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Six months after Ronald Doyle鈥檚 wife died, he got a call from a public housing officer. Her turn had come up, and a family unit was available. For Mr. Doyle, who had three young children at home, it sounded like a lifeline.聽

But when Doyle tried to transfer the unit into his name and move his family in, he was denied. No reason was given, but as a former felon he knew the drill. 鈥淚t鈥檚 all about my record,鈥� he says.

That record includes a 10-year sentence for armed robbery in Providence. When Doyle got out of jail in 1991 after serving eight years, he had nowhere to go. 鈥淚 never knew my father. My mother died at 44. My grandma died while I was in jail,鈥� he says.

Public housing wasn鈥檛 an option for a felon like Doyle, so he drifted between addresses. Eventually he found steady work in construction, enough to pay the rent and later start a family with his wife. In 2006, he trained to handle contaminated materials and was sent to New Orleans to help clean up in the wake of hurricane Katrina. It was good money, and Doyle felt a sense of purpose.

Then he got the news that his wife had been diagnosed with a terminal illness. He flew back to Providence and stayed with her until her death, while taking care of their three young children. 鈥淚 was their father and their mother,鈥� he says.

When the housing officer called him after his wife鈥檚 death, he says he was informed that it wouldn鈥檛 be a problem to change the lease, provided he had legal custody of the children.

What happened next isn鈥檛 clear; Doyle says he got into a heated row when he visited the housing project after an official told him that he wasn鈥檛 entitled take over the lease. He believes that he was barred because of his criminal record. Direct Action for Rights and Equality (DARE), an advocacy organization in Providence, has highlighted Doyle鈥檚 case in its campaign and invited him to speak at public hearings.

鈥淎ll I want is to live affordably,鈥� says Doyle, an African-American who gets by on disability checks for a heart condition. He lives with his teenage children in a one-bedroom apartment on which he owes three months back-rent, and has applied repeatedly for public housing. 鈥淚 want my kids to have a safe place, a nice safe place.鈥�

For anyone who鈥檚 been in prison, finding stable housing is a challenge that is handicapped by tough, 鈥渙ne-strike鈥� rules on public housing aid. From federally funded housing projects to voucher programs, criminal records can be the difference between having shelter and being on the streets. Families who take in formerly incarcerated members 鈥撀爏pouses, children, siblings 鈥� run the risk of eviction for violating the rules.

In recent years, some cities have begun to rethink this rigid approach, encouraged by former President Barack Obama who sought to extend a 鈥渟econd chance鈥� to ex-offenders and tackle record rates of incarceration. Experts argue that stable housing, along with support services for ex-offenders, including drug treatment and education, can ease their reentry and reduce high rates of recidivism.

鈥淗ousing is more than shelter for the night. Housing is really fundamental to people staying out of the criminal justice system,鈥� says Marie Claire Tran-Leung, a staff attorney at the Sargent Shriver National Center on Poverty Law in Chicago.

The Trump administration has yet to lay down a marker on this reform movement. But public housing executives say they haven鈥檛 seen any change of federal guidelines.

鈥淲e want HUD [the Department of Housing and Urban Development] to continue to take the lead on this,鈥� says Ms. Tran-Leung, who has studied housing reentry programs in New York and other cities. 鈥淏ut at the end of the day, the policies that are going to impact people on the ground are going to come locally.鈥澛�

Last year New Orleans became the largest housing authority to end the automatic rejection of felons and give all applicants a hearing. Housing agencies in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles have run pilot programs on rehousing former prisoners, including family reunifications.

In April, Providence, R.I., where Doyle lives, revised its housing admissions policy, halving the 鈥渓ook back鈥� period for violent and drug-related crimes and no longer weighing arrests and minor crimes. Like New Orleans, it ended automatic denials in favor of individual hearings.

鈥淚t means a one-on-one consideration of people鈥檚 circumstances,鈥� says Melissa Sanzaro, deputy executive director of Providence Housing Authority.

She says she can鈥檛 comment on Doyle鈥檚 case but questions whether the account was complete. 鈥淪ome allegations from DARE we found not to be valid at all,鈥� she says. She conceded that applicants like Doyle could have been excluded under the old policy of blanket rejections.

Public records show that Doyle had other arrests and citations when he was on supervisory probation. Last year, he was charged with possession after he gave a ride to an acquaintance who was carrying drugs. Under Providence鈥檚 revised policy, applicants engaged in drug use in the previous six months are excluded. Doyle could be penalized if they suspect he was using.

Providence鈥檚 policy is too new for any change to be felt. In New Orleans, though, a six-month review found that 15 of 17 applications with criminal records had been approved by the panel. The other two were withdrawn. All were applicants who had been denied under the old policy.

Politics of crime prevention

There are more incarcerated people in the US than any other country in the world. After decades of rapid expansion undergirded by strict sentencing laws, US prisons are slowly paring the numbers behind bars, currently 2.3 million.

In addition to offenders released from state or federal prisons, many more cycle annually through local jails: Roughly 25,000 are released a day, according to a 2016 White House study. They can still be excluded from public housing on account of their arrests or reported drug use, even if they never stood trial.

The White House study noted that 77 percent of inmates in state prisons were rearrested within five years of their release. Nearly half re-offended in their first year.

Like the policies that fueled that prison boom, public housing exclusions are rooted in the politics of crime prevention.

In 1996, President Clinton a one-strike strategy. 鈥淐riminal gang members and drug dealers are destroying the lives of decent tenants. From now on, the rule for residents who commit crime and peddle drugs should be 鈥榦ne strike and you鈥檙e out,鈥欌�� he said.

Punitive measures for offenders had strong support from minorities living in public housing plagued by gun violence and drug dealing. Many African-American politicians and civil rights leaders sided with lawmakers in mandating long prison terms for drug traffickers, particularly during the crack epidemic that peaked in the early 1990s.

Housing agencies began to impose automatic bans for criminal activity and to look at arrests as well as convictions. Families faced eviction if their children or grandchildren sneaked drugs into the house, a policy since ruled constitutional by the Supreme Court.

Today, federal law has changed; it only prohibits housing aid to registered sex offenders and those convicted of producing methamphetamine in public housing. That leaves broad discretion for the roughly 3,000 agencies, from big cities to rural towns, that oversee federally funded public housing and voucher programs.

Campaigners say it鈥檚 impossible to know how many ex-offenders are excluded from housing, and for what reason, since most agencies don鈥檛 keep track and there is no national tally.

Compounding the problem, the White House has proposed deep cuts to housing subsidies. Currently, only 1 in 4 households eligible for federal aid receive public housing; ex-offenders who pass screenings join long waiting lists for new units.

In Providence, criminal record denials made up 61 percent of rejections for public housing in 2014. Appeals were rarely successful. 鈥淚t鈥檚 like a kangaroo court,鈥� says John Prince, a former prisoner who works on criminal justice at DARE.

Like many former inmates, Mr. Prince struggled to find shelter after his release in 1998 and ended up on the streets of Providence, a college town and state capital with a population of 180,000.聽Its housing authority has 2,600 units in nine developments and 2,700 vouchers for private rentals. None were open to Prince.

Ms. Sanzaro says housing tenants in Providence have fought in the past to 鈥渃lean up their communities鈥� and as Providence considered changing its policies, they were wary of former prisoners moving in. 鈥淭hey said it was really risky, that was the word they used,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ut at the same time, people deserve a second chance.鈥�

Indeed, critics say this type of exclusion is unfair to former prisoners who have done their time behind bars. While housing aid is taxpayers鈥� money, denying ex-offenders at risk of recidivism may be a false economy. Rhode Island鈥檚 cost per prison inmate in 2015 was $58,564, or $177 per state resident, according to the Vera Institute, many times what an annual housing subsidy costs.

鈥淧eople who have criminal records ... can鈥檛 work here, can鈥檛 vote there, can鈥檛 live there, can鈥檛 go to school there, what do we expect them to do? And so then we end up, because of those exclusionary policies, actually creating more crime, because the only option available is crime,鈥� says Bruce Reilly, deputy director of聽and an ex-offender himself, who works with grass-roots campaigns for fair housing access in both Providence and New Orleans.

While the developments in Providence and New Orleans are heartening, he says, America 鈥渋s not ready for things like actual forgiveness and real transformation.鈥�

Opportunity to become productive citizens

Mr. Reilly spent 12 years in prison in Rhode Island after being convicted of second degree murder and larceny at 19. He became a jailhouse lawyer, writing motions for other inmates and helping them prepare for parole-board hearings, which is how he found out about public-housing exclusions.

He says prisoners told him they 鈥渃ouldn鈥檛 go back to live where they used to live. 鈥業 can鈥檛 go live back with my mom,鈥� 鈥業 can鈥檛 live with my kid鈥檚 mom,鈥� 鈥業 can鈥檛 live with my grandfather,鈥� because they鈥檙e in 鈥� public housing. And I was always like, 鈥榃hy is this?鈥� 鈥�

Some flout the rules and move in anyway, says Reilly.

鈥淭he family has been, and will be, the No. 1 reentry program that we鈥檙e ever going to have, and for most of time it鈥檚 been the only one we鈥檝e had,鈥� he says.

Reilly left prison in 2005. One of the first places he went was DARE鈥檚 office in Providence where he knew Prince and other activists from prison and his letter writing. He became involved in criminal-justice campaigns, including a successful ballot initiative to restore voting rights for ex-prisoners. He also wrote and directed plays about life on the inside.

In 2011, he enrolled at Tulane law school in New Orleans. That year, HUD Secretary Shaun Donovan wrote to housing agencies across the country to urge them to rethink their rules on ex-offenders. 鈥淧eople who have paid their debt to society deserve the opportunity to become productive citizens and caring parents, to set the past aside and embrace the future,鈥� he wrote.

This shift in thinking galvanized criminal justice campaigners in Providence and New Orleans, including Reilly, who began volunteering at VOTE and later graduated from Tulane with a law degree 鈥� though it鈥檚 unlikely he can become an attorney, since Louisiana鈥檚 charter mandates 鈥済ood moral character and fitness.鈥�

Meanwhile, DARE, Reilly鈥檚 former organization, lobbied Providence for three years to reform its rules for former detainees. In April, the housing authority board in Providence voted unanimously to adopt new rules.

Among the changes introduced are a lookback period for felonies of five years, down from 10; no consideration of misdemeanors or arrests; and deferrals for applicants charged but not convicted of crimes so that they can remain on waiting lists.

For campaigners in Providence, it was a public victory, though not all their demands were met. And housing is only one small piece of the overall problem of mass incarceration and the rehabilitation of ex-offenders.

鈥淭his is a good change but it鈥檚 not enough,鈥� says Prince. 鈥淲e鈥檙e just chipping on an iceberg. I want to chip it all off.鈥�

Staff writer Henry Gass contributed reporting from New Orleans.

Correction: Bruce Reilly was convicted of second degree murder and larceny at 19.