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Caution was the word.

I read me some good books, about Malcolm X, Dr. King, Muhammad Ali, and other black leaders.

I listened to some good music.

When I heard my girl Janet singing ’bout “I Get Lonely,” I was wishing I could keep her company.

When Busta Rhymes was spittin’ ’bout “Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Could See,” I kept looking out that window in my cell and hoping the seasons would change faster.

Lil’ Kim was blowin’ up big. MC Lyte had out this jam called “Cold Rock a Party.” Missy Elliott was rocking “The Rain.” Juvenile, Jay Z, J-Lo, Ja Rule, JT Money, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Monifah and Monica and all kinds of shit was coming into the Cut. These sounds made me wanna get out of the Cut. But believe me, I wasn’t planning no escape.

I believed in the grace business.

I knew I was blessed.

And knowing that gave me patience. Gave me fortitude. Gave me the wherewithal to grind it out, hour after hour, day after day.

I got me that GED.

Thank you, Jesus.

Got me those good behavior reports.

Thank you, Lord.

Got along with every bitch that came my way, even the ones looking to claw out my eyes.

Found a way to chill ’em out.

I’d explain it clearly. “Look here, bitch,” I’d say, “I ain’t looking to fuck up anyone and I ain’t looking to get fucked up. So you best be moving on. You feeling me?”

They felt me. By then they knew I had a reputation that said, “Snoop is cool, but don’t get on her wrong side.”

My reputation for violence kept me peaceful.

“I’m changing my ways,” I told CO.

Told my godmother, Denise, the same thing.

“No more temper tantrums,” I said. “No more bullshit. I’m headed outta here and nothing can get in my way. Nothing except my own stupidity.”

“You got that right,” Denise agreed.

“I got lots of blessings,” I said.

“You got God to thank,” she told me.

“And I thank him,” I assured her. “I thank him every goddamn day.”

THE DAY OF DAYS

It’ll happen. Time will pass.

You can look at your watch ten hours a day. You can watch the second hand go round and round until your eyes cross and you can’t see straight no more. You can feel like time’s slowing down. You can even feel like time’s stopped, but, no, sir, it hasn’t. It keeps moving.

An hour.

An afternoon.

An evening.

A day.

A week.

A month.

A year.

And then two years.

The routine’s kicked in:

You sleeping all right. You eating all right. You getting in the rec room and shooting hoops all right. You squeezing in a little hidden time with your girlfriend. You studying up those books real good. Passing those tests. Being nice as you can be to the officers and the supervisors and the guards.

You getting by.

You letting that time pass and, believe it or not, you being cool about it all.

And then one day, you look up at the calendar and see that you’re there. The day of days has arrived.

You getting your ass outta Grandma’s House.

You kissing this fuckin’ Cut good-bye.

Like the old folk say, “Free at last. Great God almighty, we’re free at last!”

The day wasn’t sunny. The day wasn’t warm. There wasn’t no rainbow in the sky and the birds weren’t singing. Fact is, the weather was rainy and the sky was dark.

But I didn’t give a shit.

A hurricane could be blowing on the outside, but I’d walk into it with a big ol’ smile. To get outside the walls of the Cut, to step out of that joint into the cold air of freedom was all that mattered.

I had my little suitcase in my hand and was feeling lighter than air.

July 7, 2000.

Felicia Snoop Pearson, age twenty, was stepping out.

Felicia Snoop Pearson, former prisoner, was getting out early ’cause of good behavior and the work time she’d put together.

Felicia Snoop Pearson, former corner boy, former drug runner, former friend of every bad-ass nigga in East Baltimore, was taking her first breath of free air.

No bars in front of her; no bars behind her; no lockup at night; no checkup every hour; no one breathing down her neck.

The rain fell on my forehead. The rain felt