"Did I know that when I hired you?" he asked.

I paused for a moment to think about what my answer should be.

No more lies, Cup. It's time to tell the truth.

I quietly admitted that I'd lied on my resume. For a moment he didn't say anything, though he chuckled softly. He said he was glad I was getting myself together so that we could turn the information on my resume from lies to truth. He also said that if there was anything he could do to help me in this effort to fulfill my dream, to let him know.

Everyone else in the family also thought my becoming a lawyer was a great idea and immediately joined V in efforts to encourage me to go to school. Actually, their encouragement got on my nerves. Of course they loved the idea. It's always easy to tell someone else what to do. It didn't matter though, because regardless of what they said, I had my own doubts.

It wasn't just uncertainty that was holding me back from returning to school. Before my mom died, I regularly attended school, even loved it. But since then, I'd developed a general dislike for it. I didn't remember much about my sporadic attendance in junior high, and remembered even less about the short-lived high school. What I did remember was why I never went-I hated it. I hated everything about it: the teachers, the tests, the homework. I especially hated homework. I always believed that only nerds did homework. Shit, I was too old to be a nerd.

If truth be told, neither my feelings of self-doubt or hatred for school were really stopping me from going back. Oh, the emotions were genuine, but they were still excuses. The bottom line was that I was afraid. I was afraid I was too dumb to make it; too pathetic to take it; and too old to fake it. Although on paper I'd dropped out of school during my first semester of the eleventh grade, once you factored in my recurrent ditching, missed semesters, and the lengthy bouts of running away and living on the streets, I probably had enough actual school to take me to the ninth grade. The ninth grade.

Luckily for me, I'd learned various mottoes to help me deal with fear. Whenever I was afraid (an emotion I encountered regularly when newly sober), V would say: "It's okay to be afraid. It's not okay to let the fear stop you."

And Momma Chaney would put one hand on her hip and stick the forefinger of the other in my face and say sternly: "Cup, always remember the acronym for 'fear' can mean one of two things: 'Fuck Everything And Run or Face Everything And Recover.' Now which one YOU gon' do?" Then she'd stand there glaring at me, waiting for a response. Of course, the first time she said this, she had to explain what an "acronym" was. From then on, though, I always chose the latter version. Shoot, I was afraid she'd kick my ass if I didn't. Momma Chaney refused to let me wobble or weaken when it came to doing things that would change me for the better. She'd force me to march on in spite of whatever it was I was afraid of, or whatever it was she felt I was allowing to hold me back. And I appreciated her immensely for it.

So, it was those mottoes I used to sustain me when I made the decision to go to school regardless of the fear. And a part of me wanted to at least try. Not to be a lawyer; that dream seemed too far fetched, too unrealistic. I wasn't signing up for that joke. But there was nothing far fetched about getting a G.E.D. Hell, at least it would be a start.

Problem was, I didn't know where to go or what to do to get started. Did I have to get my school records? Where were my school records? I'd gone to at least three different junior highs and three different high schools. The realization that I didn't even have a starting point thwarted my plans-that is, until I shared my frustration with V.

V was attending school at San Diego City Community College, so she was able to tell me about the adult school located across the street that offered continuing-education classes-though she didn't know how to enroll or even the hours of operation, but, since it was right across the street from the community college, she suggested I go talk to a counselor there to get some guidance on how to get into the adult school.

I called the community college and made an appointment to see a counselor. I missed the first one. I was too scared, and I convinced myself that the whole thing was just a waste of time. When V found out what I'd done, she hit the roof.

"You're going to make another appointment, you hear me? And you're going to show up for it. I don't care if you have to close your eyes, clench your teeth, and force one foot in front of the other. You will walk into that next appointment! And when you get there, you're going to talk to the counselor and answer his questions!"

Damn, she was bossy-and I loved her for it. With V listening on the three-way, I made another appointment for the following week. She offered to go with me, but I refused. I had to learn to start doing things for myself and by myself. Before hanging up, she shared something with me that someone else had shared with her: "If you put God in your plans, you can make them as big as you want."

- The day of the appointment, I was so anxious I could hardly work. I stood outside the door to the counseling office for a good twenty minutes. When it was finally time to go in, I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth, and forced myself to put one foot in front of the other.

The counselor was an older black man named Mr. Johnson. He greeted me with a big smile and a warm, hearty handshake. Instead of starting to talk about me right off, he told me a little about himself: where he went to school, what his major was. Sharing about himself allowed me the ease to open up about myself so that when he asked why I was there, I was ready to tell him.

I told him I wanted information about the adult school across the street because I wanted to get my high-school diploma or G.E.D.

"Well, what do you want to do-eventually, I mean?" he asked. I hesitated for a moment.

I was afraid he'd laugh at me. But then it suddenly occurred to me that he didn't know my past, so why would he laugh?

"I think I want to go to law school," I replied.

"Well, no law school is going to ask you where you went to high school. They'll only want to know if you have a bachelor's degree. Besides, how old are you?"

I replied that I was twenty-seven.

"Oh, you're too old to be going back to high school. So I wouldn't waste my time. If I were you, I'd start right here at the community college. You can get your associate's degree and transfer on to a four-year university."

Most of what he said was foreign to me. I wasn't sure of what a "four-year university" was and why it was so different from the community college. Hell, I thought college was college. What I did understand was that I was too old for high school and that it wasn't required for law school.

Mr. Johnson said the first thing we had to do was test me.

I hated tests. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea," I said as I stood up to head for the door.

Mr. Johnson stood up, gently took my arm, and almost begged me to sit back down. I started to say no, but the pleading in his eyes told me he really didn't want me to leave. So, I returned to my seat.

"Don't worry about it," he said calmly as he began searching for something in a book. "These tests are a good thing."

"I always flunk tests," I protested.

Mr. Johnson assured me that these tests could not be flunked. He said the purpose of them was to help the school determine my learning level.

He went on and on about how the school would assist me every step of the way and about how community college was a great starting point for someone like me-someone who wasn't used to being a student. After a little more convincing, I agreed to take the test, but I left thinking, What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

- I showed up for the test scared, insecure, and pissed that it took me twenty minutes to find a damn parking space. But I showed up nonetheless. There were about thirty or so other people in the testing room. I was too nervous to notice them or even care about them. I was too worried about whether I'd smoked, snorted, and drunk all my brain power away.

If I had some speed, at least I'd be more alert.

In response to my fear, old thinking kicked in. As I'd been doing since getting sober, I ignored it.

As the proctor passed out the tests, I said a small prayer-nothing big or fancy, but one of my favorites: Help me!

I loved the English portion. I was able to answer almost every question. I didn't know if the answers were correct, but I was able to put something down just the same.

The rest of the test was a disaster: math, social studies, history, and some other shit I didn't know. I couldn't write down anything, I couldn't even guess most of the time. So I left most of the answer spaces blank. With each blank space, I began to feel dumber and dumber. I left feeling like an idiot and convinced that going back to school was a bad idea.

Who needs school anyway? I told myself. You've been doing just fine without it.

When V asked how it went, I responded with an inaudible grumble. I didn't want to talk about it. She let it rest, for the moment.

A week or so later, Mr. Johnson called. He wanted me to make an appointment to come see him so we could discuss my test results. I wasn't going back there. I didn't need him to tell me I was an idiot. So I made up some excuse as to why I couldn't make any of the dates he suggested. He said he'd call back in a few days to see if my schedule had cleared up.

Every couple of days, V would ask about my test results. I told her that I "hadn't gotten them yet." It wasn't a lie, it just wasn't all of the truth. But I forgot that V was a dope fiend like me. You can't bullshit a bullshitter. After a week, she no longer accepted my excuses. She said she knew it didn't take that long to get results, and that I was just running scared. She "strongly suggested" I show up for the results.

Mr. Johnson called me almost daily for a week. Each time, I had a reason as to why I couldn't make the appointment. Finally, he, too, caught on.

"Cup, it's not as bad as you think. Please, come in and give me fifteen minutes," he pleaded. "I promise you it won't hurt."

I tried to make up another excuse, but he wouldn't hear it. He scheduled an appointment for me the next evening. Of course, V was ecstatic that I was finally going in to get the results.

- I slowly walked into Mr. Johnson's office and sat down. He flipped through some papers until he found what he wanted: my test results. He then explained how the testing worked. In various areas of academia, I was rated between a 1 and a 5, with 1 being the lowest and 5 being the highest.

"Your English score is five," he said calmly.

Five? Did he say five? I was stunned.

"Isn't five the highest?" I asked in disbelief.

"Yes-you did very well in English."

English had always been my favorite subject, though it never occurred to me that I'd remembered any of the crap I'd learned during my sporadic stints in school. Apparently, I had.

"The rest of the test, however, was not as good," he said quietly.

My joy immediately turned to anguish.

"Your math score is .24."

"Is that good?" I asked. "I mean, where is that between 'one' and 'five'?" I truly didn't know.

Mr. Johnson looked at me as if trying to determine if I was kidding or not. But, after taking another glance at my score, he realized I couldn't be kidding. He gently explained that .24 was less than 1.

"Less than one?" I shrieked, jumping to my feet. "You mean I ain't even on the scale? I flunked?"

Mr. Johnson reminded me that the test could not be "flunked." It was simply a guide to tell us where I needed to be. He calmly stated that I would just have to start my math classes at a "beginner's" level. He tried to change the subject by moving on to my other scores, which didn't help, since, although they were slightly higher, they were still bad. I didn't get anything above a 2. It was concluded that I could take an intermediate English class, but every other class would have to start at the beginner's level.

I left his office feeling like an idiot. I was discouraged and distraught. I knew my family was waiting to hear about my results, and I didn't want to tell them; I thought they'd laugh at me.

But, as it turns out, I was the only one who'd perceived the results negatively. Ken thought it was great that we now had a "starting point."

"Cup, one thing's for sure about starting at the beginning," he said gaily. "You can only go up!" He was just a little too damn cheerful about the whole situation.

V felt the same way as Ken. And Daddy and Jr. were just so glad I was returning to school, they didn't care where I started-so long as I started. My moms encouraged me to return, especially Momma Chaney, who herself returned to community college when she was forty-plus years old and got her associate's degree.

So I returned to Mr. Johnson for an "attack plan." He reminded me that his ultimate goal was to get me into San Diego State University. I reminded him that my ultimate goal was to get into law school.

Assuming I make it that far. I could always count on a smart-ass thought of self-doubt.

He quickly pointed out that our goals were actually one and the same, since no particular type of bachelor's degree was required to get into law school. He gave me a San Diego State course book and suggested I pick a major that truly interested me so I would stay focused as well as dedicated. As I flipped through the San Diego State catalog, I didn't see anything that caught my fancy, and impatiently told that to Mr. Johsnon. Ignoring my irritation, he instructed me to look through it again. I did, this time stopping at the criminal-justice degree, which I must have missed the first time. I was instantly interested. I'd always been fascinated by the criminal mind (probably because I used to have one). I excitedly told Mr. Johnson that that was what I wanted to major in (again, assuming I got to San Diego State). He tried to convince me to take awhile and think about it because I might change my mind as I progressed through school. But I wouldn't hear of it; I knew what I wanted-criminal justice.

Seeing that I was dead set on that major, he got out an "education plan" and began to map out the community-college classes I needed to take. He explained that the community college didn't have a criminal-justice program, but, their liberal arts degree was the closest parallel. Thus, if I acquired an associate's degree in liberal arts, I would be halfway to earning a bachelor's degree in criminal justice.

Once he mapped out all the courses I would need to get my associate's degree, Mr. Johnson explained that I had to complete all beginner courses first. However, once I'd done that, I could take the rest in any order I wanted, depending upon the course availability and my financial situation. But since math was by far my worst subject, whatever classes I decided to take, he strongly recommended that beginning math be one of them.

That night, as I sat with my education plan and course book, I picked out four classes, creating for myself a full-time schedule. But V warned that going from no school time to full-time was too much, too soon. It had been years since I'd been in school, and even when I had been enrolled I'd never attended, I would need to learn how to be a student-learn how to study, learn how to show up, be mentally present, and sit through three hours of class time. V told me to take only one class.

"When can I take more than one class?" I asked during a phone conversation.

"When you don't have to ask," she replied, and hung up.

Damn, she worked my nerves. But she'd never steered me wrong. So, following her instructions, I decided to take one class: beginning mathematics.

You would think that, for me, at twenty-seven years old, signing up for school would be a simple process. It wasn't. Every step of the enrollment procedure was a challenge: figuring out how to complete the enrollment form (which I screwed up twice), standing in line to enroll, wandering the seemingly huge campus to locate the bookstore, figuring out which books I needed, finding the stupid books. None of it came easy. But I trudged on. By the time I got home, I was mentally and physically exhausted from the whole ordeal, but proud to be a student officially.

- The first night of class, Ken let me leave work early; actually, he insisted. He said I'd need the extra time to find my class. Boy, was he right-the campus seemed much bigger and more complicated to navigate than before. After asking for directions five times, and going to the wrong class three times, I finally found mine. I walked in and went straight to the back row. I sat in the room, silent, scared, and unsure if I belonged there. I didn't talk to anyone and hoped no one talked to me. They didn't. I think my defensive posture and antisocial grimace kept them from doing so.

The teacher, an unassuming white man, walked in, took the roll, and immediately jumped into "instruction" by telling us to open our books to the first chapter. Although I'd had my book for a week, I'd never opened it. I was afraid to. I didn't know why, or what I was afraid of. I just knew that I was scared. So the first night of class was the first time I'd opened the book. I was stunned at what I saw. The first chapter literally started with "1 + 1."

One plus one? Twenty-seven years old and I'm starting at one plus one? My embarrassment hit an all-time high. I wanted to run; I wanted to scream; I wanted to cry. But I didn't. I couldn't because I kept hearing my damn family in my head: This is a positive. Now we know where to start you.

You can only go up from there.

The best place to start is the beginning!

So I fought the urge to run and stayed put. Though, I'm not going to lie, it was very difficult to do so. As I looked around the room, I couldn't help but notice that I was surrounded by kids much younger than me-most were straight out of high school. And it seemed as though they had a lot more free time than I did; I had responsibilities they didn't have, like work, groceries, rent. I started to think that maybe I had too many responsibilities to go to school. Momma Chaney squashed that idea instantly by reminding me that it was only fear that created that notion and pointed out that many people work and go to school. So I continued. And so did the problems.

I had a problem with humility. Out of habit, I automatically sat at the back of the class (cool kids always sat in the back). The problem was that I didn't understand a lot of what was going on, so I always had questions. But I rarely asked them because of the derision I saw in the faces of the other students and the snickers I heard. Obviously, they thought my questions were stupid and the last thing I wanted to be was stupid. When I shared this dilemma with V, she suggested I sit in the very first row.

"That way, you won't hear the snickers in the back and you won't be able to see the faces."

Me, "Ms. Cool," in the first row? I'd never, ever, sat in the front of the class, let alone the first row. I tried to think of alternatives, but it was apparent that I had no other choice. So the next class, I found myself sitting in the front, and feeling very, very out of place. Nevertheless, to my surprise, it worked. Since I was in the front, I was able to raise my hand as often as I wanted and ask as many questions as I wanted, all the while oblivious to whatever reaction was taking place behind me.

And, you still "cool"! I teased myself.

From that day forward, I always sat in the first row.

I remember the first time I stayed after class to ask my teacher a question. It took a lot for me to ask for help-the idea of it still filled me with shame and embarrassment-and I was convinced he'd laugh at me. If he did, I gave myself permission to cuss him out. But he didn't laugh. Instead, he stayed behind for over an hour, answering my questions and helping me understand the concept of long division. So, I took what he taught me and I studied. Though at first, studying didn't come easy.

I had to learn how to study. The first problem was that I couldn't sit still. I'd study for a few moments and then all of a sudden have to get up and do something. For example, I hated cleaning. But whenever I was supposed to be studying, I'd get the compulsion to clean-anything-the bathroom, living room, even the sidewalk out in front of my apartment.

Next, even if I could sit still, I couldn't concentrate. My mind raced rapidly with a variety of thoughts, most of which were stupid, unimportant, or irrelevant. I mean, I thought of everything, like how many students were enrolled at the community college. I wondered what Ken, Daddy, Jr., and even the president were doing at the moment. I wondered how television worked. I thought about how an interior decorator decided on colors and styles. I wondered, when babies started learning how to walk, if they didn't know that they couldn't walk.

On top of that, I couldn't seem to remember anything. Something we'd learn in class that night would be forgotten by the next day. I found it funny that for years I'd heard that drugs fucked up the mind, that weed-supposedly the "harmless drug"-destroyed brain cells that never grew back. I never paid any of those warnings any attention-until now-now that I needed brain cells. Ironically, I realized that I was living proof of what drugs and alcohol did to the mind. Mine seemed to be gone.

As usual, all hope was not gone. First, I prayed that God would help me concentrate and help me remember. He did. Then V gave me some suggestions. She told me to set aside a set time to study and then to do so in short intervals. I started out by studying for five minutes (that's about as long as I could go before my mind changed directions) and then taking a ten-minute break. Study for five, break for ten. Of course, this made doing homework take forever, but at least I was doing it. Slowly, I increased the study time and reduced the break time. Within a month, I'd advanced to studying for ten and breaking for five. After two months, I could study for almost a half hour without a break.

There's something to be said about baby steps.

- Oprah Winfrey also helped me get to studying. I loved Oprah and was always watching her talk show when I was supposed to be doing my schoolwork. One day, V called to see how the studying was going. I admitted that I wasn't doing it, but was checking out Oprah instead. V's response would carry me through the rest of my educational career.

"Oprah got her money," she snapped. "You trying to get YOURS! Now, turn off that fuckin' TV and get to studying!"

After that, whenever I wanted to watch Oprah or any other TV show instead of study, I'd remind myself, Oprah and them got their money. You tryin' to get yours! Without hesitation, I'd turn off the TV and pick up a book.

Ken was also a big help. He would often let me take additional time at lunch so I could study. And on exam days, he'd let me leave work early to get in a little extra studying. But no amount of help from V, Oprah, or anyone else could have gotten me through school because the bottom line was that it was up to me. So I gave it everything I had. Sometimes, I would be so exhausted from work and studying, I'd fall asleep, face-first, in my food. Soon, I'd practiced studying enough so that I could do it for hours at a time without needing a break. And, although my memory never completely returned, it did slowly improve.

I found out that amazing things happen when one studies. All those years I thought I was stupid; I thought I hated math. But, as I began to study, I quickly realized I wasn't stupid after all. My hard work and persistence paid off. I aced that beginning math course. I couldn't believe it. An A! I stared disbelievingly at the report card for at least ten minutes. It was only one class and it was only one A. Still, I'd earned it, fair and square. Feeling good about myself, I immediately signed up for another class, though just one. I still didn't feel comfortable taking more.

My second class was intermediate math. Applying the study aids I'd learned, I aced that too. I'd completed my first year of community college with a straight-A average.

My first thought was, Thank you, God.

My second was, Hot damn! I'm on a roll!

From that point on, I attended classes regularly and faithfully. That first A instilled a sense of dedication in me I hadn't had before. I decided that I was going to stay on the road to education no matter what. Several "no matter whats" came up. It cost me some friendships. Several sober girlfriends complained that I studied too much or didn't have time to hang with them. Without hesitation, I cut them loose. I missed numerous parties and barbecues. I was dead set in my determination that no one, and I meant no one, would ever again prevent me from being good to me, or doing good for me. So I stuck with it.

Although the community college was a two-year program, it took me five and a half years to graduate. Some semesters I took one or two classes; other terms I attended full-time. The number of classes I took depended on my available funds and, since I was still working full-time, on the availability of evening courses. I didn't realize it had taken that long because I wasn't keeping track of the time. I didn't care how long it took to finish, as long as I did. So my rule of thumb was to keep my eye on the long-term goal-law school-but focus on the present goal-completing community college.

When it did finally come time for me to get my degree, five and a half years after taking that "1+1" class, I glided across the stage. As I glided toward the dean whose arm was stretched out toward me, his hand holding a piece of white paper rolled up into a tube with a bright red string tied around it, I heard my family wildly cheering in the crowd. As I grabbed the tube and shook his hand, I realized it was worth every barbecue I'd ever missed, worth every party I'd missed, worth every friend I'd lost, and even worth every Oprah show I'd missed.