When I was little, my dad was my childhood hero. He made me feel like the world was conquerable. He was the guy who could fix anything and made every family vacation feel endless. He taught me to read and how to defeat fear on roller coaster rides. The warmth of his hugs brightened my worst day as a child.
But then, one day, everything changed.
I was only 12 years old when my hero was taken from my world and sentenced to 22 years and 10 months in a federal prison for a nonviolent, victimless cannabis offense. My father, Ricardo Ashmeade, is one of the countless casualties of the 1994 Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act that then-Sen. Joe Biden championed during the height of the so-called war on drugs. The bill’s three-strike laws and mandatory minimums have disproportionately devastated many Black and Brown communities.
The first time I visited my dad in prison, I cried. I was 12 years old. He looked the same, but everything around us felt wrong. The room was cold, with distance between us, and guards made the visitation process difficult.
At first, we tried to visit as much as we could (once a year), but over time, the visits became less frequent because of the challenges involved. The prison was far from where I lived; travel took up an entire day. The cost of gas, food for the trip, and sometimes even hotel stays made it difficult for my family, especially when money was tight. There were stretches where I didn’t see him for five years at a time.
The emotional toll was another factor. Seeing him in prison is not easy. There are strict dress codes, long waits, and the staff and environment itself felt cold and unwelcoming. I still leave visits feeling both grateful to see him and heartbroken that we couldn’t just walk out together.
I have spent more than half of my life without my father by my side; 16 and a half years, to be exact. My proudest moments were also a painful reminder of what was missing. Every milestone, like birthdays, school achievements and my sports games, and even everyday life felt incomplete without him. He missed my high school and college graduations. He most likely will miss my graduation from law school, which is a moment I had dreamed of sharing with him.
“Approximately 3,000 people, including my father, remain incarcerated for federal cannabis offenses.”
When my father was sentenced, I was too young to fully understand what his absence would mean for my family and me. His absence soon became the defining feature of my upbringing. Life became much harder for my family; my father’s incarceration forced my family into financial hardship. My two-parent family structure was broken, putting a physical and emotional strain on my primary parent and my siblings. It impacted our housing and educational opportunities because we were constantly moving.
It also inspired me to take action. It was not just about the pain of losing a parent to the system as a kid, but it was about witnessing how the system treated my childhood hero and how powerless I felt. These years have shaped me profoundly, but they’ve also left scars I’m still working through.
Now, as an adult, the effects are still there. My dad missed out on being a father, and I missed out on having one. It’s a painful reality that shapes who I am and reminds me every day of how much was taken from both of us. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that incarceration doesn’t just punish the person behind bars — it punishes everyone who loves them.
Today, as I enter my final semester of law school, my father remains incarcerated, serving time in a system that has already begun to acknowledge its mistakes.
In 2016, California’s Proposition 64 led to the expungement and reclassification of my father’s felony cannabis offense as a misdemeanor. Despite this, the federal courts have denied him a rightful resentencing, even though they used this same California conviction to justify his lengthy sentence.
It is a cruel irony that while cannabis dispensaries profit legally, my father remains in a cell for actions now deemed acceptable under state law. While others now build wealth in the cannabis industry, families like mine are still paying the price for outdated and racially biased policies.
President Biden has expressed regret over certain aspects of the bill in recent years. He has acknowledged that mandatory minimum sentences and mass incarceration had negative consequences for many communities. Our communities.
He can still right history on the war on drugs he once championed; all it takes is the stroke of a pen.
In October 2022, Biden issued historic pardons that were later expanded to impact 13,000 federal cannabis convictions, offering a moment of hope for families like mine. However, no one has been released from prison under those pardons. Only a commutation can achieve that. Approximately 3,000 people, including my father, remain incarcerated for federal cannabis offenses.
As I grew older and began to study law, the weight of this injustice became clearer and heavier. This drove me into cannabis advocacy. My advocacy is not just about changing laws but also about healing families torn apart, healing overpoliced communities, and healing the wounds of an unjust system that still hasn’t been fully reckoned with.
My father is my best friend. My relationship with my father, even with him being in prison, is strong and deeply meaningful. Despite the physical distance and all the challenges that come with his incarceration, we’ve managed to stay close through phone calls, letters and the rare visits we’ve been able to have. He worked hard to make sure I felt his love and support, even from afar.
When I walk across the stage at my graduation in a few months, my father should be free to stand by my side, not as a favor or privilege, but as a matter of justice. Public support for cannabis clemency is overwhelming, with 84% of voters favoring the release of individuals serving time for offenses that are now legal.
President Biden has the power to make that happen. He has a unique opportunity now, as his term nears an end, to leave behind a legacy of justice by using his clemency power.
In a recent interview from prison, my father expressed his hope and pride in me as I received the Last Prisoner Project’s (LPP) Cannabis Reform Hero Award. Yet the anguish of our separation loomed over our family like a shadow. He told me, “I have watched you grow from a distance and want nothing more than to be there for you on your special day.”
I want my father to see me graduate. I want him to witness the culmination of the work I have dedicated my life to, righting the wrong that took him from me. I have used my voice as a poet and spoken word artist to tell this story, our story. But my words alone won’t be enough to free my father.
As the clock ticks down on Biden’s presidency, so does another moment in my life that my father will miss. The urgency of this moment cannot be overstated.
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Richeda Ashmeade-Sinclair, a law student and advocate, fights for justice inspired by her father, Ricardo, who was sentenced to 22 years for a nonviolent cannabis offense under outdated three-strikes laws. Her advocacy journey began with organizing for Proposition 64, which legalized cannabis in California. From competing on the San Diego Poetry Slam Team and opening for Ghostface Killa in NYC to recently receiving the LPP Cannabis Reform Hero Award, Richeda is a spoken word artist highlighting the broader impact of incarceration on families like hers facing unjust sentences. Help reunite Richeda and her father by signing this petition.
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