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By Eddie Bocanegra, Chief Program Officer, Center for Employment Opportunities
Think about the last pair of Jordans you bought. Chances are, you recognized the iconic logo, thought about Michael Jordan, or appreciated the cultural influence the brand has had around the world.
But how often do we stop to think about the people behind the brand? The people making decisions, leading teams, and shaping its success?
And how many of us would imagine that one of those leaders had once been incarcerated for a serious crime?
Thanks to Strides for Peace National Gun Violence Prevention Expo, I recently had the privilege of moderating a fireside chat with Larry Miller, the former president of Jordan Brand and a former top executive at Nike. Larry helped lead one of the most recognizable brands in the world. But what made our conversation meaningful had little to do with sneakers or business.
It was how much we had in common.
Larry entered the correctional system at just 16 years old after committing a serious violent offense. His journey involved accountability, setbacks, and ultimately redemption. After returning to incarceration, he recognized the importance of education and began building a future that would eventually take him to the highest levels of corporate leadership.
As I listened to Larry, I recognized parts of my own journey.
My life has also been shaped by incarceration, the difficult process of rebuilding, and opportunities that allowed me to pursue a career I never imagined possible. I went from being directly impacted by the justice system to leading community violence intervention programs and eventually serving as a senior advisor at the U.S. Department of Justice.
Neither Larry nor I imagined we would find ourselves in these positions. And neither of us arrived there simply because we worked hard. We also had people willing to recognize our potential and give us an opportunity to demonstrate it.
That distinction matters.
We often talk about fair chances as though they are something people can create entirely on their own. We tell people to take responsibility, pursue education, develop skills, and prove they have changed.
But what happens when someone does all those things and the door remains closed?
One of the most powerful parts of my conversation with Larry was our discussion about the fear that can accompany professional success when you have a history of incarceration.
For years, Larry kept his past private. Even as he rose through corporate leadership, he worried that someone would discover his history, view him differently, or take away everything he had worked to build.
Imagine reaching the highest levels of your profession and still wondering whether people would see you the same way if they knew your full story. I understand that feeling.
When I entered spaces like the Department of Justice, I was surrounded by people whose professional journeys looked very different from mine. There were moments when I had to remind myself that my lived experience was not something that diminished my qualifications. It was part of what made my perspective valuable.
Larry eventually decided to share his story publicly, encouraged by his daughter, who recognized that his experience could help change how society views people with conviction histories. His decision challenged a narrative that has limited countless people: A conviction history does not erase someone's talent, intelligence, or capacity to contribute.
This is something I think about every day as Chief Program Officer at the Center for Employment Opportunities (CEO). At CEO, we work with people returning home from incarceration who are trying to do what Larry and I once had to do: establish stability, develop skills, earn someone's trust, and build a future.
For many, that first job is more than a paycheck. It is an opportunity to demonstrate reliability, develop confidence, and begin seeing themselves differently. It is a chance to establish a professional identity beyond their involvement with the justice system. That is why CEO provides immediate paid work experience, career coaching, advanced training, and support connecting people to long-term employment.
But our responsibility extends beyond preparing people for work. We must also challenge the systems and assumptions that prevent qualified individuals from accessing opportunities in the first place.
Employers have an important role to play. Fair-chance hiring is not about ignoring someone's history or abandoning accountability. It is about evaluating people as individuals and recognizing what they can contribute today.
My conversation with Larry reinforced three lessons: Be your own strongest advocate. Recognize the transformative power of education and that first job. And understand that building a meaningful career requires persistence, patience, and faith in yourself.
But these lessons also come with a responsibility for society. We cannot tell people to believe in themselves while refusing to believe in them. We cannot encourage education while denying qualified individuals access to careers. And we cannot celebrate redemption while maintaining systems that make it unnecessarily difficult to achieve.
Larry's story is extraordinary, but the talent that made his success possible is not as rare as we might think. Every day, people return home from incarceration with the potential to become business leaders, public servants, entrepreneurs, mentors, and valued members of their communities. Most will never lead a global brand or work in the Department of Justice. Nor should they have to. Success can mean finding stable employment, supporting a family, or becoming someone others can depend on.
The question is not whether people with conviction histories have the potential to succeed. Larry's story, my own journey, and the experiences of countless others have already answered that.
The question is whether we are willing to give them a fair chance to prove it.
