Millions of Americans have a criminal record – a stigma that can follow them for the rest of their lives.
By Shamecca Brown-Granite State News Collaborative
“Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.” – Fannie Lou Hamer
In 2024, Donald Trump was convicted of 34 felony counts in a New York court. He has denied wrongdoing and is appealing the conviction. Despite the convictions, he was elected to serve as president of the United States for a second time.
Meanwhile, I have committed one felony, and that one conviction has followed me into job interviews, housing applications, assistance programs – even Social Security decisions. It has shown up before I even had the chance to explain who I am today.
I am not writing this to debate politics. I am writing this to talk about something deeper: freedom, and who truly gets to experience it.
I am far from the only person living with this burden. Across the United States, millions of Americans carry felony convictions that shape their opportunities long after their sentences end.
Researchers estimate that over 20 million people in the U.S. have a felony conviction on their record, and that number continues to grow as criminal justice practices expand. These individuals cannot easily pursue many jobs, secure housing or access programs, even when they’re qualified and trying to contribute.
When you include all types of criminal histories, including misdemeanors and arrest records, tens of millions more experience barriers in employment, housing and life opportunities. In some estimates, one in three American adults has a criminal record of some kind, and this stigma can follow people for the rest of their lives.
These are not just abstract numbers. These are neighbors. These are family members. These are people trying to rebuild. And these are people being told that one moment, one conviction, defines their worth forever. People like me.
I understand that not all crimes are the same. There are serious and violent offenses that deserve strong accountability, especially crimes against children or crimes that endanger others. But there must be space in our system for nuance. For context. For growth.
When I applied for Social Security assistance after the death of my husband, I was not asking for luxury. I was asking for support for my children. For stability while grieving. For breathing room.
Instead, I was reminded of my felony. There was no conversation about rehabilitation. No room for character references. No consideration of the life I’ve built since. Just a record.
Yet we are told that in America, people deserve second chances. If second chances are real, they cannot only apply to the powerful. If accountability matters, it must matter across the board.
If redemption is possible, it must be possible for everyone, not just those with wealth, influence, or access to elite legal teams.
The truth is, access to strong legal defense changes outcomes. Money changes outcomes. Power changes outcomes. And for many of us, we never stood on equal ground to begin with.
I am not pretending to be perfect. But I am a mother. A worker. An advocate. A woman rebuilding her life. A widow trying to hold it together for her children. My past should not erase my present.
I already wrote about my felony publicly. I told that story in my own words – not because I was forced to or because someone exposed me. But because I refuse to live in fear of a public record defining me.
I am not ashamed to say I made mistakes. But I am also not going to let a document, a docket number, or a headline tell my story for me. Who I am is more than ink on public paper – I am my growth, my motherhood, my advocacy, my grief, my rebuilding, my resilience.
If we can trust a man with 34 felony convictions to lead a nation, surely we can trust mothers with one non-violent felony to receive assistance, apply for jobs, and provide for their children. This is not about politics. It’s about consistency and humanity. It’s about whether redemption is a slogan or a standard.
Because if nobody is free until everybody is free, then selective freedom isn’t freedom at all. And it shouldn’t take the highest office in the land to prove that one conviction doesn’t define a life. We all deserve that chance.
Shamecca Brown is a New Hampshire-based columnist who is family-oriented and passionate about serving underserved communities. These articles are being shared by partners in the Granite State News Collaborative. For more information, visit collaborativenh.org.