The Plight of the Black Male: How I Went from Amazon’s Fast-Track to a Convicted Felon

Black pain is VERY real

2018 was a challenging year for me. I started it fresh off a breakup from a 14-month relationship with a picturesque strawberry blonde Caucasian that I thought I’d marry. It turns out I was the best guy available, but not someone she seriously saw herself marrying. Our relationship to me was real; to her, it was fun.

Frequent bouts with depression ensued. It got so bad that I resigned from my first full-time position, serving as the Executive Team Leader overseeing logistics for Target’s 2nd flagship store in Rogers, AR. I went several months without work until landing a sales job with Total Quality Logistics; this role lasted about 3 months.

It was in September of 2018 that I was handpicked by Amazon to open the first delivery station in Central Illinois. At the time, I couldn’t believe my luck. I initially thought it was a scam when the recruiters reached out to me on LinkedIn. This was before it was easy to search for an application for roles within the company.

But after five interviews, I got the job! It was surreal to me because Chicago was the last place I was with my strawberry blonde ex, so moving 2 hours away from what quickly became my favorite city was nothing to take for granted. The only catch? I had three weeks to make the move across the states.

I put in my 2 weeks notice at TQL, got my relocation package, loaded up a U-haul, and made the roughly 700-mile trip with a close friend at the time.

When I arrived at the Amazon facility a week later, I was greeted by the interim site leader, a guy in his mid-20’s like myself named Dylan. After our initial encounter, I knew I was in for a potential hostile workplace situation centered around race.

Anyone who knows me knows I have a name that isn’t very typical or traditional in the African-American community. “Paul Marsh” sounds more like a name attributable to a Caucasian male than a black one. Factor in my superb phone etiquette, where I put on my best “white voice” (something many black males do to avoid discrimination and prejudice), and most people conclude that I’m white.

Amazon doesn’t do in-person interviews to avoid situations such as the one I found myself in. So when Dylan saw I was a dark-skinned, first-generation African-American, his response showed that he was surprised I was who I am.

“You’re Paul?!?” came out of his voice with enough incredulity to make me feel as if I fabricated my hiring and onboarding. Sadly, that was only the beginning.

Amazon uses a level system as part of how it promotes employees. I came into the company as an L4, which at the time was virtually unheard of, especially with how quickly Amazon promotes, ESPECIALLY for a person of color. If I had gotten to L6, I’d be in charge of the facility in Central Illinois and would have been proud to call myself the youngest site leader on the planet.

Instead, my color became a barrier to success, and it was mostly due to me being the only black male in an authority position. My age didn’t help either; I was only 24 at the time.

I found myself in a plethora of situations that constantly called into question how much longer I could take the subtle discrimination, prejudice, and racism I endured.

For instance, I was constantly told to stop “speaking Swahili” whenever I said something confusing or used big words. My likeness was compared to Michael Blackson, a popular comedian, in detrimental fashion because, apparently, looking more African than American as an African-American is a bad thing. If this confuses you, you’re not alone. I was confused too.

In other instances, I was the only one interrogated by the interim site leader for how I spent my time, while the other white employees (even those beneath me) were left to their own devices, regardless of whether or not they were actually being productive.

Gaslighting was another frequent tactic. Whenever I entered the manager’s office, silence would ensue from all present, which by itself isn’t a big deal. But paired with emotionless glares, it can be disconcerting in the worst ways possible, especially when those glaring at you all share the same race and virtually the same complexion.

Think I’m being dramatic? Then ask yourself this question — when was the last time you found yourself in a room exclusively full of black people? Going even further — how comfortable would you be with that?

The icing on this awful cake came when I was accused of financial impropriety. One of my subordinates (I hate that term but can’t think of another word) accused me of stealing from the company with my corporate cards. How she’d know this is beyond me — you had to be an L4 or higher to qualify for them.

Toward the end of December, I was fired for that very reason — financial impropriety. In an attempt to help save the company money, when I used my salary to buy items for the warehouse and expensed it out, I only expensed the items related to the job, not the personal purchases, making the total I’d expect back less than what the grand total was.

Looking for a reason to terminate my employment, Dylan and other leaders above me pulled me into the office and told me the cold day in December 2018 would be my last with the company, claiming I’d stolen funds from the company.

Trying to find your way back after something like this isn’t easy. Obviously, there’s the financial concerns — how to pay your rent/mortgage, other bills, getting another job, and so much more.

But the wounds from veiled systemic racism are, arguably, much worse. Hearing in the aftermath that my coworker, the subordinate named Lori (a woman with a very mean streak), was the cause of my termination AND bragged about it, all in an attempt to land my role after the fact, did substantial emotional damage.

Then there’s the risk. I left behind family, friends, the prospect of romantic redemption, etc., to pursue an opportunity that was supposed to have such a polar opposite effect from the one I experienced.

As time went on, I accepted the fact that I was no longer a six-figure earner in an environment where most people aren’t as educated as me and, as such, will settle for $12-$15/hour positions. I took what I could get and dealt with the good, bad, and ugly. There’s been more bad and ugly than good.

I stood by and watched as I could no longer afford to rent places suitable to my lifestyle, my Black Card was shut off due to failure to make payments as a result of no income, my credit was destroyed, and the life I’d worked hard to craft for myself was destroyed. All stemming from my race and looks.

But nothing was as bad as when I became a convicted felon.

The Plight of the Black Male

In November of 2021, I was arrested for 2 misdemeanors — assault and resisting a peace officer. I’d went to a convenience shop to pick up a few items, saw a major upcharge on a Great Value (Walmart brand) product, and asked the store manager why that was.

Our conversation escalated to the point where the police were called without my knowledge. Guess they thought I was violent or would become violent because I’d gotten annoyed when they failed to provide a straightforward answer. All I wanted was to know if the business I was supporting cared more about the consumer or money.

As police arrived on the scene, I left. It’s worth mentioning that I have several disorders — I suffer from ADHD, bipolar disorder type 1, schizoaffective disorder, and severe anxiety disorder. In short, I need to be handled with care.

The way the officer approached me when I left as if I’d done something wrong inherently was why I resisted him. If he’d talked to me like a human being and less like a rabid animal, I would have complied. But all too often, officers bring an extra, unnecessary edge to their encounters with minority men, acting as if it’s necessary when in reality, it’s a form of aggressive racism.

Those charges were dropped, only for me to find myself trapped in a cycle of police brutality. I served 67 days on those 2 misdemeanors. When I was released, I’d been formally evicted from my apartment complex, having fallen behind on rent prior to my incarceration. Keeping a job for more than 3 months became a standard challenge once Amazon and I parted ways.

As a result of my newfound status, I had to figure out where to sleep and how to keep a roof over my head. I was homeless, carless, and unemployed with no income in the bank or to my name. I mention all of this not for pity but to fully paint a simple picture — it’s circumstances like these that make a criminal by FORCE, not CHOICE. I ended up getting picked up for several other misdemeanors, all related to unintentionally trespassing, all due to being homeless. And round and around in this cycle I went.

I became a felon when I found a set of keys in one of those apartment buildings with restaurants and eateries on the main floor; that’s where the leasing office is also located. Not sure who to turn the keys into, I held onto them, never using them but checking to see if they worked one night.

I ended up sleeping in the lounge on the first floor that evening. The next morning, a Saturday, I was still in the lounge, minding my business on the computer. I spent the entire day listening to music and watching comedic YouTube videos, doing things to enliven my spirits in spite of my circumstances.

One of the leasing managers, an overly aggressive Caucasian male, came up to me, asking if I lived there. When I told him I didn’t, he immediately asked me if I had keys, which I showed to him. Ten minutes later, the police showed up and arrested me for burglary.

Apparently, a week prior, there was a break-in in that very building. Somehow, in spite of only spending one night there, walking into the lounge during business hours, and sleeping when everyone left, I fit the bill for a burglar.

I even tried to explain to the arresting officer where I got the keys from. His response? “I don’t believe you.” In that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder how I’d be treated if I were white, or at least lighter-hued. I was literally dragged out of the building while trying to plead my case, letting the cops know they’d unintentionally triggered my disorders to no avail.

In the early 2010s, 1 in 4 black males would found themselves behind bars at some point. By the late 2010s, it went down up 1 in 3. I never thought I’d be among that statistic. But since I am, I figured I could do one of two things — gripe and complain about my situation or educated those willing to listen about what happens to black men in this country to this day.

Not every person labeled a felon is a bad person. Sometimes the flaws in the system manifest themselves in ways that, when explained, can make a world of difference. It is my hope that this article can have such an effect.