When a judge sentenced Charles Greene to a minimum of 25 years to life for criminal possession of crack cocaine, she said he had "no redeemable value." Fifteen years later, when a second judge granted his petition for early release, she said incarcerating him any longer would be "a travesty and a waste."
What happened in those years to elicit such a different opinion?
"Higher education and transformation," Charles says. "Prison was a rescue, to some extent. It's not like they portray it on TV. You have options. I made some conscious decisions right off the bat. I said, 'Okay, they got my body, but I will never relinquish my mind or my soul. Furthermore, I'm not accepting 25 years for a non-violent drug offense and, if I'm let go tomorrow, I'm going to be prepared.' I knew education was the way to grow and become the person I was meant to be."
Born in 1964, Charles was the sixth and youngest child of a close-knit Harlem family, the one who was going to "be somebody, make something of himself". His mother fed his curiosity, confidence and love of school; his father provided what most of his peers lacked: a strong, stable male presence and role model in the household.
"He worked for the New York City Transit Authority," Charles recalls. "That was one of the best things that could happen to someone from his background – an African-American, migrating from the South in the 1950s. He didn't say a lot, but his values were evident in his actions – working hard, being responsible for the support of the family, not using drugs or abusing my mother or anything like that. He was my everything. I really fed off him and he protected me. My world was crushed when he died of an infection when I was 15."
Along with his guiding presence, the Greene family lost its financial backbone. History colluded to make that especially dangerous for his two youngest sons: Charles and his 18-year-old brother, Herbert. It was the 1970s; the Rockefeller drug laws were already in place, as if anticipating the crack era to come. Charles' mother went on welfare and her sons went to work. Charles stocked supermarket shelves. Herbert sold drugs and embraced the Harlem street culture.
Charles made it through high school and a semester of college, but not before fathering three children. To support them, he worked as a security guard, while attending Borough of Manhattan Community College, full-time. When the company lost a contract, he was laid off.
"Now, I'm questioning. 'How am I going to support my family?'" he says. "I looked around and said, 'Wow, there's this crack thing going on. There's fast money out there.' My brother was a partner in one of the biggest crack spots of the time. The rationalizations began. I remember telling him, 'If you don't do it, somebody else will anyway.' Then, someone taught me how to cook the stuff and I was good at it, so, I became a 'chemist'. Soon, other people were asking me to do it for them and my brother and I said, 'Why work for someone else?' We went into business for ourselves and, unfortunately, we were successful. That's how I got 25 to life."
"I was 25 years old when I was sentenced," he continues. "I remember crying, not for myself, but for my children who were going to grow up without a father. Fortunately, I was sent to Sing Sing, which is close to the city, so their mother brought them to visit regularly, but it was bittersweet. You're talking, drawing, playing, but, now, it's time to go. Visit's over."
At Sing Sing, Charles worked for Literacy Volunteers of America, tutoring other inmates, "grown men who were functionally illiterate," he explains. "I discovered I was good at helping others. This was 1992, when they still had higher education programs in prison. I was about to apply when they transferred me way up north to Clinton Correctional Facility. I immediately enrolled in Clinton Community College, which is part of the State University of New York. The professors came inside. I loved it. I studied social sciences and humanities and did very well. I graduated with honors and an Associate's degree. I was planning to go for my B.A. and Master's when federal and state funding for prisoner education was cut in 1995."
"I was devastated," he says. "It was so counter-productive. The vast majority of people in prison are coming home at some point, so, who do you want coming home: a person who has an education and can get a job and contribute or someone who's exactly the same as when he or she went in? It's proven that criminal recidivism rates are much lower for people coming home with college degrees. If you go to prison and don't grow, you end up right back in the streets. Education stimulates growth. When college was cut, I had to regroup, bring all my fortitude to bear. I said, 'Okay, what are you going to do now? Educate yourself! Read! Take advantage of everything positive that is still available.'"
Charles became an HIV peer educator, a nurse's aide and a substance- abuse program facilitator. Through it all, there was not one blemish on his record. In 2004, when he was 40 years old, the moment he had been preparing for finally came. New York State Governor George Pataki signed the Drug Law Reform Act, allowing individuals to challenge their Rockefeller sentences if their records were completely clean.
"I felt so good because I had worked for this," Charles says. "It didn't happen by chance. It wasn't given to me. I was faithful and put my faith into action. I felt real joy."
Charles now spent his time in the law library, preparing his own appeal. It was there that he saw a flier from the College Initiative (CI), saying, "We will help you in any way we can to further your education. Contact us when you are released."
"That piece of paper was hope," he smiles. "That was my path. That was how I was going to reach my goal to finish my degree and become productive. I knew education was the way."
Within a week of coming home in 2006, Charles was in the College Initiative office.
"They helped me fill out my financial aid and admission's applications online. They taught me how to use a computer. They got my application fee waived and worked with me on my personal essay. I was accepted by New York City College of Technology, majoring in human services and alcohol and substance abuse counseling. CI gave me a $500-stipend to buy books and helped me win two scholarships based on my academic performance. I was there every day, emailing my resume to potential employers. In the interim, they gave me a job, writing letters to prisoners and data entry. They did it all with such sincerity, no ulterior motives. They were lifesavers."
Charles Greene will receive his B.A. in December 2008. In May 2008, he was awarded a prestigious Kennedy Fellowship for academic and professional excellence in the field of human services. He was recently accepted by the Hunter School of Social Work and will begin pursuing a Master's Degree in the spring of 2009.
Charles currently works at the Claremont Neighborhood Center in the Bronx, "as a program coordinator/case manager/mentor/counselor/job developer," he laughs, in their Young Father's Program. "I'm doing everything I can to help these guys understand how important it is for them to be in their children's lives and what makes a good father," he says. His relationship with his own children is strong. He is also a CI Mentor working with three CI students on the campuses of Lehman college and Bronx Community College.
Charles still feels the sting of that first judge's words – "no redeemable value" – but it is softened by his own clear awareness of what he has overcome and accomplished. Abraham Jones, executive director of the center where he works, sums it up:
"We need men with Charles' drive and education in communities like ours. African-American young men need to see role models who have some negative history, but have not let it hamper them or allowed themselves to be defined by their mistakes, but have learned and grown from them. Charles uses his past experiences to his advantage, telling the men, 'I've been in the same spot you are now. Whether you stay there or move past it is in your hands and makes all the difference."
