In 1985, I decided to move from New York to California without knowing anyone in the state. I was caught up in the hype of what I saw on TV. With its beautiful women and rolling hills, Los Angeles looked to me like the promised land.

When I arrived, I got a job working at Los Angeles International Airport unloading planes. In my shallow genius, I decided to take some of the merchandise I was unloading home with me. I used the money I made selling stolen items to buy drugs to deal.

Within about six months, I started to use those drugs. I was fired from my job and began living among homeless people in downtown L.A.’s Skid Row. Not having the means to keep up with my crack habit, I started stealing from stores and breaking into cars.

I got caught about a year later and was sentenced to two years in prison. I figured I would only have to serve half of that time and planned to sleep through much of it.

When I got to Chino state prison, a counselor asked me what I wanted to do. I told her I had no idea because I had no real work history. She asked me if I’d ever considered being a firefighter. At first, she sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher — wah, wah, wah.

But then she told me that I could go to a facility that would train me to fight wildland fires. Since I didn’t have any escapes, arson or sexual crimes on my record, I would be a good fit for the job.

Read the full article about prison labor by David Desmond at The Marshall Project.