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I’m gonna jump into this re-entry program my parole officer’s been helping me with. Re-enter the city. Re-enter society. Re-enter the workforce. Become a useful citizen. Use the skills I learned in the Cut. Go straight. Stay straight. Stay connected to hardworking people doing good. Avoid the assholes and hang with the achievers.

Got me a plan.

Got me new energy.

Good energy.

Clear-eyed clearheaded energy.

Got me this training that says, “When you fill out an application, and if it asks whether you’ve been to jail, leave it blank. Then during the interview, when and if the question comes up, explain how you did your time, earned your GED, and are 100 percent rehabilitated. That way you have a chance to get a job. But if you indicate on that application that you’ve been to jail, that might prevent you from getting the interview.”

I was ready, set, go.

The training had me thinking positive. I was clean. I was smiling. I was talking correctly and displaying good manners. When I went to the employment agency, I was on my Sunday best behavior.

Man looked at me and said, “You look like a strong girl.”

“I am, sir.”

“Looks like you wouldn’t mind manual labor.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Working in a factory bother you?”

“Working in a factory sounds good.”

“You sure got a positive attitude.”

“Gotta be positive, sir. Positive is what gets us through.”

“Well, you’re getting through to me,” he said. “I see an opening at a car plant. They need a worker on the line where they make those bumpers. You interested?”

“Very interested, sir.”

“When you can start?”

“The second I leave here.”

He laughed. “You’re not making bumpers in those nice clothes, are you?”

“I’ll pick me up some overalls on the way, sir.”

“You can show up tomorrow morning. I’ll call the foreman now. He’ll be happy to have someone this eager to work.”

“And I’ll be happy to help him any way I can, sir.”

That was it!

I walked out of that agency smiling from ear to ear. First interview, and swish! I score! Nothing but net.

I had a job. I was on my way.

Went home and told Mama, who, of course, gave the glory to God. That was okay with me. Maybe it was God. Maybe it’s always God.

Well, with God’s light finally shining down on me, I walked past the corner where the boys were dealing dope and didn’t give those niggas a second glance. My pay might be meager and my hours long, but the work was legit and the job was real. You had to be responsible to work this gig. And the company had to have some faith in me to put me in the factory.

I had followed the training course, and the training course was working. I didn’t indicate I’d been to jail on the application, and, to my happy surprise, the guy never brought it up. If he had, I was ready with an answer—I’d paid my debt to society, I’d done my time and come out a better person. But the question never came up. He was a good guy. He saw that I was all about wanting a good job, and he gave me a break.

That night I sat in the bathtub listening to my Mary J. jams. I wanted to relax before the big day. I didn’t want to go out and celebrate. Didn’t wanna party because I was seeing that work would be my party. Work would be where I could find the real joy in my life. Work—honest work—is what I’d always missed. Having a boss. Being responsible to the boss. Learning quickly and getting ahead. I’d always bucked the system, but now I wanted the system. Wanted it to work for me. Would make it work for me.

Slept a dreamless sleep.

Got up early.

Felt refreshed.

Mama made oatmeal, fresh-squeezed orange juice, toast, and jam.

Put on a clean new pair of overalls. Fixed myself a couple of sandwiches for lunch.

Joined the other workers of the world as we waited at the bus stop.

I felt regular.

Felt good.

Caught the bus.

Got off at the plant.

Went through doors, walking proud, looking for my foreman.

“Hello, new world,” I said to myself. “I’m ready.”

THE LINE

I’d been in police lineups, but I’d never worked