This Substack is, much like its writer, on the its last legs. I never really expected that in my life after prison it would be feasible to go back to the type of corporate intel I used to do. I understood that, even people on the Right tend to look first at my conviction, assume I actually assaulted an officer, and steer clear.

But at least I can write. Or so I thought. Half a year into this endeavor and I still haven’t broken 200 subs and, with the exception of three, those are all unpaid.

I get 1,000+ of views on my pieces, but that only translates into a handful of new subscribers each time. My hope was to “build a following” before trying to monetize, but I’m apparently bad at both of those.

And writing.

So that puts me back in the position I hoped to avoid: trying to get a legit job “in the world.”

As you can imagine, that’s going not at all well. I spent all day yesterday at the Arlington Esports Arena at an ICE hiring event. Despite my “criminal” history, I still have in my background fluency in three languages, military intel, corporate intel, and a Masters in Library and Information Science. I was asked for my transcripts and … nothing else. All day.

They don’t tell you when they don’t want you. They just don’t get back to you. So I spent the day waiting and wondering and waiting before I finally realized what was happening (I’m a bit dim).

I have to tell you: rejection like that hits different when you’re 53 vice 23 or 33. Mostly it makes you feel stupid for even trying. When you’ve been around the block as much as I have, you know what a lost cause is.

But I had to hope. (Hope and I have a very rocky relationship, you see.)

So I learned my lesson: don’t be an old ex-felon and you’ll be able to find a job!

I managed to keep my home throughout this ordeal these past four years. Now, I find myself on verge of losing it. AFTER my pardon.

Failure of this magnitude at this stage is such an incredibly poignant form of suffering. When I was incarcerated, no matter how bad things got, I could always look forward to that future time when I was free. The failure was the present. The present was always the perpetual lowest point. And you can only go up from there.

But to lose my house AFTER the pardon is to fail at the very life I once looked forward to with so much hope.

This is the broken promise that is life outside of bars. No matter how much you temper your expectations, no matter how realistic you try to be about what you can accomplish after incarceration, it rarely lives up to even those low expectations.

So I can now understand why recidivism is such a problem. I see why the jails are full of old men in wheelchairs and walkers. Who in their right mind wants to be front and center as their life implodes? Better to be sequestered away in some dark smelly corner of Beaumont Low than to be here experiencing the victory of the Left over my life. That final indignity where I lose everything after having spent every other thing to make it this far. I can practically hear the high fives.

If you’ve made it this far, I kindly ask you this: if you’re ever in the position to hire someone with a record, please seriously consider it. I’m not saying by all means hire that person. I’m saying seriously consider it. Yes, there are some absolute monsters in those walls but there are just as many guys like myself who only want to get our lives back together somehow.

And someone who’d give a guy in such straights a chance like that I think is worth his weight in gold.