Grace After Midnight

by Felicia Pearson

  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 great. There, by the curb, was Uncle’s wife, waiting for me.

  “He’d want me to do this,” she said. “He’d be proud of you. Wherever you wanna go, Snoop, I’m happy to drive you.”

  “Take me to Mama’s, please.”

  Mama was the first person I wanted to see. Hadn’t seen the lady for six years, since I first went into city jail. Hadn’t wanted her to see me locked up. Hadn’t told her when I was getting out. Wanted to surprise her.

  That drive to Baltimore was the best trip of my life. Everything looked beautiful. The passing cars. The billboards. The telephone poles. The Burger Kings. The motels. Even the white lines dividing the highway.

  I kept closing my eyes and imagining I was still in the Cut. Then I opened them and smiled. I wasn’t in the Cut. I was passing by a gas station, a school, a factory, a car wash, a playground.

  On the radio Da Brat and Tyrese were singing “What ’Chu Like.” I liked everything, everything I saw, everything I felt. I liked Destiny’s Child. I liked DMX talkin’ ’bout his “Party Up in Here.”

  At the same time, I wasn’t looking for no party. Didn’t wanna drink and sure as shit didn’t wanna drug. I was looking for Mama.

  “Child,” she said, as soon as I ran up the stairs, opened the door, and fell in her arms, “I sure wasn’t looking for you. But now that I found you, I gotta praise the Lord. Gotta say, ‘Thank you, Jesus.’”

  She started crying, and I started crying along with her.

  “Thank you, Lord,” she kept whispering. “Thank you, sweet Lord.”

  She fixed me a big meal and called the relatives over to greet me. Everyone was cool. No one said a nasty word about where I’d been.

  “We just happy to have you back” was the only word I heard.

  Everyone congregated around the kitchen table while I devoured the best meal of my natural life. Baked chicken. Macaroni and cheese. Greens. Corn. Hot apple pie.

  You couldn’t tell me that life wasn’t sweet.

  One cousin said, “Tell us the worst thing that happened to you in there.”

  “Not being here” is all I said.

  “She’s prettier than ever,” one of the aunts told Mama, nodding in my direction.

  “Pretty on the outside and inside too,” Mama said. “Minute I laid eyes on my baby, I saw the Lord had been dealing with her. She changed. God done put her in there for a reason.”

  I didn’t disagree with Mama. On that day, I didn’t disagree with anyone or anything. My mind was smiling as much as my mouth. I’d look out the front window of Mama’s place, the windows where you see East Oliver, and remember the tiny window in my jail. How many times had I looked out the window?

  Ten thousand? Ten million? Who knew?

  When I looked out Mama’s windows, I saw cars riding up and down the street. Kids playing. Dogs running. A taxicab. An ice cream truck.

  I could just step out the house and buy an ice cream cone. No one would stop me. No one would look twice.

  I did it. I bought the ice cream. Ate it. Sat on the stoop—that same stoop where I had first looked at the world, trying to understand the game—and just listened to the sound of my breathing.

  Evening fell. The rain stopped. The city smelled fresh. I continued taking in the sights and sounds all around me. Sirens. Buses. Mothers calling in their children. The world going on. The world doing its thing.

  I was back in the world.

  I was going on.

  But this time my thing would be different.

  This time everything would be different.

  LOVE, INSIDE AND OUT

  There’s inside love and outside love.

  Love inside the Cut is strange love because you’re locked up and nothing’s normal. Your life ain’t normal, your thoughts ain’t normal, your dreams ain’t normal. Your brain’s scrambled by all the bricks and bars and the cold fact that you can’t get out until they let you out. You’re also surrounded by a whole lot of bitches who ain’t never getting out. Their attitude about love will fuck you up.

  You want love. You always want love, no matter where you at. At Grandma’s House, when you find someone who seems sweet and nice, you grab on to her. Least I did. That was CO.

  Inside the Cut, CO and I met in the secret corners to steal a kiss. That always felt good. She was cool. She talked about the day I’d be out of there, the day when we could be a couple, sleep in a bed together, and have us some real sex.

  That day came soon after I got released. The sex was real. I liked all that. I thought CO and I had it going on.

  We went to the movies like a regular couple. We saw silly movies like Big Momma’s House and laughed our asses off. We saw scary movies like Scream 3 and action movies like Mission: Impossible II. Having a date, ordering a Coke and a box of buttered popcorn, holding hands, and sleeping all night with a lady I loved—these were good things.

  But I soon learned that love outside the Cut is different than love inside the joint.

  “Where were you yesterday?” CO asked.

  “Talking to my parole officer,” I said.

  “What about?”

  “About getting me a job. You know, they got that re-entry program. I been trained real good to fill out applications. They taught me how to make a good impression during interviews.”

  “Is your parole officer that tall woman with the big tits?” CO asked.

  “I’m an ass man,” I reminded her.

  “She likes girls, don’t she?”

  “She married with two kids.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I’m just another case to her,” I said.

  “I thought you said she likes you.”

  “She does. But not the way you worried about.”

  “I ain’t worried,” said CO.

  “You sounding worried.”

  “I just don’t see how it could take all day to meet with your parole officer.”

  “Didn’t say it took all day.”

  “Then what’d you do the rest of the day?” CO wanted to know.

  “Helped Mama in the kitchen.”

  “You didn’t go out?” she asked.

  “I did go out.”

  “Where to?”

  “The store.”

  “And then what’d you do?”

  “Picked up a bitch with a big butt and fucked her brains out all afternoon.”

  “You don’t need to be sarcastic,” said CO.

  “But that’s what you worried about, ain’t it? You think I’m fucking someone behind your back. Well, I ain’t. I’m the loyal type.”

  “I still wanna know where—”

  “I ain’t answering no more questions,” I snapped. “You can believe whatever you wanna believe.”


  Next day CO called and apologized. “There’s a movie that’s supposed to be funny,” she said, “called Miss Congeniality. Let’s go see it.”

  I said fine.

  We went to a gay bar afterward. CO was anything but Miss Congeniality.

  “I don’t like the way that bitch over there is looking at you,” she said.

  I said, “Ain’t shit I can do about it.”

  “You don’t got to look back at her.”

  “I wasn’t looking till you mentioned her.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” said CO.

  “We just got here.”

  “If you stay, you’re staying alone.”

  “I’m staying,” I said.

  “’Cause you wanna pick up on that bitch, right?”

  “’Cause I wanna finish my drink.”

  “I got drinks at my place.”

  “Then why the hell did we come to a bar?”

  “It was your idea,” she said. “You wanted to check out the merchandise.”

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  “You chasing me off. Is that it?”

  “I’m telling your bossy ass that I’m gonna sit here and finish my drink—that’s what I’m doing.”

  “And I’m telling you it’s time we got outta here.”

  That’s when I turned my back on CO.

  “If I walk out that door now,” she threatened, “you’re never seeing me again.”

  I didn’t say nothing.

  “All those years you were in Grandma’s House,” she went on, “all that time we spent together—you willing to throw it away?”

  Still didn’t say nothing.

  “I’m telling you, Snoop, I’m demanding you leave with me right now.”

  She put her hand on my shoulder.

  I knocked her hand away.

  No overbearing bitch was gonna put me in prison. I’d just got outta prison. That prison was made of concrete. CO’s prison was made of jealousy. Both prisons would make me miserable.

  It was a tough lesson, but at least I was learning it early on:

  Love inside the Cut one’s thing; outside it’s another.

  BOYS DON’T CRY

  Breaking up with CO didn’t put me in a bad mood. Being free to walk the streets and look for a job—man, that was enough to keep me happy 24/7.

  I was gung-ho to follow up on this re-entry program and do myself proud. Living back at Mama’s house, I was doing everything right.

  I’d turned over a new leaf and wanted to stay on the straight and narrow.

  I felt the blessing. I felt the grace.

  And even though I was sorry the thing between me and CO didn’t work out, I stayed away because I wasn’t interested in hooking up with someone ruled by jealousy. Life is too short for that shit.

  I didn’t go running into another relationship. That ain’t me. I’ve never been promiscuous. Never been known to run around with two different girls at once. Truth is, I’ve had only a couple of serious relationships. I don’t need to be with a woman on a date to have a good time.

  Lots of time I go out by myself. I like seeing movies alone.

  Not long after I got out of the Cut, I went to see Hillary Swank in Boys Don’t Cry. I’d heard it was about a girl who pretended to be a boy. People said it was a great movie. I wanted to check it out.

  I sat in that dark theater, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. Couldn’t believe how much I loved the story and loved the movie.

  I identified with the girl called Brandon who wanted to be a boy.

  I felt that her pain was my pain, her dilemma my dilemma, her heart my heart. She was sweet and she was good. Wasn’t looking to hurt no one. She was just being who she was. She was good people. I was rooting for her to get by.

  I was deep into the love story. I knew that a girl who feels like a boy can fall in love with a girl. And I know that a girl can love a girl who dresses and acts like a boy. I been there. I done that. That shit’s real.

  The whole movie was real. Hillary Swank chewed it up. As an actress, she had balls, just like the Brandon girl she was playing had balls. That whole movie had balls to show what it was showing. It had balls ’cause it made you love the Brandon girl. Didn’t judge her. Didn’t make it like she was sick or wrong. The movie understood. The movie loved her. And you had to love the movie.

  Well, I did. I was rooting for Brandon. I forgot, at least for a minute, that it was a real story that had a real ending. I was rooting for a happy ending. Come on, Brandon. You can do it. You can act like a boy, love on a girl, and have a happy life. You can get by. You can survive all the ignorance and hate that the world puts on gays. You get what you want and come out a winner. In the end, good triumphs over bad. Love wins all. Brandon’s gonna get through this thing. Brandon’s gonna survive. Gotta survive ’cause her heart is right and she ain’t hurt a fly and there’s no reason to hurt her.

  And then it happens.

  They rape her. And then they came in there with all the guns and stuff. And they murder her.

  Boys don’t cry, but I was crying. If you had a goddamn heart, you had to be crying. And then I got mad. Real fuckin’ mad. And then I got to thinking:

  If a big boy tried to rape me like that, I wouldn’t fight back because, one by one, a big boy will beat up a smaller female. Ain’t shit you can do. But afterward I’d come back. I’d come back when he thought everything was good. I’d come when he was sleeping. I’d come back and cut off his balls with a knife, slice off his dick, shove it up his butt and blow his fuckin’ brains out with a gun.

  That’s what I’d do to the motherfucker who messed up Brandon.

  That’s what I’d like to do all the motherfuckers who make fun of gay people by scaring ’em and hurting ’em and torturing ’em and humiliating ’em and treating ’em like we dirt.

  Boys Don’t Cry broke my heart and enraged my mind that there’s still all these assholes out there who got nothing better to do than mess up people different from them. Why? What’s the point? What they trying to prove?

  Ain’t we all supposed to be children of God?

  Ain’t he supposed to love us the way we are?

  Ain’t this grace business about not having to do nothing to get God’s love? He already loves you. He can’t do nothing but love you.

  He don’t love just white or black or gay or straight. He don’t say this church is wrong and that church is right.

  He’s just loving.

  The guys who killed Brandon were a long way from feeling that love.

  All they was feeling was blind hate.

  Like Uncle say, you go up or you go down.

  UP

  Got that Boys Don’t Cry movie outta my head. Got CO outta my head, too. I got plans to make, a job to get, a life to live.

  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.