Second Chances
at "Last Times"
at "Last Times"
After incarceration for drug charges, an aspiring chef faces the challenges of reintegrating into society.
"Most of my life, I've been in here, in and out. So it's time for something new."
On February 28, 2024, Donald Weaver exits his top-floor cell for lunch call. He dials a jail office landline for home. Waiting for him in a linen bag opposite the room's concrete walls is a tome of Bibles and paperbacks with titles like "Sanctuary Living in the Holy Place", "The Importance and Value of Bible Study", or "How to Raise the Perfect Dog"--titles specifically chosen for men wishing to reenter society at large.
He steps out of jail calmly as the clock strikes midnight, recovery-minded literature in tow. His wife will greet him on the curb with a soft embrace and a quick kiss. It's not the first time she's picked him up from a release.
Today is his final day of a two-month stint in jail on drug possession charges, the latest in a history of drug-related charges tracing back decades.
For the first time in years, though, Weaver is a completely free man. He has no sentence, nor probation to serve.
This time, he says, he intends to stay free for good.
He steps out of jail calmly as the clock strikes midnight, recovery-minded literature in tow. His wife will greet him on the curb with a soft embrace and a quick kiss. It's not the first time she's picked him up from a release.
Today is his final day of a two-month stint in jail on drug possession charges, the latest in a history of drug-related charges tracing back decades.
For the first time in years, though, Weaver is a completely free man. He has no sentence, nor probation to serve.
This time, he says, he intends to stay free for good.
Donald Weaver calls his family from the office of Warren County Regional Jail's Reentry Services Division on February 28, 2024, one day before leaving the facility. "That's my lover; that's my heart right there," he says after hanging up the call. "That's why I gotta stay out of here."
Watching other inmates joke as they pass by, Weaver smiles at Reentry Services Coordinator Douglas Miles.
Weaver kisses his wife at the curb of the Warren County Regional Jail after getting out at midnight on March 1, 2024.
Weaver and his wife share a takeout meal after arriving home from jail at approximately 2 am on March 1. The two looked over Bible lessons sent home from the jail together, discussing the Tower of Babel.
Weaver admits that the drug habit is damaging. "I'm 44 years old, and I've lost my kids; they've been locked up most of my life," he says. "I'm too old to keep doing all this." But family traditions run deep--a Memphis-grown, family-bolstered passion for soul food on one hand, and addiction to selling drugs on the other.
Weaver's addiction has landed him in jail periodically throughout his life. He says that he picked up his drug habit from being surrounded by family members who almost all use or sell.
Still, he says, he wants this time in jail for the habit to be his last. He dreams about instead establishing a soul food and Mexican fusion restaurant to blend the two cultures his parents came from. He's already put his foot in the door at the local community college, applying to start a culinary arts degree in the fall.
"My whole family loves to cook; it's like a family tradition," he said. "I picked it up from women--I was mostly raised by women, so I'd always be around and watch and watch. And I'm like, hey, I want to turn this into a business. No one I've ever seen has done Mexican and soul food all in one."
For now, though, the Weavers stick to prepping food for friends and neighbors wherever they can. But before that, they're tasked with a new problem: finding home.
Weaver's addiction has landed him in jail periodically throughout his life. He says that he picked up his drug habit from being surrounded by family members who almost all use or sell.
Still, he says, he wants this time in jail for the habit to be his last. He dreams about instead establishing a soul food and Mexican fusion restaurant to blend the two cultures his parents came from. He's already put his foot in the door at the local community college, applying to start a culinary arts degree in the fall.
"My whole family loves to cook; it's like a family tradition," he said. "I picked it up from women--I was mostly raised by women, so I'd always be around and watch and watch. And I'm like, hey, I want to turn this into a business. No one I've ever seen has done Mexican and soul food all in one."
For now, though, the Weavers stick to prepping food for friends and neighbors wherever they can. But before that, they're tasked with a new problem: finding home.
Weaver removes his jail booking bracelet from his wrist and examines the leaflets of Bible verses given to him upon leaving, discussing them with his wife. "You'll learn a lot from that," she says as she washes the dishes. "They gave you some good passages."
In March, mere days after getting out of jail, Weaver and his wife pack their belongings: cooking supplies, bouquets of faux flowers, and plastic training heads for Beneditta's dream cosmetology business. They distribute boxes of ramen to neighbors as a parting gift. After one final evening smoke on the patio, as quickly as they returned, they're on to the next place.
For felons like Weaver, finding apartments that will house them--let alone jobs and other resources to get back on their feet--can prove incredibly challenging. Even charges for minor felonies like drug possession can close doors to stable living. The following weeks saw the family sleeping at the homes of family and friends nearly an hour from the town where Donald had recently enlisted in community college. Apartments they called wouldn't take them. They scoured for hotels, but any option would run their pockets dry.
When the time comes to leave Park Street Apartments, the couple is forced to move their belongings into storage and set off for Nashville. Whether they'll nail down a house, job, or a place to live off their passions remains in limbo.
For felons like Weaver, finding apartments that will house them--let alone jobs and other resources to get back on their feet--can prove incredibly challenging. Even charges for minor felonies like drug possession can close doors to stable living. The following weeks saw the family sleeping at the homes of family and friends nearly an hour from the town where Donald had recently enlisted in community college. Apartments they called wouldn't take them. They scoured for hotels, but any option would run their pockets dry.
When the time comes to leave Park Street Apartments, the couple is forced to move their belongings into storage and set off for Nashville. Whether they'll nail down a house, job, or a place to live off their passions remains in limbo.
Donald leaves his Park Place Apartment complex carrying the couple's clock that hung in their living room, the last of their possessions to leave the apartment.
Donald's wife helps Donald move supplies to their unit at Affordable Storage on Morgantown Road in Bowling Green. Relocation is a frequent phenomenon for some convicted drug felons, who, recovered or not, can struggle to find housing with a criminal record. Moving possessions, house-hunting, and applying for services can take weeks of unpaid effort.
Donald meets with his daughter and grandchildren at a friend's house, where they sleep between discussing plans for a future place to settle.
Exiting jails presents similar challenges for thousands of other felons, especially those housed in Kentucky's jails without access to rehabilitation programs. In prisons, where rehabilitation programs are far more common, convicted felons have statistically lower recidivism rates than similar felons who serve out their time in jails, says Captain Douglas Miles, the head of Warren County Regional Jail's Reentry Program.
Bowling Green's jail is one of a handful in the state with varied programs aimed at helping those leaving their facility to get back on their feet. Programs on subjects like finances, free ID services, and plentiful drug rehabilitation homes offer ground for people leaving jail like Weaver to start new lives on, should they choose it. For others in the Bluegrass, though, and those dealing with criminal records, simply keeping a place of one's own remains one of the most difficult obstacles to living securely after time spent incarcerated.
Bowling Green's jail is one of a handful in the state with varied programs aimed at helping those leaving their facility to get back on their feet. Programs on subjects like finances, free ID services, and plentiful drug rehabilitation homes offer ground for people leaving jail like Weaver to start new lives on, should they choose it. For others in the Bluegrass, though, and those dealing with criminal records, simply keeping a place of one's own remains one of the most difficult obstacles to living securely after time spent incarcerated.
Donald's wife watches her husband as he carries out the last of their belongings from their apartment complex.
