by John Cannon, LSPC Digital Organizer
I didn’t feel free the day I walked out of prison. I remember how overwhelming it was to suddenly have choices after years of someone else making every decision for me. What should I eat? Where should I go? What should I wear?
None of those choices mattered as much as what was waiting for me on the other side of those gates: I finally got to hug my children. That hug reminded me of everything prison had taken, and everything I still had the opportunity to build.
When I came home, I knew I wanted to make music. Music had carried me through some of the darkest moments of my life. I also knew I wanted to finish federal supervision and do whatever I could to challenge the systems that had taken so much from me and from countless others. I didn’t know exactly what that work would look like, I just knew I couldn’t spend the rest of my life pretending the people I left behind didn’t exist.
I did leave people behind when I got out. Everyone still in prison had dreams and families. I couldn’t forget my brothers’ humanity the moment the prison gate shut behind me.I know what it feels like to wonder if anyone is fighting for you. I know what it feels like to hope someone on the outside remembers your name, and I promised myself I’d be that person.
Since I’ve gotten out, that promise has shaped my life. It led me to community organizing, where I’ve stood beside directly impacted people to push for policies that restore rights and create opportunities. It gave my music a deeper purpose—not just to entertain, but to tell the truth, inspire hope, and expose injustice. It has allowed me to speak in classrooms, perform on stages, help advance statewide reforms, and work with people who believe every human being deserves dignity, no matter their past.
Despite all this, what I’m proudest of isn’t an academic achievement or an award. It’s my family. It’s becoming the husband my wife deserves and the father my children can look up to.
Spending time with my kids changed the way I think about success. Success was no longer about what I could achieve for myself, it became about the kind of world I want them to inherit. A world where families aren’t separated unnecessarily and where people are given second chances instead of lifelong punishment. A world where our communities are invested in before they’re criminalized. That vision keeps me moving.
The journey hasn’t been easy. Rebuilding your life means learning things many people were taught long before me: how to manage money, navigate bureaucracy, and find opportunities that too often seem hidden behind closed doors. I’ve encountered gatekeepers in music, in advocacy, and in everyday life. But every obstacle has reminded me that perseverance is a form of resistance.
If I could speak to the 16-year-old version of myself, I’d tell him to read more, learn the history of the systems around him, and understand that they were never designed to give every young person an equal chance. I’d tell him not to let those systems convince him that his future is already written.
And if you are still incarcerated today, don’t give up. Take care of yourself. Don’t rush your journey. Your story and your voice have value. The world needs people who can transform pain into purpose.
When I think about what I’ve done with my freedom, I don’t think first about the stages I’ve performed on, the films I’ve acted in, or the policies I’ve helped change. I think about responsibility. Freedom gave me the chance to reach back, and as long as I breathe, I’ll keep reaching back.
I don’t want to be remembered simply as someone who made it out. I want to be remembered as someone who climbed out of the hole and threw a ladder down for everyone else.
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