The author, 27, who asked that his name not be used, returned home from prison in 2016 after serving 10 years of his 12-year sentence. He works as a behavioral aide to an autistic young adult, a clerk at a grocery store, and a writer and community outreach facilitator for the Free Minds Book Club & Writing Workshop in Washington, D.C.

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Born and raised in Washington, D.C., I spent part of my childhood in foster care, as my mother struggled with drug addiction. Without support or guidance, I turned to the streets for belonging; I looked up to a lot of the older guys and wanted to fit in.

When I was 16, a group of us took part in an armed carjacking, and I was tried and sentenced as an adult and sentenced to 12 years in prison. But because the District has no prisons of its own, they could send me to any federal penitentiary in the United States.

I was transferred to a Bureau of Prisons-contracted juvenile facility in Montana. Outside, through my small, cloudy window, there was nothing but mountains, and 18-wheelers driving by. All you could smell was manure — very strong. Cows used to step right up to the fence.

I was the only black person, period. There were no black inmates, no black COs.

For my birthday, my mother mailed me some sneakers. I had just put them on when this guy came up, picked his nose, and wiped it on my shoe. Before I could react, he ran and told an officer that I’d threatened him.

There was no questioning; I was immediately sent to the hole. I had no say in my defense, no chance to explain what truly went down. I was transferred from the facility the very next day — it felt like they’d been planning to get rid of me.

Then I was sent to Seattle, Wash., for six months. Then to Oklahoma.

Then, soon after I turned 18, I was transferred to an adult federal prison in Springfield, Missouri.

Read the full story (from an anonymous author) about going from a juvenile detention center to an adult prison at The Marshall Project.