Commercial Trucking and the Road from Prison to Poverty Wages

This story reflects Abraham’s experience and was written and edited with assistance from his sister, Gabrielle.

For several days this January, I sat in the cab of a semi-truck, weathering the cold and rain in Washington State as I waited anxiously for my phone to ring. A call would guarantee me a trucking load, and the assignment would allow me to request a cash advance from my employer. Finally, I would be able to buy groceries to feed the hunger that grew as I sat idle in the day and slept in parking lots at night.

One day, I exited my truck and encountered a driver in a similar situation. Her sandals were torn and worn through, her heels touching the bare asphalt. She told me she was out of cash advances and had no paycheck coming in the near future. She was living out of the semi-truck she had believed would bring her reliable employment and enough money to afford a place to live. I commonly encountered stories like this, of drivers without housing, with felonies on their record, trapped in the trucking industry after being persuaded to earn Commercial Drivers Licenses (CDLs) through state-funded reentry programs. 

After my release from prison in the summer of 2022, I began working at a gym making less than $12 an hour. I learned from a friend that I could earn my CDL for free. I desperately wanted a job that paid a living wage and I’d heard that truck drivers made a lot of money. Carrying the stigma of a felony conviction in an already tight job market, my choices were limited. Once I enrolled, I felt proud of myself and was hopeful for a new career and future. I quit my job at the gym and dove head first into CDL school, attending full time to earn my license as soon as possible.

The promise of a future full of job opportunities and economic security faded quickly. There was no financial aid for housing, food, or other basic necessities during my time in training, so I had to accrue thousands of dollars of credit card debt just to make it through the three-month program—money I’m still paying off today. After getting my CDL, I learned that many trucking companies didn’t want to hire new drivers or those with criminal records. I didn’t let this demotivate me. When no one else wanted me, I found the one company promising to hire people with criminal records. 

When I was on the road for weeks at a time, I questioned whether my salary even amounted to minimum wage. My checks came out to $300-400 weekly for about 70 hours of labor. I was away from my family for weeks at a time and still struggling to make ends meet. I made more money at the gym.

I soon realized the CDL industry was oversaturated with new drivers and returning citizens like me who were trying to earn an honest living. Many formerly incarcerated drivers hired by the company I worked for ended up living out of the truck they drove, which became their sole reason for maintaining employment with the company. Most formerly incarcerated drivers were men of color in their twenties, thirties, and forties.

We all believed a CDL would open the door to higher-paying jobs, yet many of us couldn’t make enough money to secure stable housing. Commercial trucking companies have faced class-action lawsuits due to unpaid mandatory orientations, misclassification of drivers as independent contractors, and predatory noncompete agreements. During a reentry program orientation hosted by a nonprofit, caseworkers told me and other prospective drivers that the trucking industry was “felon-friendly.” Yet, we faced barrier after barrier due to our lack of experience and/or our criminal backgrounds. We were given false hope for a career that fell far short of reality.

This sort of exploitation is nothing new for formerly incarcerated people, who have historically been forced into precarious labor positions while being stripped of basic citizenship benefits and targeted by punitive legislation. For decades, formerly incarcerated people weren’t able to access educational assistance through Pell Grants. Many of us are still denied access to federal food assistance programs like SNAP or TANF and barred from voting in many places. For all of the talk about bolstering reentry initiatives, politicians are increasingly employing “tough-on-crime” rhetoric and funneling precious public resources toward punitive responses that will only make these problems worse for future generations. 

Vocational training programs like the CDL licensing program I took are an important piece of the reentry puzzle. But the lack of comprehensive resources and persistent stigma interfere with the promise of stability, leaving formerly incarcerated people and their families vulnerable to homelessness, food insecurity, and poor health outcomes.

Reentry programs that emphasize training or education must be paired with holistic support to meet the unique needs of returning citizens. At the very least, they must be honest with participants and avoid fueling unrealistic expectations about employment prospects after a program’s completion.

In the end, I succeeded in using my CDL to obtain a better paying job in the trucking industry. However, my ability to complete schooling—and, eventually, find work at a less predatory company—hinged on the support of my loved ones who housed me for months while I searched for a new employer. Many formerly incarcerated people don’t have such support networks. And truthfully, the success of these programs shouldn’t require them to.

ICYMI—From The Appeal

In the late nineties, Gregory Dickens was sentenced to death despite never having actually killed anyone. Legal experts say that Dickens’s story highlights how a lack of oversight lets judges exert clear bias on the bench—and how lax rules let judges discriminate against members of marginalized communities, especially LGBTQ+ people.