[ Jay Jordan’s criminal record barred him from job after job,
leaving him in poverty. Now he’s helping California take a
transformative step]
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‘MY EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION’: THE MAN FIGHTING TO FREE MILLIONS
FROM THEIR CRIMINAL RECORDS  
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Sam Levin
September 14, 2022
The Guardian
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_ Jay Jordan’s criminal record barred him from job after job,
leaving him in poverty. Now he’s helping California take a
transformative step _

Jay Jordan has led a successful campaign to give millions in
California the chance to clear their criminal records. , Photograph:
Courtesy of Alliance for Safety and Justice

 

When Jay Jordan was getting out of prison in 2012, he had an ambitious
plan to turn his life around. He was going to sell life insurance,
restore old cars, get a real estate license, and establish a community
barbershop.

There was one problem: his criminal record barred him from every
single industry.

Ten years later, Jordan, 37, has led a successful campaign to give
millions of California
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opportunity to clear their criminal records and be free from similar
barriers. Last month, state lawmakers passed a bill championed by
Jordan, now a criminal justice advocate, allowing for automatic
sealing of a wide range of arrest and conviction records – the most
far-reaching reform of its kind in the US, experts say.

The harsh treatment
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people with criminal records – a uniquely American phenomenon in a
country that is a global leader in incarceration
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millions of people in poverty, denying them access to jobs, housing,
education and other basic rights.

After years of incremental reforms, Jordan is helping California take
a huge leap forward – one that he hopes will be transformative for
the country.

[jordan at microphone]

Jordan hopes his efforts in California can bring change
nationally. Photograph: Courtesy of Alliance for Safety and Justice

When he learned lawmakers had passed the bill, Jordan thought of his
father, who grew up in Okmulgee, Oklahoma, as segregation was ending
in the 1960s: “He told me about finally being able to go to the
other side of town legally; it felt like he was born again, like a
weight lifted off his shoulders. That’s what I feel. So many of us
have been waiting for this day – to be free,” he said.

‘I was in a war zone’

Jordan grew up in Stockton
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California, the youngest of eight, his father a preacher and mother an
engineer. He spent a lot of time in church as a kid, handing out food
and clothes. At 11, he remembers holding his hands in the air as
officers pointed guns at him outside his church because they had
mistaken fireworks for gunshots.

In high school, he started hanging with a crowd that had minor run-ins
with the law. And at age 18, he and a group of friends attempted to
rob someone on the street so they could buy beer.

No one was hurt and nothing was taken, but Jordan was caught and
arrested. He refused to name his friends, so all the charges landed on
him, including firearm charges, because a gun was present. In 2004, at
age 19, he accepted a plea deal for seven years.

His sentencing came amid a “tough on crime” crackdown on Black
defendants in Stockton, he said: “They wanted to make an example out
of us.”

The state prison he entered was “a war zone” of melees and
violence, he said. Amid one riot, he and other Black prisoners were
sent to solitary confinement where he spent two years, unsure he’d
ever get out, he said. As he met more incarcerated people from his
community, he said, it became clear that many of them could have
avoided prison if they had just received some resources or a small
push in the right direction: “It hit me that everyone has a story,
and everyone just needed help at one time.”

So he decided he’d fill that gap upon his release: “It wasn’t
just ‘hopes and dreams’, it was an actual, well-researched plan on
how I would get out and be successful and help other folks.”

While he was incarcerated, Jordan’s siblings helped him purchase two
vending machines, placing them at their workplaces and allowing him to
build up savings.

The day of his release, he went straight to his friend’s Stockton
barbershop for a haircut and shared his plan to run his own barbershop
that would offer other community services. His friend broke the news:
he couldn’t get a cosmetology license with his felony. Within days
of his coming home, every other part of his plan unraveled.

[jordan speaks to others in ‘time done.’ t-shirts]

Nearly one in three US adults has an arrest or conviction on their
record. Photograph: Courtesy of Alliance for Safety and Justice

‘Mass criminalization’

An estimated
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million US residents, nearly one in three adults, has an arrest or
conviction on their record, including eight million in California.
Compared with Europe, where there are strong privacy laws and the
“right to be forgotten”, Americans’ records generally follow
them until they die, even for arrests without convictions: “No
country uses criminal records like the United States. It’s pervasive
in every aspect of daily life,” said Jenny Roberts, an American
University law professor.

In a country that is home
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more than 20% of the world’s prison population but just 5% of the
global population, the impact is profound: “It’s not just mass
incarceration. We have a system of mass criminalization,” Roberts
said. In addition to housing, employment and occupational licenses,
records block people from adoption, volunteering, voting and taking
care of elderly relatives.

Black Americans are disproportionately affected – more likely to
be stopped
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arrested, cited, imprisoned
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charged with felonies
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handed longer sentences
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saddled with records that further deepen inequalities
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generations.

As Jordan’s career plans collapsed, he bought more vending machines
to stay afloat and got a job via a temp agency in a grocery store
warehouse at the edge of Stockton, working alongside undocumented
residents. He said he was fired after a crate fell on his hand and he
could no longer work: “That’s post-conviction poverty: folks are
subjected to horrible working conditions and predatory industries.”

He still wanted to give back and founded a mentorship organization to
help high schoolers get into college. He met with city, police and
school leaders, who loved the idea. But the day before the program was
scheduled to launch, Jordan was told not to show up by school board
officials: his record barred him from entering the school.

So he launched the program at his father’s church instead. All 120
participants in the first 18 months successfully enrolled in college,
and the program was honored by the Red Cross.

But he still couldn’t get a job.

Jordan quietly went broke: “I funded the whole program myself. I
remember giving my literal last $100 to a kid as a graduating gift.”
He later went on to work as a field director for a congressional
campaign – his candidate won – but when that ended, he again had
no job prospects.

He moved to Los Angeles in hopes of finding work and a fresh start.
But no one would hire him – or give him housing. He started sleeping
in his car.

[jordan points as he speaks to group]

The bill ‘could fundamentally change people’s life
trajectories’, said Sandra Susan Smith of Harvard
University. Photograph: Courtesy of Alliance for Safety and Justice

‘Writing my emancipation proclamation’

Jordan remained unhoused for months in 2015, even after he got a
part-time job making $17 an hour for a faith-based group organizing
Black churches in south LA: “No one knew I was homeless.” He spent
his paychecks on his car, which still twice got repossessed, and he
would eat one ramen packet a day (the first half in the morning as
“chips” and the second half cooked for dinner). “I wasn’t
eating and was really skinny, but I kept organizing and organizing and
made a name for myself.”

Jordan worked on a “Ban the Box” campaign
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LA to restrict employers from requiring applicants to disclose their
felonies. He then worked for Californians for Safety and Justice, a
non-profit advocacy group, founded the #TimeDone campaign to fight
against barriers for people with records, and is now CEO of the
Alliance for Safety and Justice, a national reform group.

He has repeatedly pushed smaller reforms that would not benefit people
like him, with serious felonies. His new bill, Senate Bill 731, is
different.

While some states
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passed laws to seal a limited set of records, many people imprisoned
for felonies have been excluded. Under SB 731, all people with
felonies, except those on the sex offender registry, are eligible to
petition for records sealing. In addition, the bill calls for
the _automatic_ sealing of felony arrests and for felony convictions
classified as non-violent, after four years.

“Since I committed my crime, I’ve felt an obligation to give back
and make penance for what I did. I think I’ve overpaid: seven years
in prison, two strikes, $13,000 and countless ‘no’s’ and
hardships. Is this finally the end?” Jordan said.

[Jordan, his wife, their two kids and their dog]

Jordan and his family. Photograph: Courtesy of Alliance for Safety
and Justice

The reach of California’s bill would place it ahead
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the rest of the country and could have a significant impact on racial
discrimination, since narrower reforms have left Black Americans
behind, said Margaret Love, an attorney and expert on expungements
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She cautioned, however, that there were significant technical
challenges to automatic sealing and that successful implementation was
critical.

“It could fundamentally change people’s life trajectories,”
added Sandra Susan Smith, a Harvard criminal justice professor. “And
it could be a profound statement that helps contribute to a cultural
shift to move away from the stigma that has been associated with
having a criminal record for 50 years now.”

Some prosecutors and opponents of reform have suggested, without
evidence, that the mass sealing of records could endanger the public.
Police unions have alleged
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bill would put “violent criminals back on the street” and reduce
the “deterrent to commit another crime”, even though the bill
would not release anyone from incarceration and would still allow
police to access criminal records.

Jordan disagrees. “When you remove barriers and create pathways to
economic stability, that is squarely in line with public safety,” he
said. “If people aren’t stable, you’re not going to have safety.
The reason why people are still in this shit is because they ain’t
got no money! Those of us with felonies don’t get to participate
fully in the economy – it’s an economic travesty.”

Meeting so many people burdened by their records over the years has
been Jordan’s driving force, but has also taken a toll: “I learned
how to write policy so I could write my own emancipation proclamation
… It’s come to a point where I can’t sleep. I stay up at night,
trying to figure out how to save people. There’s always been this
sense of urgency. I feel like I’m holding the weight of everybody
with the scarlet letter on their chest.”

Jordan now lives with his wife and their two young boys, and they hope
to have a third child – this time, a daughter, through adoption.
First, however, he needs to expunge his record.

If the governor signs the bill, it will allow Jordan to petition to
seal his own record, which, despite his achievements as an organizer,
remains a remarkable hindrance.

_Sam Levin is a correspondent for Guardian US, based in Los
Angeles. Click here
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Sam's public key. Twitter @SamTLevin
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* Prisoners
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* Criminalization
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* American Criminal Justice System
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