AMRIT DHIR: I'm Amrit
Dhir, and it's my pleasure
to introduce Emily Baxter,
who is the director of We Are
All Criminals and a current
fellow at the University
of Minnesota Law School's
Robina Institute of Criminal
Law and Criminal Justice.
So I'm going to speak
for just a few minutes.
But Emily asked me not
to speak to specifically
about what WAAC does-- WAAC
is, I think, the best acronym--
because she'll be speaking about
that for most of the next 40
minutes or so.
So I want to take
just 90 seconds
and tell you a little bit about
why this movement motivates me,
and why I'm really glad that
Emily has come and accepted
our offer to come
speak at Google.
So there are at least two broad
reasons that I can point to.
The first is that I am,
like probably many of us,
a serial criminal offender.
Yeah.
That was a woohoo for
anyone who couldn't hear it.
Just yesterday, for
example, while taking
Emily on a brief walking tour
of San Francisco, I jaywalked.
The fact that we can
commit crimes and have
zero implications
for it, or close
to zero consequences for
it, is more than just
being crafty at
committing these crimes.
It's about, for example,
the neighborhood you live in
or the social stratum that you
happen to have been born in.
And that is unfair.
The second reason is related.
Before joining Google,
I went to law school.
And although I knew about two
weeks into Civil Procedure
that I shouldn't
be a lawyer, there
was one class-- I know there are
some lawyers in the room, which
I'm glad to see-- there was one
class that really motivated me
and I know motivated a
lot of other classmates.
And motivated, I should
say actually infuriated me.
And that was Criminal Law.
You learn a lot in that class.
And one of the things
that I took away
was that our criminal
justice system
has become a lot about
retribution in some ways
more than rehabilitation.
And in many ways,
I would argue more
about punishment
and incarceration
than deterrence and protection.
Yet I've seen encouraging
signs in the past couple years
and I would say in the
past couple months as well.
And I think that we may
be in for a Watershed
moment on this issue.
From national media, to
casual conversations,
to John Oliver's
repeated brilliance,
there appears to be increased
attention, increased empathy
in the public dialogue
on incarceration,
criminal records,
reintegration, and reform.
And if that's right-- I
should actually caveat.
And this may actually go
against my prediction.
But I also think that
we're in a Watershed moment
for bidets in bathrooms,
which is a very Google point.
So I could be wrong
about either one or both.
But if that's right,
I think Emily Baxter
and we all criminals
will have been
an important part of that
movement and that awakening.
So please join me in
welcoming Emily Baxter.
EMILY BAXTER: Thank you so
much for joining us today.
Several years ago, I
was working at a legal--
is that some feedback?
OK.
Several years ago, I was
working at a legal advocacy
organization's
expungement clinic,
monthly workshops held in the
basement of a government center
in small, windowless rooms.
I'm sure the sun
had long since set
by the time our final
participant walked in.
Anthony came in and sat
across the table from me.
And pulled from his
back pocket a copy
of his criminal record, a
printout he had received
from a terminal upstairs.
I opened it up and
was thankful to find
that it was just a theft,
and a minor one at that.
I let out a short
laugh of relief.
Even if the court didn't
expunge the matter,
I said, it's not like
your life is over.
And with that,
Anthony began to cry.
He told me that
earlier that day,
he had considered
taking his own life.
You see, for me, it
was just a theft.
But for Anthony,
it was a lost job.
It was missed housing payments.
It was skipped meals.
It was door after door
slammed in his face.
It was the loss of respect
from his friends and family,
the loss of a sense of
self, and the loss of hope.
Around this same
time, I had been
driving all around the
state of Minnesota,
meeting with employers
and landlords, legislators
and licensing
boards, asking them
to create the capacity
for second chances
for individuals with
criminal records.
Time and again, I heard,
you can't trust a con.
Once a criminal,
always a criminal.
As I looked at Anthony,
these words came back to me.
And I thought, how
many times had I
taken something
that wasn't mine?
Sure, I considered my
own criminality before.
But not like this.
I hadn't honestly
thought about what
life would be like in the
shadow of that criminal record,
under the stifling stigma
of having been caught.
What would life be like for
me if I didn't have the luxury
to forget?
For the past three years,
I've been traveling all
across the US asking
people like me,
the 75% of us that haven't
been caught-- those of us
with criminal histories but no
record-- that very question.
What if you had the
luxury to forget?
Today, I want to share with
you some of those stories.
Some will be petty,
some quite serious.
Some happened recently,
others decades ago.
I hope that through
this, I provide for you
another way of looking at
the true and disparate impact
of our criminal and
juvenile justice
systems on poor communities,
communities of color,
and American Indians
throughout the US.
But first, let's make sure
we're all on the same page.
This is a graph taken
from data from the Bureau
of Justice Statistics.
And it shows, as you can see,
the US State and Federal prison
population between
1925 and 2013.
Now barring for some
general population growth,
you can see that
the number of people
we put behind bars in
the US remained fairly
steady until about the 1970s.
More than four
decades ago, we began
this, the deliberate
and regrettable march
toward caging more
than 1.5 million people
across the United States.
Four decades of wars
on drugs, and poverty,
and mental illness,
three strikes policies,
mandatory minimums,
private prisons,
and concentrated policing
in minority communities
are just some of the policies
and practices that have led us
to this mass disaster.
What's doubly
concerning, I think,
is that even once people
are no longer locked up,
they find themselves
locked out--
locked out of jobs, employment
opportunities, housing,
and countless other ways to
move on and move up in life.
Now before I get into those
collateral consequences
or the everlasting impact
of a criminal record
upon one's life, let's
turn back to the graph.
As I said, this shows the
US State and Federal prison
population.
But just as importantly
is what it doesn't show.
For example, it doesn't
show the millions
of people across the United
States who are in county jails.
It doesn't show those who
are in immigration holds,
mental health holds, or the
kids in juvenile detention.
They are not shown
here on this graph.
It doesn't show the
millions of people
who are on probation or parole,
their liberties curtailed
under the thumb of the
criminal justice system,
yet not spending
nights behind bars.
They are not shown
here on this graph.
It doesn't show the estimated
65 to 100 million people
in the United States who
have a criminal record, who
carry that legacy
of the interaction
with the criminal
justice system.
They are not shown
here on this graph.
And just as
importantly, it doesn't
show the nearly three
million sons and daughters,
the countless brothers and
sisters, mothers and fathers,
spouses and partners, and
greater community members who
can all be profoundly
impacted when
someone is taken out of the home
and then not allowed back in.
They are not shown
here on this graph.
And so what initially appears
to be a tsunami of humanity
ready to crash upon
our shores is really
just a drop in the
greater ocean of a crisis.
This comes at no small cost.
The United States spends
approximately $80 billion
a year locking people up.
And that doesn't
even capture it all.
There's a hidden cost, that
which communities spend
to house, train, counsel,
educate, treat and employ,
and otherwise
transition individuals
who are leaving prison or jail.
And that is a burden that
falls disproportionately
upon poor communities
and communities of color.
For example, across
the US, there
are more than 12 million
arrests each year.
80% of those individuals
who are arrested
are eligible for public defense.
In some jurisdictions,
that means that you
make less than $3,000 a year.
Can you fathom that?
Not can you fathom that
that poverty exists.
I think we're all
bright enough for that.
Can you personally fathom
living on $3,000 a year?
That is a staggering
level of poverty.
Likewise, communities of
color are disproportionately
impacted.
For example, the
lifetime likelihood
of imprisonment for black
man is one in three.
One in three.
That shouldn't sit
well with any of us.
Meanwhile, white
women such as myself
benefit from a far greater
cushion of one in 111.
Now that is not to say
that white women have not
committed crimes.
But that's not who you
see, proportionately
speaking, within our
criminal justice system.
Likewise, the
disparities start early.
For kids, for example, some
of the highest crime rates
come from affluent teens.
And yet again, that's not who
you see in our juvenile justice
system.
And as a note--
for the children,
for the youth, for the
young adults who do cycle
through our juvenile
justice system,
understand that that record
is no longer just tangible.
It's no longer something that
you can put through a shredder
or actually destroy upon
completion of that interaction.
This Scarlet Letter is now
stamped upon the ether.
And it is something that
no amount of scrubbing
can come clean.
Out of the juvenile world
and back into the adult.
According to the National
Employment Law Project--
great people located right
here in your own backyard--
say that one in four
individuals in the US
has a criminal record.
According to the Bureau
of Justice Statistics,
that number may be
closer to one in three.
And those waters
just keep rising.
Well how do records
affect people?
Let's break it down.
These are just a few.
For example, employment.
According to the Society for
Human Resources Management,
somewhere between 87%
and 92% of employers
conduct criminal history
checks on individuals
who are seeking to work at
that place of employment.
Many of those result
in disqualifications
if there is any mar on
one's record, regardless
of the recency of offense, or
the severity of the offense,
or the relevance of the
offense to the job at hand.
Safe and affordable
housing can be
impacted by the presence
of a criminal record.
That's for both
public and private,
which despite federal
efforts on the public end
to make it more
accessible, there
has been great resistance
among local housing authorities
to follow through.
Licensure.
Everything from practicing
law to emptying a bedpan
can be impacted by the
presence of a criminal record.
The ability to receive
government assistance
or benefits.
So if there's no
other way, lawful way,
of putting food in your belly
or a roof over your head,
we've cut that off as well.
Education.
Let's break this one down.
The Common Application
Form, the form
that's used by more than 500
colleges and universities
nationwide to determine
the makeup of next year's
new admissions, it
asks the question,
have you ever been
convicted or adjudicated
delinquent of an offense?
Yes or no?
Can you imagine your
ability to access education
limited to a checked box?
Yes or no?
And while some schools
may say that that
is just one variable in
a much larger algorithm,
make no mistake
the chilling effect
that that question has on
individuals with records.
Because unlike employment,
here it's $20, $30, $50, $60.
You have to pay to be denied.
You have to pay just to be told
that you're not a good fit.
This at a time when there is
no social science research that
shows any bearing of
past criminal activity
on future campus safety.
And at a time when
countless research shows
us that access to
education can be
one of the greatest determining
factors in a reduced recidivism
rate.
We should be pushing kids
into school at a time
when we're locking them out.
Immigration-- the ability
both to stay in the US
and to petition
family to join can
be impacted by the presence
of a criminal record.
The ability to travel.
When I was working at the
Council on Crime and Justice,
a nonprofit in Minnesota, we had
a woman come into the office.
Several years before, she had
been a member of the Red Hat
Society.
For those of you who don't
know, the Red Hat Society
is something of a social group,
a membership organization
across the US,
comprised primarily
of women over the age of 55.
It's a social group.
They do lunches and
brunches together.
They have book
clubs and debates.
They volunteer together.
They go to the theater together.
And every now and then,
they charter a bus
and go to Canada together.
That's what this particular
chapter had done.
They got up to the border
and patrol came on and said,
I need to run
everyone's background.
The women all
dutifully handed over
their IDs, thinking
nothing of it.
Some time later,
patrol came back on.
Walking down the aisle,
he said, you shall pass.
You shall pass.
You shall pass.
You shall not.
You see, three decades
ago, this woman
had been accused of an offense.
She was never charged
much less convicted.
But that arrest was enough to
bar her entry into the country.
Her sisterhood
said, see you later.
And they dropped her
off at a gas station.
Did I mention that she's
in a mobility chair?
So here's this woman, wearing
her red hat and purple jacket,
as they all do in this society,
and in her mobility chair.
At a payphone, calling back
home to have money wired up so
she can return.
And she said that
wasn't the worst part.
I mean, that sounds
pretty miserable.
She said the worst part
was as the bus was leaving,
one of her sisters put
down a window and said,
I thought I knew who you were.
As if what had allegedly
occurred more than 30 years ago
was the full sum of
this woman's character.
Not those lunches, not those
brunches, not those book clubs,
not those debates, not
the countless times
that they had volunteered
together or gone to theater
together, not even
the 4.5 hours it
took to take that
bus up to the border.
None of that mattered.
Suddenly she was reduced
to a single moment in time.
And as preposterous
as that sounds-- and I
think it sounds
pretty ridiculous--
consider how often we do that.
How often we think we
know who someone is,
how often a single moment
in time, a criminal record,
or something found
through a Google search,
can eclipse every other
aspect of that person.
Voting-- the ability to
partake in the civic process
is also impacted in many
states across the nation
by the presence of
a criminal record.
So it's nearly every
aspect of who we are
and how we are from
personal to professional,
from psychological to social.
How we exist in the world
is confined and defined
by our criminal histories.
But not for everyone.
In fact, just for a few of us.
Just for one in
four of us, right?
What about the other 75%?
Those of us who have committed
crimes but not been caught.
I wanted to know if
anybody would join me
in this little experiment of
considering what life would be
like had we been burdened with
a constant reminder of what
we had once done.
So I drew up a flyer that
said, we are all criminals.
What if you had the
luxury to forget?
And I left my
contact information.
I sent it out to our
social service network
when I was working
at the nonprofit.
But I asked our
network not to respond.
I didn't want to hear from
people that I already knew.
Instead, I asked them to
forward it on to their friends,
to their coffee clubs,
and church groups,
and neighborhood orgs.
To my unending surprise, the
phone actually started to ring.
So I bought a camera
and a recorder.
I hopped in my hatchback, and
I drove all across the state.
And now all across
the United States,
interviewing people in
bars and in cars, in diners
and on boats, anywhere
where somebody
might feel comfortable
enough to disclose to me
something that
they have otherwise
had the luxury to forget.
I then took pictures of the
participants, or mug shots,
if you will.
In a way that I hope
relays an individuality,
and a personality, and
perhaps even a little humanity
without, of course, identity.
And you can find the first
80 of the more than 250
of those interviews
on the website
at weareallcriminals.org.
If you go on the site-- and I
would encourage you to do sp--
you'll note that if
you tap a photo once,
you'll see how the person
is introduced in the world--
as a lawyer or a doctor, as a
legislator or a peace officer.
But then you will see after that
how they would be introduced
had they been caught-- assault,
sale of controlled substances,
theft.
If you click twice,
you'll go into the story.
And here you will
find a wide range
in the severity of
offenses, from quite serious
like aggravated robbery,
to relatively innocuous.
Open bottle that was
carrying from one house
party to the next.
Petty theft that was failure
to return a library book.
That is an offense, by the way.
The next one down
was public urination.
This gentleman
now has a contract
to work with the
Department of Defense,
some of the highest security
clearance in the nation.
Had he been caught, he
would find difficulty
getting a job at a gas station.
I know, because
many of my clients
with very similar records
faced that refusal.
You'll also find a wide
range in the responses
to the recollection of
past transgressions.
For example, this
gentleman, when
recalling a time that he had
taken his uncle's hunting
rifle out to
college with him, he
said that one drunken
shot went right
through the locking
mechanism of a double
posted parking meter, letting
loose $40 worth of quarters.
He calls it his $40
shot, by the way.
And he laughed throughout
the entire interview.
Other people wept
throughout theirs.
Like this woman
who recalled a time
that she would pad her tips
with bills from the till.
She was working as
a barista and felt
that she was under appreciated.
As she told me this, tears of
shame streamed down her face.
She said, I can't imagine
where I would be now
had I been caught then.
Many people recognize
that crime was
an event in their life course,
not a static characteristic
of who they are.
And some stories were
truly heartbreaking.
At least for me they are.
You can read the full
story, for example,
of the gentleman for whom I
took this photograph online.
But I can give you the
abridged version now.
When he was just 15, his family
moved to a rougher neighborhood
than they had been in before.
And the neighborhood before
it was already rough enough.
He said the first few
weeks, he was mugged
and beaten several times.
But after a while,
he noticed that when
he hung around a certain group
of guys, the beating stopped.
So he did what perhaps many
a logical person would do,
and he joined the gang.
Now that didn't come for free.
And the price was exacted
one regrettable Saturday
day when he was told that if
he didn't pick up a lead pipe
and hit a child that
looked a lot like him,
a member of a rival
gang, that he himself
would be the one beaten.
He made the decision
he said that he
has regretted every day since.
In fact now, even
decades later, he
says he wakes up at
least once a month
in the middle of the
night, screaming, thinking
that it's all happening again.
He picked up that pipe
and he hit that child.
Had he been caught,
he would've been
charged with first
degree assault
for the benefit of a gang.
He would have been certified to
stand trial as an adult, where
he would have been convicted.
Once convicted, he would
have entered the system,
eventually finding himself
in prison then out of prison,
in prison out of prison,
in prison out of prison--
that cycle that
happens to millions
of people across the US.
He wasn't caught.
He graduated from high school.
He got a scholarship
to go to college,
where he said that for the
first time in his life,
he was able to read
an entire paragraph.
He could complete
a math problem,
because for the first time, he
wasn't constantly checking over
his shoulder to see
what was coming next.
He could concentrate.
He was safe.
His grades skyrocketed.
He graduated undergrad,
went on to graduate school,
and now has a Ph.D.
in biophysics.
Am I saying that that would be
impossible had he been caught?
No.
But let's break it down.
He wouldn't have
graduated on time.
He likely wouldn't have
gotten that scholarship.
Applying at that
school, he would
have had to check that
box saying that he had
been convicted of an offense.
And chances are, he would
be told that he's not
a very good character fit.
Even if he had passed all of
those barriers, once in school,
trying to find jobs
or internships,
after school, finding more
employment and promotions,
and any of the
other opportunities
that he's had in
life all likely would
have been met with
that question--
have you ever been
convicted of an offense?
Yes or no?
And he would have answered yes.
Now by no means am I suggesting
that we should somehow
forget the harm that
occurs across the US,
that we should somehow pretend
that people aren't victimized.
They absolutely are.
What I'm asking is that
when we construct responses
to that harm, when we
construct those consequences,
that they be
reasonable, that they
be rational, that
they be proportionate,
that they be merciful.
And above all else, that there
be an end to that punishment.
Because without hope,
what does one have?
Time and again, I
heard from people
that said that they engaged
in criminal activity
so that they could
feel like they
were part of a social circle.
Like this gentleman who
donated some of his FAFSA funds
to help finance a drug
ring or this woman
who sold weed to frat
bros and football players
so that she could get a hey,
what's up, in the hallway.
She said she was sick
of feeling invisible.
And then there are some
that just can't quite
get their heads around
where they would be now
had they been caught then.
Like the woman for whom
I took this photograph.
When she was 16
years old, she said
she was a bit of a
nerd, a chemistry buff.
One bored July day, she and
some of her nerd friends
decided that they would make
their own homemade napalm,
which you can do with just a few
common household ingredients,
by the way.
They put this in an
apple cider glass jar,
let it sit overnight,
and then took it out
to a state park where they
found the small, ideal, enclosed
space upon which they
could test their substance.
They doused the inside
of the porta potty
with this highly
flammable, viscous gel.
They lit a tennis ball
on, fire lobbed it in,
and watched it blow.
They then ran back to
their cars and drove
the speed limit the entire
way home, terrified over what
had just happened.
The day that I
interviewed her, she
had been keeping a
three-month-old heart alive
with her index finger,
beating it for the baby.
She's a pediatrician.
In her state and in
many others, that
would have been an impossibility
had she been caught.
She would have faced
a lifetime barrier
to working with vulnerable
individuals, most
definitely youth.
It gives you pause,
doesn't it-- or at least I
think it should-- when you
consider all of the waste
across the US, all of
those foreclosed futures
before brains are
even fully developed.
And then there are some stories
that I heard that I honestly
can't believe we're still
talking about in 2015-- not
every state, but--
this woman told me
about a time a few years ago.
Her husband had been diagnosed
with a form of cancer that was,
it was debilitating,
as well as terminal.
She said that in the last
few months of his life,
his body was so
crippled with pain
that he couldn't pick up a
pencil or shampoo his own hair.
This man who had been an active
marine just the year before,
ostensibly at the peak of
his physical career, now
couldn't even bathe himself.
She said the only
thing that could
assuage that pain was pot.
Now she had asthma so
he couldn't smoke it.
So instead, she put the pot
in the butter and the butter
in the brownies.
And together, they would eat it.
She said that when they
did, for just a few moments,
he could relax his hand
enough to hold hers.
He died.
Her life stopped.
She said that she
doesn't remember
what she did with the pot.
Maybe she used it.
She doesn't think so.
Maybe her friends did.
That's more likely, she said.
Maybe she threw it away.
It didn't matter.
The point was her
husband had just died.
She said, is that something
you think you can use?
And I told her about a
phone call I had received.
There was a woman who, a few
years before, had been living
with her only son, a
man in his mid-40's
when he was diagnosed
with a particularly
aggressive and terminal
form of cancer.
In the last few
months of his life,
the only thing that could
assuage his pain was pot.
Now she didn't have asthma,
so he straight up smoked it.
And when he did, she said, it's
like her baby was back with her
again.
He died.
Her life stopped.
She said she doesn't remember.
She said that she
didn't throw his work
boots from the back
door or his toothbrush
from the bathroom sink.
And she didn't toss
the baggies of pot
that were in the freezer.
A few months went by and
police executed a warrant
on her home, a search warrant.
There'd been accusations that
she was warehousing drugs.
They tore apart her place
and found the marijuana
in the freezer.
She was charged and convicted
with a felony possession
of controlled substances.
She was living in
public housing, which
means one strike, no
fault, and you're out.
This woman is 72 years old.
She has no prior
criminal record and she's
living on the streets.
We talked about the cost.
And we talked about
the hidden cost.
This is the human cost.
We Are All Criminals seeks
to remind viewers and readers
that while we have all done
something that we're not proud
of, each and every one of
us, we're also all human.
And some of us may be in
need of a second chance.
But make no mistake.
This is also a commentary
on the disparate impact
of our nation's policies,
policing, and prosecution.
Many-- not all-- but
many of the participants
have benefited from belonging
to a race and class that
is not overrepresented in
our criminal justice system.
And some people have been
pretty straight up about that.
Others are still
trying to figure out
what it means to be a criminal,
like the gentleman for whom
I took this photograph.
Remember I said I
sent the flyer out
and the flyer was forwarded on?
By the time it got to this
man, it was maybe five times
removed, which meant
that he had no context
for the conversation,
much less the project.
He said that when he got that
flyer, he was pissed off.
He couldn't believe that
some punk in the city
was calling him a
criminal just because he
was a member of the human race.
He said that for three weeks,
he would pick up his phone
and dial all but my
last digit, wanting
to call me up and ream me out.
When he finally did
punch that last number,
it was not to complain,
but to participate.
You see, he recalled
that he used to run drugs
across Lake Superior.
How do you forget
something like that?
You forget something
like that when
you think of drug
trafficking as something
that happens between strangers
in darkened alleyways,
not something that happens
between college friends.
You see, his freshman year,
he had left his home town,
went across the lake and went
to a small private school.
His sophomore year,
he transferred back
to his hometown and
moved in with some
of his old high school
friends, who it turns out
were no longer
just smoking dope.
Now they were selling it.
And he was the ideal conduit
to the untapped market
across those stormy
waters, because he knew who
the legitimate smokers were.
He knew who the
potential narcs were.
So he said, they
trained me in on phones.
I would take the drugs.
I would often take the money.
But really, do you think
that I did anything
that would rise to the
level of something criminal,
he asked me?
Right?
Yeah.
Yeah, I do, in fact.
State.
Federal.
Not just criminal.
Felonious.
And at that, he
began to fall apart.
He said, OK wait a minute.
So had I been caught, I
wouldn't have graduated college.
If I wouldn't have
graduated college,
I wouldn't have gotten
that first internship
where I met my wife.
If I wouldn't have
met my wife, I
wouldn't now have my two sons.
OK.
Let's say that by some
cosmic confluence,
I did still meet my wife.
I still did have my two sons.
What kind of father
would I be, he asked me.
For example, every
year he fills out
an application to volunteer with
his son's hockey league teams.
And every year, it
asks the question,
have you ever been convicted
of-- and then lists
10 offenses.
And every year, he blithely
checks no, no, no, no, no, no,
no.
He said if instead
they were to ask,
have you ever committed
any of the following,
he doesn't know how
he would answer.
And had he been caught, he
doesn't know what he would do.
He said, I would
have three options.
Number one, I could just lie.
I could say no.
This is a man who nearly
got an ulcer from a flyer.
Dude is not about to lie.
If somebody were to
Google him and find out
that he had a
criminal record, he
wouldn't be able
to deal with it.
So that was off the table.
Number two, he said, I
could say yes, will explain.
This man is a business owner.
And for the past
10 years, any time
that question was answered
in the affirmative,
he would trash the app.
He said he didn't want
to work with a criminal.
Even if he did explain, he
said he knows how parents are.
He understands that the stigma
wouldn't just stick with him,
but would run down
to his sons as well.
And he wouldn't do
anything to harm them.
So that was off the table.
He would only have one option
left-- option number three.
He could just not respond.
He could just take himself out.
I can't tell you
how many people I've
worked with that have just
stopped responding, because you
can only get that door
slammed in your face
so many times before
you say, enough.
Now by no means am I
saying that individuals
with criminal records
can't be amazing fathers.
They absolutely can.
Mothers, sisters,
mentors, and leaders.
What I am saying is that
for the 75% of us who do not
have a criminal record,
we're constructing barriers
to keep out the 25% who do.
And oftentimes, we don't
even realize we're doing it.
So here's what I hope.
I hope that you see a bit
of yourself in the photos
and in the stories.
I hope that in that reflection,
you take note of the context
that you've allowed yourself.
I was young.
I was drunk.
I was stupid.
I was in a bad relationship.
I gave it back anyway.
No one got hurt.
It wasn't my idea.
Whatever that
context is, recognize
that it may have existed for
someone who was caught as well.
Now it may not be an excuse,
but it is an opportunity
to recognize a common humanity.
I hope that you
recognize the privilege
that you may have
experienced, and appreciate
that not everyone has benefited
from that same privilege.
I hope that you reflect upon
how very patently different
your own life could have
been had you been caught,
and consider those
foreclosed futures
of all of those who have been.
Finally, I hope that it
inspires you to take action.
There are many ways, countless
ways that you can get involved.
Here at Google, you can
adopt fair hiring practices.
And demand as much from your
contractors and vendors.
The contractors and vendors
oftentimes say that they must
bend to the will of their
clients and cannot adopt fair
hiring practices.
However, if the client demands
it, that's a different story.
But more than that,
more than just passively
accepting people with
criminal records,
you have the opportunity
to be leaders
in this field-- leaders in
the field of second chances
by actively partnering
with organizations
that work with individuals who
are coming out of the system.
Externally, Google has become
the place that many of us
turn to first when we want
to know more about somebody.
I would encourage
you to consider
what that means for individuals
who have criminal records.
And I would ask that
you think creatively
about a way in which
you can help create
the space or the ability
for people to reclaim
their narratives online.
So that the only information,
or the first information
that comes up about somebody
isn't something that is perhaps
outdated, holds no relevance,
and oftentimes is incorrect.
But more than that, there are
firms that people with means
can pay tens or hundreds
of thousands of dollars
to to help them recreate
their narrative online,
to help them reclaim
their stories.
But for the vast
majority of people
who are impacted by our criminal
and juvenile justice systems,
that's not a possibility.
I would ask that you
think about what Google
can do to help solve
that, because this isn't
going to happen on its own.
Now here's the good news--
we're not alone in this.
Across the US, there's a sea
change in criminal justice.
Political leaders from across
the spectrum-- faith leaders,
business leaders, even Sesame
Street-- is getting involved,
is weighing in, standing
up and saying, enough.
But without a
radical reimagining
of our criminal and
juvenile justice systems,
that can just be a
Band-Aid on cancer.
I'd argue that the first
step in that reimagining
is challenging the narrative of
clean versus criminal, of good
versus bad, of us versus them.
And so I'd ask
that you start now
to think about what
your own story would be,
to think about what you've
had the luxury to forget,
to consider what your
chalkboard would say.
What if a Google search
on you didn't pull up
your carefully curated Facebook
pics, or your LinkedIn profile
page, or your marathon
results, or your charity drive?
What if instead it
pulled up your mug shot?
How different would
life be for you?
I think that once you
can truly appreciate
that we are all criminals, I
think then you can appreciate
that we're all human.
And some of us, perhaps
one in four of us,
may be in need of
a second chance.
We Are All Criminals is a
call for reason, and equity,
and mercy, and acknowledged
ownership in the problem as
well as the solution.
So that soon when Anthony
opens that sheet of paper,
the page that's used to
define his character,
he finds not thief, but father,
caregiver, nurse, speaker
of six languages,
survivor of genocide,
volunteer coach,
and avid reader.
A man not defined by his worst
moment, but by his true worth.
With the luxury to forget and
the opportunity to be forgiven,
a man not tethered to his
past, but fully able to
live in the present and
to dream of a future.
Thank you.
