As a child, Scott Horton dreamed of becoming a firefighter. “My father worked for the post office,” said Horton. “My mother was a school [bus] driver.” Only natural, then, that Horton would also want to enter public service.
Now, at 55, with salt-and-pepper hair, transition lenses, and a sparkly stud in his left ear, some of Horton’s early longings have materialized. He spends his days climbing ladders, wearing a hardhat, and scrambling around roofs. But Horton is not a firefighter; Denver’s fire department disqualifies applicants with felony convictions. Instead, he is a solar panel installer, one of the few paths available to him after a 19-year stint in prison.
On a chilly day in April, Horton arrived with his co-worker, John Young, who goes by J, in Athmar Park, the neighborhood where they would work on a 1950s single family home. Though nearly 30 years apart in age – J is 26 – both men were quick and agile as they set to work on the sloping roof, drilling rails on which solar panels would later be mounted. Soon, the air filled with birdsong from a nearby tree and rap music from J’s phone.
J, who served six months in “juvie”, spent another six months looking for work after getting out before landing in solar installation. That was five years ago. Since 2011, solar installation jobs have grown by 247%, according to a recent report.
Because of the need to rapidly transition to renewable energy and the barriers that the formerly incarcerated face in the US job market, the solar industry represents a potential boon for folks like Horton and J – if the industry can live up to its promise of well-paid, stable jobs. “They need people so bad,” said J. “Doesn’t matter if you have a record or not.”
Last year, President Biden unlocked $369bn to fight the climate crisis through the landmark Inflation Reduction Act; by January, US companies had announced more than 100,000 clean energy jobs. The solar industry presents a unique opportunity for formerly incarcerated workers, who often encounter stigma around their criminal records when re-entering the labor force.
To Horton, solar appeared as a godsend at a time when other industries weren’t willing to take a chance on him. After his release, he’d tried to get other jobs – one at the airport, and another at a cable company. But both places “did a criminal background [check], and said no”, he recalled.
In May 2021, three months after his release, Horton finally got a break. While still living at a halfway house, he was accepted into a solar training program with Grid Alternatives, a non-profit that offers no-cost solar installations to low-income households. Nearly two years later, Horton is now a solar accelerator intern with Grid, a full-time role that will eventually lead to a permanent position with the organization.
Both Horton and J, who worked for several private solar companies after prison and before joining Grid, believed the industry’s explosive growth has made solar companies more willing to overlook criminal backgrounds. Activists and academics say “green” jobs – which are defined as those that “preserve or restore the environment” and which can range from organic gardening to water management – represent an exciting path forward for the nation’s formerly incarcerated, a staggering 60% of whom are jobless.
But green jobs pose their own challenges. The working conditions – in solar especially – are extraordinarily tough. Installers work year-round, including in intense heat and cold. Horton recalled that many classmates in his first solar training class, which took place during the summer, did not graduate. “It was real hot on the roof,” he said. “Drained a lot of people.” And as temperatures rise in Colorado’s increasingly smoky summers, jobs like Horton’s will only become more grueling.
In Athmar Park, Horton and J were constantly in motion. After the panels were mounted, they installed micro-inverters under the panels, which converted the solar energy into electricity. Then, they ran a jumper cable through the solar conduit, connecting all panels into a single line that hooked into the house’s electrical box.
Time seemed to fly by until it was time for lunch and Horton brought out the tamales he’d packed for himself and J. Both men appreciated how their jobs, which were physically and cognitively demanding, made the time go by quickly. For people who’d spent weeks and months waiting for time to simply pass, this feature of their roles was perhaps one of the most important.
Despite the benefits, green jobs pose a financial hurdle for the formerly incarcerated in rebuilding their lives. Horton only makes about $45,000 a year, which is considered low in Denver. “It’s not good,” he acknowledged. “You have your days when you want more money.” Similarly, a Vice investigation found the majority of solar jobs are low paid and rarely unionized. J, who worked at Grid for 10 months, recently left his position after getting into an argument with a supervisor, according to Horton. For Horton, the low pay poses challenges. He dreams of buying a home some day, and taking his wife on a trip to South Beach – neither of which he can afford unless he picks up side jobs.
One reason for this low pay is that many green jobs, including solar, don’t require prior experience or knowledge. Horton is currently studying to become an electrician, receiving hours under a master electrician while also working as an installer. Once he finishes that training, he hopes to move to Grid’s electrical team, which offers better pay and won’t require him to get up on roofs. Despite safety protocols, falling off roofs is a common hazard, one that Horton’s wife and kids worry about constantly. Horton also has a pinched nerve in his shoulder, and arthritis in his knees – both of which make him reluctant to keep climbing on roofs for much longer.
Instead, electricians at Grid concentrate on rewiring homes’ electrical boxes to support rooftop solar. This work isn’t new to Horton: for 11 of the 19 years he spent in prison, he worked as an electrician helper. But that experience isn’t recognized by either solar or electrical certifying bodies.
So after his release, Horton had to start from scratch in getting his electrical credentials. “It’s unfair, but what can you do,” he said.
Low pay and poor working conditions are not unique to green jobs but reflect larger trends shaping the labor market for the formerly incarcerated. For example, New Yorkers with conviction histories are shuttled into non-union construction jobs with low to no benefits. Conditions are similar in waste management and food service – the other two major employers of the formerly incarcerated.
Once Horton gets his electrical certification, wiring new houses as a private contractor could finally allow him to buy his own house, and also take his wife on the trips they dream of. Still, he wasn’t sure if he’d go that route. “Everything isn’t always about money,” he said. He believes Grid’s work is more necessary than ever, as rising utility bills strain the wallets of those already struggling. “Like my mother,” Horton said. “She’s getting charged 200-and-something dollars a month for electricity. She is the only one in her house.” Horton’s mom, who’s 78, is also applying to get free solar panels through Grid.
Within Grid, Horton has become a mentor figure. Jennifer Flores-Perez, the installation team’s first female appointment, called Horton her teacher. Horton is shy to think of himself as a model for others. “The job’s not that hard,” he said, bashful. But later on, he and J jokingly called themselves the “A team” – implying some installers are indeed better than others.
Not every formerly incarcerated person who wants a green job ends up finding one. After serving three and a half years in prison, Maynard Rome took a six-month course in facilities management. A former realtor, Rome thought this type of role, which focuses on reducing buildings’ environmental impacts and maximizing efficient energy usage, would be right up his alley. But since finishing his course at the end of last year, Rome still hasn’t found a job. He admitted to feeling discouraged. Having a criminal record, he believed, kept him from being considered for roles that he was highly qualified for.
“They don’t even give you an interview to explain [the record],” said Rome, sounding frustrated. Even in the booming “green jobs” sector, Rome’s experience points to how difficult it is for the formerly incarcerated to find meaningful work – even though such employment significantly reduces recidivism.
Rome wasn’t sure if he’d keep applying for jobs, in facilities management or otherwise. For now, he’s supporting himself by buying used hot tubs, fixing them up, and reselling them.
Things have worked out much better for Horton. “I told myself when I get out, I’m going to try to get my life back on track,” he said. Solar has allowed him to do that, and even if he doesn’t stay in it forever, he’s grateful. No matter what comes next, he said, it has “opened the door for a lot of things”.
