With those past hardships, I could at least somewhat grasp the personal, socioeconomic and legal factors that imposed them, despite the injustices.

On October 8, humiliated and distraught at the corner of 17th and G Street, I couldn’t even begin to process what had just happened.

The invite had come a week prior. It congratulated me for the hard work and dedication of the overdose-prevention nonprofit I founded: This Must Be the Place. In under three years, with almost no funding, we have distributed over 80,000 free naloxone kits across the country, resulting in over 1,500 known opioid-overdose reversals.

The CDC had just issued new statistics showing overdose death rates were falling overall. So the Biden administration and the White House Office of National Drug Control Policy (ONDCP) decided that recognition was in order for some of those engaged in overdose prevention. I was one of a select few accorded the honor of attending the White House event. Or so the invitation read.

I told some of my friends who I did time with, and they said it meant a lot to them. In a way, my invitation was theirs as well.

I should have said no. This simple kid from Columbus, Ohio, had no business in Washington. But I called the only person who has never left my side, and whose opinion I value most in this world.

“There are some people who live their entire lives without ever seeing the White House, and even fewer are invited inside,” my mother told me. “Do it for me, do it for yourself, do it so that you do not live the rest of your life wishing you had gone.”

Ok, Mom says so. The invitation, by the way, required an immediate RSVP. So I committed. I told some of my friends who I did time with, and they said it meant a lot to them. In a way, my invitation was theirs as well.

I bought a plane ticket, last minute. I booked a hotel in DC, last minute. And I bought a suit, because I wanted to show respect, even though I had never worn one before in my life.

The money is not really an important part of this story. I come from none, so I know how to exist with none. What matters is, the respect I tried to show was met with contempt.

I flew to Washington and arrived in good time for the event. It was only then, 45 minutes before the event was due to begin, that I was informed that I would not be admitted to the White House that day.

I had not cleared the Secret Service background check, the officials said. They would give me no other information.

“You represent the very best of our Nation,” it said. But I am not allowed in your house.

I was left outside the gates. Still, they hadn’t completely forgotten me, because after a bit of a wait, I was hand-delivered a letter signed by Joseph R. Biden himself.

“To all those who stepped up to the White House Challenge to Save Lives From Overdose: Thank you,” it read. “You represent the very best of our Nation, and it is because of leaders like you that I’ve never been more optimistic about the future of our country.”

But I am not allowed in your house. 

I went to a cafe on K Street and cried. I called my mom. She cried with me. I am, and always will be, a convicted felon. I believe in forgiveness, but I am not sure that others do, no matter what their words say. Actions speak louder.

I went to prison for nonviolent crimes that centered around my addiction issues. During the time I was away, I lost nearly every friend I had, as fentanyl-involved overdose devastated communities. I can never undo my misdeeds, but through This Must Be the Place I strive to make every day my living amends to society.

For about a week, I believed that the White House recognized this.

If we continue to be locked out and branded less-than, then our overdose crisis will have no end.

Why would they invite me? Why would they put out a press release that very day, specifically highlighting my organization’s great work, only to turn me away at the door?

You knew who I was when you asked me to come.

I will not quit fighting to end overdose in this country. I do it for the people, not for the recognition—and definitely not for recognition from the government.

I am well aware that finding myself shut out of the White House is a minor blip in the grand scheme. But it serves as a metaphor for greater problems that must be addressed. Because there are millions of people like me: doing drugs, doing time or trying to move past either. Our voices must be heard. If we continue to be locked out and branded less-than, like I was on that day, then our overdose crisis— and all of the systemic problems that created, perpetuated and stem from it—will have no end.

Top photograph (cropped) by Pom’ via Flickr/Creative Commons 2.0. Inset photograph by William Perry.

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