Résumé of a drug dealer

The last time I saw Joshua, he was leaving a courtroom in handcuffs. He had just been found guilty of trafficking deadly drugs into the northern Michigan town where I worked as a cops and courts reporter for the local paper,

Acting on a tip, the local undercover narcotics task force stopped Joshua as he got off a bus in early 2021. He had been downstate purchasing meth to sell at the higher price dealers can get in up north towns, witnesses said. Joshua denied the accusations, but the jury didn’t buy it. He was sentenced to six years in prison.

And now, here he was again, popping up in my inbox.

A while back, because such things interest me, I signed up for a mailing list that periodically reports on incarcerated people preparing to be released on parole who have marketable job skills.

Last week, Joshua’s name appeared on the list. His accompanying resume classifies him as an entry-level climber/arborist and offers an impressive list of certifications and experience, a list certain to net him a good job with a good company – if it didn't come with an “Oh, and I also served time in prison” caveat.

One of my inner voices cheers him on, telling me he’s just a guy who did something bad and who needs a chance to do something good.

Another part of me is far too cynical to be so forgiving.

Prison isn’t for people who do one little thing wrong. Minor infractions and even significant wrongdoing may lead to incarceration, but usually that means a few months in the local jail. Prison is reserved for people who can’t or won’t stop breaking the law or who commit deeply harmful crimes. Prison puts our most serious offenders in a place known for violence and where, according to my sources who have been there, it's easier to get drugs than on the streets. Prison is where a small-scale trafficker can meet big-city players and emerge more ready to do harm than when he went in.

Joshua had been to prison three times before his 2021 trial. That didn’t stop him from buying $500 worth of meth to sell to the people in my community. Now he’s getting out again, and what reason do we have to believe he won’t go right back to his old ways?

The proverbial devil on my shoulder whispers that Joshua doesn’t deserve another chance. He’s not going to change. He shouldn’t be trusted and can’t be redeemed. His shiny resume is a mask under which hides not a man but a threat.

And maybe that’s true. Maybe Joshua deserves nothing, not even mercy.

My church upbringing won’t let me sit comfortably with that thought. God, who sees my insides, knows I, too, deserve nothing, if mercy must be earned. That’s why I need Jesus. That’s why we all do.

But that’s not my point.

If I were an employer, I’d hesitate to hire Joshua. If I were a landlord, I’d be reluctant to rent an apartment to him. His record says he’s not trustworthy, and extending trust might get me burned. 

But what happens if nobody takes that chance on him?

Let’s assume Joshua is a shining example of the rehabilitation our prison system promises. Let’s say he took advantage of the truly impressive variety of programming meant to make the incarcerated come out on the other end better for their experience. He took classes on anger management and violence prevention and employment readiness. He worked in the MDOC print shop and got an associate’s degree from the local community college. He translated braille and trained service dogs and knitted blankets for kids with cancer. He learned trades: auto mechanics, carpentry, computer programming, masonry. He went to church services and wrote poetry and dabbled in art.

Let’s say he soaked it all in, learned from it, and truly wants to start fresh and be a better man. It’s possible. It happens. And I hope it’s true.

And then let’s say he goes back to his hometown and has to start his life over. He needs a place to live. He needs income. He needs a dentist, and a grocery store, and all the things anyone needs when they are trying to get settled.

He has to report his conviction on employment and rental applications. Suddenly, even employers desperate for trained workers are looking at him sideways, wondering if they can trust him. Landlords with piles of applicants write him off as an easy No.

If he’s lucky, maybe Joshua lands a job with one of the few good-hearted employers in town who hire people with criminal records. Or maybe he gets a minimum wage job alongside dozens of other felons, some with less-pure intent than Joshua’s, at the small manufacturing shop with million-dollar military contracts, a shop that would rather the public not know exactly what goes on inside its walls.

If he’s lucky, maybe Joshua gets into an apartment where the ceiling leaks and the neighbors remind him a lot of the life he left behind when he went to prison. If he’s less lucky, maybe he spends nights on the couch of an old buddy, one who wants the old Joshua back – the one who was fun and always had a little something to sell.

All the good intentions in the world won’t be enough if Joshua has to weather his storms alone. Not when the old ways come tapping on his shoulder, promising an income and people who won’t reject him.

Sure, we should give Joshua a chance because it’s the benevolent, Christian thing to do.

But giving him stability also protects us from what he could so easily become.

Go ahead, say he doesn’t deserve help. He had chances, and he blew them. If he struggles, that’s on him. I understand that feeling, especially after sitting in courtrooms for years, watching people make and break promises over and over.

But Joshua’s struggles aren’t just about him. They’re about you. And your community. And your kids.

Dangerous people don’t become less dangerous if we turn our backs on them. Keeping ourselves safe – and our community, and our kids – means moving not away from but toward those who frighten us. It means making sure they’re OK.

Because if they’re not, neither are we.

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I talk a good talk, but I don’t know more than the next guy what to do about our Joshuas. That’s why I’m deeply grateful for the organizations and individuals with the ideas and the drive to dive into the thick of our biggest problems and look for solutions. 

In every community, hundreds of people commit their lives to making other people’s lives’ better, whether those recipients deserve the help or not. It’s such a beautiful thing, and we are all deeply in their debt. If you are one of those people, thank you. You are, in the most literal sense, a life saver.