The Fight To Vote

Mike Suza looks like any other white, middle-class professional. Barrel-chested and well dressed, he walks with the aggressive purpose of a monied stockbroker. But Suza is a convicted felon. Although raised in a middle-class home in Rhode Island, a cocaine habit finally got the best of him and in 1995, when he was 28, he robbed the coffee shop where he was working. Now 36 and sober, he works construction and attends AA meetings. But he has a greater desire he's unable to satisfy: voting.

"I'd like to believe I have half a brain and can make a difference," says Suza. "But in terms of the political process, I'm like the living dead."

Suza is part of a growing demographic, one of more than 4 million disenfranchised felons or ex-felons. Only 26 percent of those barred from voting because of a felony conviction are in jail. The rest have reentered society, and many are employed and raising families. Some are on parole or probation; some have completed all their obligations, but are banned from the polls for life. Thirteen states strip a convicted felon of his voting rights for life.

Omari Steuben, 25, tells a not-unfamiliar story. Growing up poor and black, he sold drugs to get by. He got caught, went to jail, and now he's piecing together a new life. He works at the neighborhood recreation center, and has resisted the temptation to supplement that income by selling drugs. Does it bother him that he can't vote? He shakes his head: "I'm just concerned about survival."

For an ex-felon living in a poor neighborhood, survival can be a full-time job. But across the country, grassroots organizations and prison-tested ex-convicts are trying to ease that burden by helping ex-felons reclaim their political voice through the vote. A Harris Interactive Survey found that more than 80 percent of Americans believe that ex-felons should have their voting rights reinstated, and 62 percent support voting rights for parolees -- but trying to translate a passive American opinion into concrete legislative reform is not easy.

Without Representation

Malik Aziz was just trying to survive as a young black man in Philadelphia in 1988. In high school he was president of the black student union, and a two-sport athlete. But by his 30s, selling drugs had become his livelihood, until he got busted in a raid. In prison, he saw a steady stream of men losing their youth, and their right to vote. With still two years left on his sentence, Aziz started the Ex-Offender's Association, and when he was released in 1997, it grew into a powerful movement for ex-convict rehabilitation. He volunteered for Philadelphia mayoral candidate John Street's campaign, and when Street won, Aziz was given a job in the administration running a program called Safer Streets, Safer Communities.

At the time, Aziz still couldn't vote, since Pennsylvania didn't reinstate an ex-felon's voting rights until five years after finishing parole. "People were working, paying taxes, but they couldn't vote," Aziz says. "It was taxation without representation." He and several other ex-felons sued the state and won, and the five-year ban was struck down.

In 2003, when Street ran for reelection, Aziz created a new target voter group: ex-cons. Their tactics were simple. They sought out ex-offenders where they were most likely to congregate -- in halfway houses and on street corners -- and convinced them to register to vote. By Election Day, Aziz and his corps of 30 field workers registered 20,000 ex-offenders, and Street was reelected mayor.

Expanding The Debate

Dorsie Nunn and his Oakland, Calif.-based ex-felon advocacy organization, All Of Us Or None, take an aggressive approach to expanding the debate on felon disenfranchisement. He aims to create situations where ex-felons can speak directly to politicians and policymakers, rather than through the proxy of an expert or a commission.