Twenty-three and one—that was the rule in the intake unit at El Dorado Correctional Facility, a state prison 170 miles away from Leavenworth, Kansas, the city where I grew up. You were locked down in your cell 23 hours a day, with one hour out for supervised recreation, while the staff did an assessment to determine what programs you were eligible for and where you would serve out your sentence.
I landed in that intake unit in March 2008. I was addicted to ecstasy, and I was selling cocaine. I got caught with drugs in my car and was sentenced to three years for possession. Once I detoxed from the ecstasy, my mind cleared and the reality of my situation hit me. I’d already served four years in juvenile corrections. Here I was, 18 months later, back behind bars. Was this how I wanted to spend my life?
Being on lockdown 23 hours a day gave me a lot of time to think. I paced my cell, sometimes talking out loud to myself, looking back at everything that had led me here.
Maybe it was predictable that I ended up in prison. Where I grew up, resources were few; violence, crime and drug activity were common. My parents were poor. My mom had four kids—I was the baby—by the time she was 21. My parents separated for a time. I thought it was because they fought and Mom kicked Dad out. I didn’t know then that the fights were about his addiction and incarcerations. My mom and siblings shielded me.
To me, my dad was a protector and provider, and I was hungry for his love and approval. But even when he was physically present, he wasn’t there emotionally. I’d see other kids with their fathers—playing ball, getting hugs—and I’d feel lonely because I didn’t have that kind of dad.
I felt lonely at school too. We moved for various reasons, including an eviction. I’d have to start over at a new school and try to make friends. It didn’t help that I was so short that everyone called me Too Short—I’m 5 foot 2 as a grown man. I was picked last for every game, even four square.
Then I discovered a way to get the acceptance and approval I craved. When I was 12, I broke into a house with my older brother. My brother grabbed the stereo. I went to the fridge and made myself a bologna sandwich. Someone called the cops, and we got arrested. I was taken to the county juvenile detention center. Because I was so young and it was my first offense, they let my mom take me home.
She was hopping mad. “You’re acting just like your dad!” she said. I didn’t understand what she meant until my older cousins told me: My dad was an addict who’d done time. It broke my heart to find out my hero was not so heroic, that my mom had been covering for him.
At school, people heard about the break-in and my arrest. For the first time, they treated me with respect. I wanted more of it. Drug dealers became my role models. They had money, fancy cars, street cred.
My mom started going to church. She convinced my dad to go too. He got clean and found steady work. They made us kids go to church with them. It was too late for me. Like my brother, I’d been seduced by the street life.
At 15, I got busted for robbery and was sentenced to two years in juvenile corrections. I tried to escape and got another two years. I was sent to facilities in other parts of the state, where I didn’t know anyone. The other guys seemed a lot tougher than me. I can’t be soft, I thought. I joined a gang and started fighting and dealing drugs to prove myself. “What are you doing?” my mom asked when she came to visit. “This isn’t you.”
I broke down and cried. “Mom, it’s hard in here. I just want to survive.”
I managed to earn my high school diploma and was told I’d be eligible for release six months early. Thirty days before I was to go home, I found out my paperwork got messed up. “Leavenworth doesn’t want you back,” the corrections staff said. “You have to complete your sentence.”
That really hardened my heart toward my hometown. When I get out, I’m going to become the biggest drug dealer in the city, I thought. I’m going to live it up and make up for this time that Leavenworth took away from me.
Sure enough, upon release, I went back to my old neighborhood and my old ways. I got back together with Jessica, my girlfriend from before I went away, and we had a son.
Eight-month-old Jermaine Jr. haunted me as I paced between my bunk and the other end of my cell. The last time I’d seen him, he was fussing. He crawled across the floor toward me and raised his arms. “He wants you to pick him up,” Jessica said.
But I was high, and the sound of his crying annoyed me. “I’ve got stuff to do,” I said. “I can hold him later.” I walked out the door and took off in my car, not realizing the police were waiting. They pulled me over and found drugs in my car.
“Now I’m 20 and locked up again,” I muttered. “Another statistic. A failure.”
I pictured little Jermaine Jr., looking to me, reaching out for me. “Is this the life I want for my son?” I asked. My question echoed off the brick walls.
If something didn’t change, my baby boy would end up like me, my brother and my dad. I had to break the cycle.
In El Dorado, I asked the corrections staff if there was a program that could help me. “I want to be a better man,” I said. They all recommended Prison Fellowship Academy, which teaches life skills from a biblical perspective. The aim was to replace criminal thinking and behaviors with new purpose and positive values. I wrote the director of the program and got accepted, and ended up in cell 507 in C2 cell house in Lansing Correctional Facility, right outside Leavenworth.
I was wary of the spiritual principles in the yearlong program, but I knew I needed to learn how to think and act in a new way. The other men welcomed me warmly. “We’re here to support you, however you need,” they said. I was used to reading people but could sense no ulterior motive, not like on the streets. No judgment. I felt accepted right away.
The program was intense. Weekly classes on life skills such as anger management, conflict resolution, accountability, goal setting, parenting. Group meetings where we had to be honest with each other and ourselves. Talks with coaches. It wasn’t easy to unlearn my negative habits. The other men helped me stay accountable.
Once in the program, I started getting visits from my family, including my parents, Jessica and Jermaine Jr. But after a few months, the visits from Jessica and Jermaine Jr. ceased. One day six months in, I was in my cell, missing Jessica and my son hard. My last few calls home had gone unanswered. I’d been writing letters to Jessica, asking about her and Jermaine Jr., but she hadn’t written back. Had I lost everyone who mattered to me? I felt so alone.
The next thing I knew, I was kneeling on the cold concrete floor. “I give up. I can’t do this on my own,” I said. “Please, God, come into my life and help me be a better man. A better dad.”
Something enveloped me there in cell 507, a loving warmth that I knew had to come from the Lord, almost as if he was holding me.
Not long after, a Prison Fellowship volunteer led us men outside for a special exercise. It was a revival weekend, and we got in a big circle around a metal barrel with a fire in it. The instructor handed out pieces of paper and said, “I want you to write down the names of everyone you’ve harmed. Then write down those who have harmed you.”
Everyone I’d harmed? The list was long. I wrote down the people I’d sold drugs to, stolen from. My parents. My girlfriend. Most of all, my son. Then I wrote down who’d hurt me. Dad. Mom. Jessica. The city of Leavenworth.
By the time I finished, I was crying. I wasn’t the only one. I asked God to let the people on the first list forgive me. And I asked him to help me forgive. “Lord, I need to let go of all this,” I said. “I’m turning it over to you.” Then I put my papers in the barrel and watched them burn to ash. My hurt and anger went with them, and at last I felt free.
The next time my parents visited, I told them about the fire exercise and asked for their forgiveness. “Dad, I’m sorry about the mistakes I’ve made,” I said. “I want to move on with my life and leave the past in the past.”
Dad looked at me in a new way, as if really seeing me. He explained what his upbringing was like, the struggles and challenges he’d faced. It was the first time I’d ever heard him talk about his past. Hearing the hurt he experienced helped me heal as a man. “We all have to take ownership of our actions,” he said. “Keep God in your life and you will make it in life. I’m here for you every step of the way now.”
His words started to fill the hole my lonely childhood had left in my heart.
I kept writing to Jessica, even though she never responded. At Christmastime, I was able to send a letter and a gift to Jermaine Jr. through Prison Fellowship Angel Tree. One Sunday, I asked God if I should keep trying to get my little family back together. “Show me if this relationship is meant to be,” I prayed.
Just then, I heard my name called over the intercom by an officer. “Wilson 91082, you’ve got a visitor.”
My parents had come the day before, so I thought it must be a mistake. But when I got to the visitation room, there was Jessica, with our son on her lap. “I got your letters about how you found Jesus,” she said. “I felt so hopeless with you in here. I started going to church, and I accepted Christ too. I want us to have a relationship with God at the center.”
I took her and Jermaine Jr. in my arms. “I’m so sorry for not being home with you,” I said. “Things will be different when I get out.” I promised Jessica I would use the remaining time on my sentence to become the man she and our son needed me to be.
Jessica brought Jermaine Jr. to visit me often. I read to him, sang songs with him and made sure to hug him, feeling grateful every time that my son was getting to know my love.
I was released in December 2010 and moved in with Jessica. We found a church community. But I had trouble finding a job because of my record. I did whatever legitimate work I could to support us—laundry, house cleaning, lawn care. My pastor saw my work ethic and hired me as a janitor at the church.
In 2011, he married Jessica and me.
Eventually I got a government job, but I couldn’t move up with my felony record. I saved up money to hire a lawyer and, in 2015, had my record expunged. A fresh start.
“What’s next?” I asked God.
I was volunteering as a youth teacher at church and a mentor at the juvenile detention center. The kids were afraid of law enforcement, and the Lord urged me to do something to build trust. I organized Unity in the Community, an event with free food and a basketball game, the teenagers versus the police department. By the end, the kids and officers were high-fiving and taking selfies together. The energy was so positive.
People encouraged me to get involved in local politics. In 2017, I ran for city commissioner. Other candidates went door-to-door. That just wasn’t me. I set up my grill in the parking lot of the dollar store and offered barbecue chicken to people. While they ate, I told them my story. “My name is Jermaine, and I want to change this community the way God changed me.”
I was elected to the city commission. In Leavenworth, the commissioner who receives the most votes is given the title of mayor. That’s how I became mayor of Leavenworth, Kansas, in 2019. On my second day as mayor, I worked with the county prosecutor to waive fees for criminal record expungement so finances wouldn’t be a barrier to other people getting their second chance.
I served two terms as mayor and am still on the city commission. Now I work as mission ambassador for Prison Fellowship. I go to events across the country to talk about our ministry and encourage churches to partner with Prison Fellowship Angel Tree.
I love my job. I love my family even more. Jessica and I have five kids. We’re open with them about the past. Jermaine Jr. is 17, a high school graduate. I recently had the privilege of baptizing him. My parents are a big part of our lives. My dad is the best grandpa. He doesn’t hold back on showing his feelings anymore. We hug every time we see each other. He calls me every single day, and if I can’t pick up, he’ll leave a voicemail. “Hey, son, I know God is going to use you to do something important today,” he’ll say. “I’m proud of you.”
There’s so much love in my life now, and it all starts with God, who loved me even before I knew him and showed me how to be a better man, the man he created me to be.
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