First 9 Ex-Cons Move Into Public Housing

For the first time in his life, Joe Burgeson has an apartment to call his own — and a spot in a college classroom.

Burgeson (pictured), who’s 55, spent three decades of his life in prison. Since his release in 2009, he has spent 18 months homeless, living in a shed, outside, or crashing on a friend’s floor.

Now he’s one the first people to move into public housing as part of a pilot program designed to give ex-cons a chance to prove themselves as law-abiding tenants.

The Community Reentry Program, created earlier this year, freed up 12 spots for ex-offenders who would otherwise have been banned from public housing based on their criminal records. The program gives them preference in the application process, meaning they can jump long waiting lists to land a spot in apartments owned by the city housing authority.

Burgeson, who was homeless at the time, was one of 30 people who applied right away for the 12 spots in the spring. (Click here to read more about his story.)

So far, nine ex-offenders and their families have been given homes through the program. Others are being processed, according to Karen DuBois-Walton, executive director of the Housing Authority of New Haven. They’re being placed among the 1,600 apartments that are directly managed by the housing authority. They’ll be housed in family and elderly-disabled complexes across the city, not all in one place, she said.

Burgeson was one of the first to pick up keys to his own home. He moved into a studio apartment at Winslow Celentano in Wooster Square in mid-August.

On a recent morning, he proudly gave a tour of his new apartment — which includes a new stove and fridge, a private bathroom with a glassed-in shower, and a fourth-floor balcony with a view of downtown.

Before moving in, Burgeson spent months sleeping on the floor of a friend’s house in Beaver Hills. He said he would leave early in the morning, walk miles across town through the wind and sometimes cold, and come home at night, to stay out of the way.

“Not having to do that anymore — it’s great,” he said.

His cupboards held a few signs of a stable home: a neat stack of New York Times papers (he does the crossword every day), two large boxes of Corn Flakes, and a bottle of laundry detergent.

As Burgeson continues on an ambitious recovery plan, the new home is helping him turn his life around. For the first time in 35 years, he is back in the classroom, working toward an associate’s degree at Gateway Community College.

As he learns about Mozart and Western civilization, a number of people are rooting for him and monitoring his progress, in part to see whether the city’s pilot program will succeed.

After spending so many years on the streets and behind bars, Burgeson developed a severe, emotionless visage, what he calls ​“prison face.” Though he instinctively flashed that expression for a photo, his face warmed up as he talked about the people who’ve come to trust and support him in his new life. Those people have come through a network of social service providers and a welcoming church community.

Before gaining his new autonomy, Burgeson spent 33 out of 41 years behind bars for various crimes. Between 1977 and 2000, he spent only seven months on the outside. Most of the crimes — robbery, burglary, larceny — came as he struggled with addiction and sought money for drugs.

His latest stint in prison was for holding up two Dunkin’ Donuts stores in February 2006. Burgeson emerged in January 2009 with new resolve never to go back. So far, he hasn’t faltered. Surrounding himself with a new set of people and doggedly seeking resources to help his recovery, he has stayed away from old habits and stayed clear of street drugs.

Staying on track is part of a contract he struck with the housing authority in order to be granted a home.

Before this year, people coming out of prison with felony records were barred from entering public housing, said DuBois-Walton. People who committed larceny or financial crimes were barred for three years after their release. Those convicted of more serious felonies — such as assault, homicide, and other crimes against person — were barred for 10 years. Those who committed arson or sex assault were, and remain, barred for life.

In March, the housing authority loosened restrictions in the first two categories, allowing them to apply for housing.

Getting a job is a battle that Burgeson, despite persistent efforts, has not been able to overcome. So paying full rent for an apartment was out of the question. Without any family — his three siblings all died in their 30s from drugs and alcohol — he had no network of support, and could not find a permanent place to stay.

Burgeson isn’t alone. About 25 people return to New Haven from prison each week. Lots get turned away from public housing. For example: Of the 125 people who applied for an apartment in public housing in February, about a quarter were rejected for criminal or credit reasons, according to the housing authority.

Before the city created the new reentry program, the only applicants who got preferential treatment in housing — meaning they jump the line — were victims of domestic violence, people in witness protection, and public housing tenants whose apartments have been condemned. The agency decided to add a preference for 12 ex-offenders. They still have to pass a credit check.

One of the first people accepted to the program, Burgeson got approved in May. He was surprised to find out that he got to choose where he’d like to live.

“I’m used to jail: You move where they tell you to move,” he said.

He picked the housing complex at the corner of Olive and Wooster Streets in part because it’s close to Long Wharf, where he walks to attend classes at Gateway Community College. Burgeson won a scholarship to attend the school a year ago, but had to twice postpone his enrollment because he didn’t have a stable home.

Attending classes is part of a contract he has with the housing authority. For their first year in public housing, the participants in the reentry program get extra support, and monitoring, from a case manager who aims to keep them on the right track. In a lease addendum, tenants agree to comply with the terms of their parole or probation, and ​“to show that they’re engaged in something that’s leading them towards self-sufficiency,” DuBois-Walton said.

For Burgeson, that means staying in classes at Gateway. For another tenant, a single mom with two kids, it means holding down a part-time office job. For others, it may mean attending a treatment program.

For the first year, tenants in the program check in frequently with a case manager at the housing authority to show they’re upholding their end of the deal. If they make it through the first year, they can transition to becoming a regular housing authority tenant, with a standard lease, DuBois-Walton said.

Tenants also have to keep up with the rent. Burgeson, who qualifies for disability housing because of a neck injury, said his studio apartment costs him $50 per month.

DuBois-Walton said she’ll be watching how the first batch of ex-offenders do this year, to evaluate whether the pilot program should be continued or expanded.

“If all goes well, we’ll think about increasing those opportunities,” she said.

After two months in his new house, Burgeson’s sticking with his contract — and enjoying it.

Though he’s now a talented writer and avid reader, Burgeson didn’t make it far in school. He grew up in Fair Haven, and got into trouble at an early age. By the time he was 13, he was sent off to reform school in Meriden. Between ages 14 and 16, he got arrested dozens of times, he said, for stealing cars and petty crimes.

“God gave me the gift of intelligence,” he said, but that intelligence ​“got buried in emotional sickness.”

Sixth grade was the last grade he fully completed, he said. He skimmed through a couple more grades, and eventually got a G.E.D. Most of his learning, he said, came from books he picked up in prison. That made for an ​“eclectic” foundation — deep knowledge of some pockets of history, but gaps in other places.

At Gateway, he’s filling in some of those gaps with a music appreciation class.

“It’s new,” he said of the class. ​“I’ve heard of these composers before, like Bach or Mozart.” But ​“they were just names.” Now, he said, he’s learning how they fit into a broader trajectory of music and history. ​“Its cool.”

His bigger goal is to earn an associate’s degree, so he can land a job.

“You need a degree for just about anything,” he said. ​“I don’t think I’ll get anywhere if I don’t go to school.”

Outside class, he’s learning a whole different set of skills — how to integrate into a new world of family-oriented people who have grown to support him.

Shortly after getting out of prison, Burgeson started attending Mass at St. Brendan’s, a Catholic church on Whalley Avenue. He started volunteering around the church, cleaning up after coffee hour and helping to cook meals for special events.

Dot Gemmell, a lifelong member of the church, said she asked him if he needed a ride home one day last year, and found out that he was homeless. Since then, she has been helping him out when she can — buying him clothes or a backpack when he needs one. In return, he has helped her out around her home in Orange.

“He does yard work for me. He’ll do anything that I ask,” she said. ​“I wish he could find some type of work.”

Over the past year, she has come to know him well, and to support him.

“I like Joe. I think he’s a good guy. I just admire his tenacity and his persistence in making sure he’s on the right path,” she said. ​“And I feel he’s on it.”

When Burgeson applied for a public housing apartment, Gemmell wrote a letter in support. When he landed the apartment, she bought him a new bed, sheets, and a recliner.

Burgeson said when he started going to the church, he was struck by how the people there are so family-oriented. Gemmell has nine children and treats him a bit like family, too.

After spending so many years in prison, Burgeson said, ​“hanging out with these people — they’re not criminals, they’re not drug addicts — it’s new.”

“They’re teaching me by example,” Burgeson said. ​“I see how they live — the giving that they do.” He said in his past life, ​“I was a taker. If I wanted it, I took it.” Now, he said, he’s learning to give as well — with his time, with kindness, or by doing odd jobs for friends.

One of his supporters has been Siobhan Thompson, co-founder of the Connecticut Prison Hospice, which reaches out to people who are dying in prison. Thompson, who works in research at the Yale School of Nursing, said she has worked with hundreds of people with histories of incarceration.

“The real issue is recidivism” — slipping back into old habits, and returning to crime after getting out of prison. ​“It’s an immensely important issue in our society. When I think of Joe, I think of someone who is really determined to stay out of prison.”

“There are more things on the outside of prison to point you in the wrong direction, instead of the right direction,” she said. ​“Joe is moving in the right direction. … That’s a notable accomplishment.”

Thompson said she was able to help Burgeson connect to resources for food and clothes, but ​“I couldn’t address his housing needs. That’s a huge gap.” Having a stable home is a key part to recovery — and to avoiding offending again, she argued.

Burgeson said he feels he earned his new apartment, by staying on the right track, and gaining people’s trust.

He acknowledged he’s fighting against the odds.

“It’s hard to change — really change,” he said. You have to be ​“willing to continually look at yourself.”

Looking, he said, can be difficult.

“I committed a lot of acts of violence when I was in prison, because I was a tough guy, a convict.” His primary targets, he said, were ​“child molesters and snitches.”

“I think of the things that I did, the people that I hurt.” The people he hurt most, he said, were ​“my family. I hurt my family over and over and over.” His parents and siblings have passed away, leaving no one else behind.

“I wish just one of them was alive,” he said. ​“I can’t tell them I’m sorry. … I can’t make amends to them. The only way I can make amends is to do right, … to make it and succeed. That’s what they would want.”

So far, he’s off to a promising start, said Amy Meek, City Hall’s liaison to the reentry program.

“Joe is definitely one of the stars of the program — he’s been amazingly successful,” Meek said.

“I’m becoming a citizen of the world,” said Burgeson. ​“Thank God for this apartment, these people that I’ve come to know who are helping me out.”