In this op-ed, writer Peter Rezk, a student at Carnegie Mellon University and an intern at Generation Progress (a Center for American Progress project), shares how his personal history led him to believe in the value of Clean Slate laws for juvenile offenders.

My father died from pancreatic cancer when I was a freshman in high school. With three children to raise and no husband to provide for them, my mother became the sole breadwinner. As the oldest child, I gained new responsibilities; I became a father-figure to my family, a role I never saw coming. I had to make sure I never burdened my mother, especially financially.

To help with money, I resorted to illegal activity and quickly found myself one small mistake away from falling into the criminal justice system, a broken system that disproportionately impacts low-income communities and people of color. Combined with some states’ policies that make it difficult to erase a criminal record, this system has left at least 70 million Americans with some degree of a criminal background — even those who have only been arrested for certain charges and never convicted — which can impact their ability to find work and go to school. I’m one of the lucky ones who got away with it, and this is my story. What I’ve learned is that young people need a second chance when they face these obstacles, and Clean Slate laws provide that.

My sophomore and junior years of high school were tough, but with my family’s support, I managed to get through with good grades, despite the tragic aftermath of losing my dad. But when my senior year rolled around, I panicked. Prom — an event that would bring some kind of normalcy to my life and that I had looked forward to for years — was financially out of reach. Between schoolwork and taking care of my siblings, I had no time for a job. Working overtime and struggling to make ends meet, my mother was in no position to afford a prom ticket for me either.

Pressed for money, I turned to drug dealing. During AP English, I was selling marijuana in my school’s second-floor bathroom. One day, my mother discovered what I was doing and immediately contacted our priest, who called me in for nothing short of an intervention. He reminded me of how much potential I had, and what a criminal record would do to all that promise. A few months and some life adjustments later, I found myself working at my local Hollister Co. selling overpriced T-shirts.

Had I been busted by someone other than my mom, had I acquired a criminal record, my life would look drastically different. I would likely not be enrolled in my third year studying biological sciences at Carnegie Mellon University, nor would I probably be interning at a top Washington, D.C., think tank. I would have been another fatherless kid busted for selling drugs, a narrative all too common in my hometown of Jersey City, New Jersey.

I was lucky to never have been caught dealing. But every year, many kids aren’t so lucky, and are arrested for minor first-time offenses. People just like me are hit with misfortune and pressured to find ways to make money for a prom ticket, some groceries, or a water bill.

Criminal records continue to punish many people long after they’ve served their sentence or paid their fine. With many college admission offices collecting criminal information on applicants, even a minor infraction can severely limit a young person’s access to a college education. And with nearly 9 in 10 employers screening the background of prospective candidates, most young people with a criminal history may struggle to find a job for years after serving their punishment. These limitations perpetuate cycles of poverty that can impact entire families and communities for generations.