I’m not saying I can see the future. I can’t. But I pick up vibes and those vibes creep into my sleep.
For weeks my sleep was disturbed. I was dreaming of bad shit. Can’t remember it all, but it had something to do with knifings and shootings. Crews were being ambushed and sprayed. Then there were storms, hurricanes, tidal waves, and tornadoes blowing through the neighborhood and wiping out everything in their path.
I’d wake up sweating. Wake up wondering. Wake up with this bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Oh, well. There was work to do. I was on the cleanup patrol in the yard. I had my books to read and my lessons to learn. I had to keep my nose clean and stay outta trouble. I couldn’t think of the other twenty or twenty-four months I had to go, just sitting in Grandma’s House. I had to get up and do things to make the time pass. I had to live the life of the Cut.
And I did.
I’d see bitches about to get in a fight, and I’d avoid them.
Bitches might threaten me. I’d ignore them too. I couldn’t be provoked into a fight. Had no reason to fight. Had every reason to keep moving up.
So where were these dreams coming from?
In one, I’m walking through an open field and bombs are dropping on my head.
In another, a pack of wolves are chasing me down.
I’m drowning in the ocean and I’m being pushed out of a skyscraper.
I wake up with a headache, every single day.
The headaches get worse. Aspirin don’t help. Advil don’t help. The Cut has a pretty good doctor, but she says there ain’t nothing wrong with me. She says everyone in jail gets headaches.
Then one day I’m looking out that little window in my cell and see dark clouds coming over the horizon. They coming fast. It’s a storm from hell. Before I know it, day’s turned to night, pitch-black night, and the thunder’s booming and the lightning crackling and it sounds like God is dumping his anger down on Grandma’s House. Feels like the ceiling’s about to collapse and the walls above to cave in.
I’m walking down the hallways, on my way to the rec room, with the shit just getting louder and louder, when I see a girl on the phone. I know her from the neighborhood.
She puts down the phone and says to me, “Snoop, I just heard about Uncle. I suppose you know already.”
“Know what?”
“He dead.”
“What you mean dead?”
“What part of ‘dead’ don’t you understand? The motherfucker ain’t breathing no more.”
“He ain’t dead,” I say. “He was just here visiting me.”
“He dead all right. Drug deal went bad. The word is that he went to drop off two bricks and some nigga turned on him. Shot him up real bad.”
I look this bitch in her eyes. I see she ain’t lying. But I also know that I can’t deal with the truth.
I go through something strange.
I tell myself this ain’t happening.
I haven’t walked down the hallway.
I haven’t seen homegirl talking on the phone.
She didn’t look at me.
I didn’t look at her.
She didn’t open her mouth.
She didn’t tell me nothing.
She didn’t say Uncle’s dead.
Uncle’s not dead.
Uncle’s alive.
None of this happening.
Uncle was just here visiting me. Uncle gave me good encouragement. Uncle gave me the word I needed.
He’ll be back to visit. Maybe next week. Maybe the week after.
Everything’s cool.
When I get out of here, first thing I’ll do is run over to Uncle’s crib. He’ll be there with his wife and kids. He’ll greet me with that big smile of his. We’ll hug. We’ll sit down to lunch and he’ll tell me how proud he is of me.
It’ll be beautiful.
Uncle’s beautiful.
Uncle’s not dead.
He can’t be.
It didn’t happen.
LOSING IT
It did happen.
It took me a few minutes, and I was back to reality. Homegirl had told me that Uncle was dead. Her words were true, and just like that, I snapped.
I ripped the pay phone from the wall and threw it on the cement floor. Then I threw myself on the floor and started screaming.
Never in my life had I ever gone into this kind of rage: hitting my head on the floor, hitting again and again until I passed out.
Later they told me that the Turtles—the armed guards who worked at Grandma’s House—had to haul me off. It took four of them to contain me. When I woke up, I was in the mental ward. The way I was acting, they were scared I’d kill myself. And they weren’t wrong to be scared.
If it weren’t for the good-hearted guards that stayed by my side and saw me through, I might have done just that. But those guards were like the doctors who saved me when I was a cross-eyed crack baby. They got me through some of the worst days and nights of my life.
I can’t remember everything that was going through my mind during those long hours. I know it was despair, and depression, and anger, and confusion, and heartbreak, and fear. I was afraid that I couldn’t make it without Uncle. Uncle had been the rock. Uncle had been my biggest believer.
Despair said that nothing was right in this world. Depression said that nothing would ever get better. Anger said that the world was fucked. Anger cursed a world that would kill Uncle in cold blood. Confusion said nothing made sense. Heartbreak said something sweet and good was gone and would never be back. Fear said that what happened to Uncle could happen to me. Would happen to me.
CO tried to comfort me. She came to the mental ward and, when no one was looking, she held me. CO told me I’d get through it. CO was cool.
I was anything but cool. I was sweating at night and freezing in the morning. I had the chills. The killer headaches came back. The nightmares got worse. I kept thinking—If Uncle’s dead, why should I be alive?
You can only stay in the mental ward so long. You can only take sleeping pills and tranquilizers for so long. After a while, the pills turn on you and the tranquilizers get you crazier than you were before. So you have to make up your mind. As Uncle put it, ain’t but two ways—up and down.
I was going down.
When I got out of the mental ward, I felt myself going down. In my cell, I looked out the window. When the sun was shining I hated the sun because it made things look good when things were bad. When the sun went away it reminded me that there was no sunshine in my heart. When I looked out the window at night I couldn’t see stars, only darkness.
I went about doing what I had to do, lining up, mopping up, eating a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I lost weight. Refused to play basketball. Barely knew where I was or what I was doing.
Went through the paces.
Didn’t see no light, no hope, no nothing.
DOUBLE WHAMMY
Couldn’t do the usual things that got me going.
Couldn’t watch TV.
Couldn’t read a book. Or a magazine. Or even the sports page in the newspaper.
Couldn’t talk to anyone.
Couldn’t listen to anyone.
Could hardly look at anyone.
Kept my eyes glued to the floor.
Kept my mind glued to Uncle.
Him getting shot. Him being dead. Him never coming back.
My mind was fucking me, getting me to remember the good times when Uncle first became my friend. When he’d give me all that good advice. When he’d stop by the corner to make sure his Snoop was all right.
Mind was messing with me night and day until I was dying to find a way to shut down my mind completely. Just close my eyes and concentrate on something other than Uncle. Something other than this fuckin’ penitentiary. Something like good food. Or good pussy. Anything to get my mind off death and dying and doom and gloom.
I was eating alone, thinking those kinds of thoughts, when this girl who knew I came f
rom East Baltimore came up to me.
“You know that nigga you call Father?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t wanna hear nothing about Father. Didn’t wanna hear that he was dead. But she kept talking.
“He just got life.”
“For what?”
“For everything. They came down on him hard. Got him on every last thing you can imagine. And they made the shit stick. He gonna be gone forever and a day.”
They got Uncle.
Now they got Father.
Ain’t gonna see Father again no more. He ain’t dead, but he might as well be dead. Motherfucker’s now a lifer.
These were my guys, my lifelines. How did my lifelines become my deathlines. How did all this happen?
News of Father coming after news of Uncle deepened the hole I was sliding down. Blues got bluer. Funk got funkier. Everything got uglier.
If someone had said, “Take this here pill. Won’t hurt you none and you’ll be dead in ten seconds,” I might have swallowed it. Anything to get out of a world that was going against me.
I slept.
I sulked.
I let the darkness surround me until everyone was saying, “Snoop, you look half dead.”
I was half dead and knew it wouldn’t be long before the other half would crumble.
From one of the other cells I heard someone playing a song called “Sugar on the Floor.”
That’s what I felt like. All the sugar had spilled out of me and was on the floor. Nothing sweet was left. Hope was gone. Wasn’t any way in the world for this condition to lift. It was heavier than anything I’d ever felt before. It was permanent. No doubt, it was taking me down.
And then one night when my eyes were half closed I looked through the window and saw a half moon. That’s when it happened. Still don’t understand it. All I can tell you is that it happened.
GRACE AFTER
MIDNIGHT
I’ve never had a vision. Ain’t never seen no angel. Never heard the voice of God say, “Hey, Snoop, do this or do that.” Never heard the voice of God say nothing.
Back when I was a kid, Mama took me to her Holy Ghost Baptist Church. Pop had me over to where the Jehovah’s Witnesses praised God. Far as I was concerned, it was all good. Wasn’t like I got caught up in that shit, but I didn’t see it doing no harm.
As time went on, and I hit the corners, Mama would try to get me back me in church, but I wasn’t having it. Church didn’t mean nothing to me then. Didn’t have the time. Didn’t have the interest.
Then when I got stuck in the city jail and later sent down to the Cut, I seen ladies who couldn’t stop jumping for Jesus. They looked as crazy as the girls who were in there for murdering their boyfriends. Lots of time they were the girls who’d murdered their boyfriends. I stayed clear of them bitches.
Someone’s always trying to convert your ass in jail. Someone’s always throwing a Bible at you and getting you to see the light. Well, the only light I saw was the light coming out of that little window in my cell. I didn’t see no magical light.
But something amazing did happen to me a month after Uncle got hit. I’m gonna try to describe it best as I can, but it ain’t gonna be perfect. It can’t be, ’cause I don’t understand it.
I was sleeping. I was dreaming. I don’t even remember the dream, but I do remember when I opened my eyes I thought I was still dreaming. I actually pinched myself real hard to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t.
I felt something. I felt a presence. Something was in that cell. Something was surrounding me. I felt like it was coming in me; and I felt like it was coming out of me. It was a sweet warm energy flowing all around me. It had me smiling. I had no reason to be smiling, but I was. I don’t smile all that much, so for me to be smiling in the middle of the night for no goddamn reason is crazy. But this was crazy. This was more than a good feeling. This was something moving me and changing me and causing me to smile. This was saying to me, “It’s all right. It’s okay. Everything’s cool. Everything’s right.” It wasn’t saying that in words, but that was the feeling.
Then I felt Uncle’s presence.
I ain’t saying he came back from the grave. I didn’t see nothing. But he was there with me. I know how it felt when Uncle came round, and, believe me, in the dead of night he had come round. Motherfucker was there.
He was there and carrying love with him. He was saying—least the feeling was saying—that love is something that’s always there. It comes to you. You accept or you reject it. You accept it and it’s yours. Reject it and it’s gone. That’s it.
You go up or you go down.
This middle-of-the-night feeling had me up. More up than I’d ever been in my life.
I was rejoicing for the feeling. I wanted to wake up every last bitch asleep at Grandma’s House and tell ’em the good news.
Love’s all around.
Love’s come to town.
Love’s in the Cut.
And that love wasn’t nothing we had to buy or work for.
Was just there.
Free.
Beautiful.
Next morning I saw my godmother, Denise. I had to tell her about it. Denise is church people, and I knew she’d understand.
“That’s grace,” she said.
“What’s grace?” I asked her.
“God’s free love. It’s yours. You get it ’cause he’s giving it. He done paid the price for you.”
“Grace,” I repeated.
“Amazing grace,” she added.
“It came after midnight,” I said. “Grace after midnight.”
HOME STRETCH
This business of counting days will drive you crazy.
I was still eighteen. My new good behavior was being noticed, but I knew I couldn’t risk another negative move.
Now that I saw the light, I wanted to move into the light.
The light from that little window in my cell was shining brighter every day. Even if the day was gray, I’d see light inside the gray. The sky might be coal black, but I’d see light in a distant star.
If you look for light, you find it.
If you pray for hope, you get it.
I found light and I found hope.
When CO and I could manage our secret little meetings, she’d say, “Snoop, you a whole different person. I see you smiling.”
“Uncle put that smile on my face,” I said. “The only way I could have learned that lesson was through the fucked-up pain of his death. I saw what happened to him, my favorite guy in the world. Exact same thing was gonna happen to me if I didn’t turn this shit around. I’d get out of here and start acting the fool all over again. Those negative vibes were all over me. You saw that.”
“I’ve always seen something better than that in you,” said CO. “I seen someone decent and good.”
We’d hug, we’d kiss, and that’d be it. Better to live with sexual frustration than to get caught screwing a CO in the Cut.
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.
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