a virtue.
And that a broken system shouldn’t be allowed to cripple its people.
That’s my vote, anyway.
Check out my website www.ginadobson.com as I publish my memoir and pursue a life of relevance.
