On top of that, the chick who'd started at "1+1" graduated with honors. I had no special gifts, skills, or talents-whatsoever. What I did, anyone could do. All it took was a little bit of faith and a whole lotta hard work, perseverance, and dedication-now if only I could keep it up.

51.

MR. JOHNSON ASSISTED me with my San Diego State application. While I awaited their decision, all I could do was pray.

Finally, the envelope came.

"Congratulations!" the paper read. "You've been accepted to SDSU!"

I was ecstatic-until I remembered that I didn't have a high-school diploma or G.E.D. I wasn't sure if State required one, but if it did, that would probably ruin my admittance.

But who said I have to tell 'em? I asked myself. I mean, it's not like they asked! The more I thought about it the more I decided I didn't need to tell them-until I talked to V. She reminded that I was a changed person, living honestly and truthfully. She asked me what the old "Cup" would do, and then told me to do the opposite. Doing the opposite was exactly what I was afraid of.

As usual, my fears were in vain. The nice lady who I talked to at San Diego State didn't care that I didn't have a high-school diploma or G.E.D. She informed me that since I had an associate's degree, I was coming in as a transfer student.

"What's that mean?" I asked.

She explained that, because of my associate's degree, I had been admitted as a junior.

"That means, you're 'in.' Period." She said humorously.

I was excited about being "in"-until I got on campus. At State's invitation, I attended an "orientation" in which juniors and seniors gave incoming students a tour of the campus. At first it seemed like a good idea, since the campus appeared so overwhelmingly large. But once I showed up, I realized it wasn't a good idea after all. I was the oldest "incoming" student at the orientation. The others were freshmen, fresh out of high school. And even our guide, an aggravatingly cheerful blond girl named Shelly, couldn't have been older than twenty-two or twenty-three. Hell, I was pushing thirty-three!

Damn, stuck with a bunch of kids again! I thought irritably.

Despite my lack of interest, I continued with the tour and tried to look happy for Shelly's sake, all the while trying to hold down the fear that was building up inside, especially as Shelly began to point out what she thought were great attributes of State, but only made it clear to me that I was entering a whole new world: City had three thousand students; State had over thirty thousand. City was on forty acres; State on over two hundred. State was larger and bigger in every way. And I was scared to death. But as I had been doing, I didn't let the fear stop me.

So I finished the orientation and enrolled. Unfortunately, there were several stumbling blocks in my way.

First, although I was gearing toward a criminal-justice degree, State's criminal-justice program was not geared toward evening students. There was no way I could graduate with the degree without taking day classes. But Ken and I worked it out so that I started work at 8:30 instead of 9:00. Twice a week I left at 10:30 for an 11:00 class. Once that class was over (at 12:30), I returned to work and stayed until 6:30, at which time I left again for a 7:00 class. It was a difficult schedule, but I did it-for three years straight. Just like that, one stumbling block was removed.

Next, was the problem of getting the courses I needed. Because the criminal-justice program was "impacted," there were always more students wanting to take a class than there were seats. So I had to "crash" almost every class, which meant going to class on the first day and hoping the teacher would let me in. Most times, they did. Many times, however, they didn't. In those instances, I had to scramble to find other available classes. The problem with this was that because the classes only met once a week, each time I failed to crash one meant another week I'd be behind in a class I did get in.

One particular semester, I tried to crash three separate courses. Each teacher refused to let me in. Frustrated and at my wits' end, I had one class left to try: Prosecutorial Functions, which was taught by Assistant U.S. Attorney Larry Burns, a tall, slim, handsome white man with a serious disposition, but a warm personality.

I made sure to get to the class way before it started. Luckily, Mr. Burns was also early. He listened intently as I explained my predicament of being in desperate need of his class. He responded that although he was sympathetic to my plight, he didn't think my crashing would be a good idea, since his course was a difficult one and required quite a bit of work. He was also concerned with the fact that if he let me in, I'd already be three weeks behind the rest of the class. He started walking away, believing that to be the end of the subject. It wasn't.

I jumped in front of him, blocking his way. Talking fast, I begged him to give me a chance. I told him that I wasn't looking for a handout, just a chance. I assured him I'd do all of the work he expected of his students, with no excuses or complaining. I promised him that if he let me in, he would not regret it. Seeing that I was desperate, and genuinely serious, he agreed to let me in.

Prosecutorial Functions became one of my favorite classes, and Mr. Burns one of my favorite professors. As promised, I was there every week, on time, my homework completed, with an attitude of gratitude. I showed up ready, eager, and willing to participate in class discussion. Mr. Burns could call on me at any given time and get a correct answer.

Not only did I finish Mr. Burns's class after starting three weeks late, but I finished it with one of the highest grades. Besides teaching me a lot about a prosecutor's functions, the course jump-started in me an interest in becoming a prosecutor. Once the class ended, I asked Mr. Burns if I could continue to seek him out for advice, and we quickly became friends. Although I saw him only on campus, whenever I could, I talked to him about the courses I should take, what law school would be like (if I ever got there), how I could get a job as a prosecutor, etc. He was a wealth of knowledge and never seemed to tire of my questions.

One day, he was telling me he believed I'd make a great prosecutor because I seemed to be able to talk to people easily and make them feel comfortable talking to me. He said that a good prosecutor needed to be able to talk and relate to a lot of different people: the jury, the defense attorney, the judge . . .

"Judge!" I blurted out in horror. "Who said anything about talking to a judge? I don't talk to judges! I don't like judges."

"What do you mean you don't like judges?" he asked perplexed.

I clarified that it wasn't so much that I didn't like them; I just hated them. I then gave him a quick history of my life, hoping it would explain my feelings. I started with the judge who gave me to the sperm donor. Then I briefly discussed the roles judges played in contributing to my time in and out of foster homes and shelters. I told him about the judge who didn't believe I'd been beaten although Jr. and Aunt Pam had both personally seen the welts. I quickly went over my gang involvement (without specifics); touched on how I'd seen many friends get railroaded by what I perceived to be crooked judges; and ended with a brief account of my trying to get my life together by returning to school and trying to stay away from the criminal justice system altogether-that is, until I'd decided on my major. I explained that his class made me want to be a prosecutor, but I wanted to do it without having to deal with judges.

He listened intently, making no facial expressions except every once in a while raising an eyebrow in surprise. When I was done, he sat silently for a moment.

"I've got someone I want you to meet," he said.

He gave me his business card and instructed me to call him the following week. I did, and we scheduled a lunch date.

When Mr. Burns picked me up and told me we were going to a nearby restaurant, I thought nothing of it, until he informed me that a friend of his would be meeting us for lunch-his friend the judge.

"A judge?" I shrieked. "You're bringing a JUDGE?"

Was he setting me up? Had I robbed this judge and forgotten? Had they discovered some old stuff on me and were planning to lock me up right then and there? My mind raced frantically. Recovery had not diminished my paranoia and fear. I hated meeting new people because my memory was bad, and I'd robbed, burglarized or screwed over so many people, I was never sure if I'd done something to them in my past.

As we entered the restaurant, Mr. Burns led me toward the back. There, sitting in a booth with a pretty young white woman, was a burly but well-built white man. He was very handsome and extremely friendly. As we walked up, I noticed he was laughing and talking with the waiter. The waiter!

"Cup," Mr. Burns said as we approached the table, "this is Judge Frank Brown. Frank, this is Cupcake."

I didn't know what to do, so I stood and waited for him to make the first move.

"Cupcake!" the judge exclaimed as he reached for my hand. "Does that mean you're sweet?" He gave me a hearty handshake and the biggest smile I'd ever seen. I immediately became more at ease.

I don't know what I was afraid of. By the middle of the lunch, I was glad I'd come because Judge Brown was extremely respectful, very friendly, and quite helpful. He asked me questions about my education and the direction I wanted it to go. He told me that he agreed with Mr. Burns about my being great prosecutorial material. And, like Mr. Burns, he never seemed to tire of my questions. He also insisted that I stopped calling him "Judge Brown."

"Judge Brown is too formal," he said. "Call me Frank!"

- I continued my education at State but began worrying that I was getting too "old" to be in school. I'd been in school six years and still was nowhere near being done. So I attended full-time and around the clock: spring, fall, summer, and winter. Yup, I even took classes during the winter sessions-the three-week break during the Christmas season. If I wasn't at work, I was in class. I didn't have time to get to know anyone at State (except my professors), or participate in any extra curricular activities. All I did was go to work, school, and 12-step meetings-and in that order.

I was nearing graduation when I learned that the criminal justice major required a student to either volunteer for an internship or take the "prison tour." My choice was already made for me, since I couldn't do any volunteering while working full-time and going to school full-time.

The prison tour was run by a tall, slender white professor named Paul Sutton. Professor Sutton had been running the tours for years. The tour was a five-day bus trip to seven or eight California prisons, including some of the toughest: San Quentin, Folsom, Soledad (which used to be known as "Gladiator School"), California State PrisonSacramento, and the notorious Pelican Bay State Prison (home to some of the most famous criminals in California). The tour was a once-in-a-lifetime-we hoped-opportunity that allowed students to experience, first-hand, what prison-and inmates-are really like. This was especially important since all of the students were criminal justice majors.

The prison tour was an amazing experience. We had an in-depth tour of six men's and two women's prisons. Some of the tours were even led by prisoners. We saw places that are rarely, if ever, seen by the public. The tour of each prison included the mess hall, cellblocks, education rooms, industries area, and the yard. We were also able to walk the entire length of the fifth tier (the top one) of Folsom's famous #1 Building, where the movie American Me was filmed.

The weapons presentations were my favorites. Most of the prisons had a room where they displayed weapons that had either been confiscated by officers during a "shake down" or removed from a dead or seriously injured body. These rooms were filled with everyday, usually harmless, items that had been turned into lethal weapons: a toothbrush had a metal shaft drilled into its end turning it into a deadly dagger; a small plastic comb had been melted and shaped into a knife. Even pens could be turned into a weapon. But by far, the most innovative weapon was a gun. Yes, a gun (called a "zip" gun in prison). Using scraps of wood, metal, and rubber bands, a prisoner had made a gun that shot real metal bullets. These guns were created by inventive inmates, and my mind conjured up memories of various homies and street buddies over the years that had wasted similar talents.

Indeed, inmates had even made a cannon-.50 caliber-fashioned in the metal shop as part of an escape plot. It was to have been used to take out the tower officer. We were told it had been test fired at the state lab and was accurate to fifty yards! A prison snitch had turned in the conspirators, averting what would certainly have been a catastrophe.

We were also given a tour of the execution chamber at San Quentin and saw the women's death row in Chowchilla. During the entire week, I wasn't afraid of the prisoners or possible violence. But when I stood in front of those death chambers, the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up.

I ended that tour with a new awareness of the meanings of grace and mercy. I was saddened to see so many young men and women, mostly minorities, locked behind bars. On the other hand, I was grateful that it wasn't me, when it easily could have, and probably should have, been. I had done many things over the years to earn a place in a six-by-four-foot steel cell. I often questioned God as to why others ended up in jail and I didn't, but my questions were never answered. I soon quit asking. I'd learned not to put a question mark where God put a period.

- Yet another good thing came out of that prison tour-I was able to get honest about my past.

Most of the students on the tour were much younger than me; we had little in common. So I spent most of the time in the front of the bus chatting with Professor Sutton. It was during these chats that a friendship began to develop. First, he told me that, although I'd passed the background check required for all students going on the tour, the prison official who had done my check mentioned to Professor Sutton that I had an "interesting" past. Professor Sutton looked at me as if he expected an explanation. I didn't offer one.

Then I found out that Professor Sutton was sort of a gang expert. So our discussion turned to comparing his "book" knowledge about gangs with my "street" knowledge. He knew so much about street life that I was comfortable talking to him about things I swore I'd never tell anyone. He didn't seem surprised by any of it. As a result, he quickly earned my trust, so much so that when he began to question me about my past, I answered him honestly.

By the end of the tour, he knew everything-and was in awe that I'd survived.

"You've got to tell people," he said, full of excitement.

"Tell them what?" I retorted.

"Tell them about you! Cup, you've got to tell people about you!"

I liked Professor Sutton. I really did. But I was now sure that he was a few sandwiches short of a picnic and obviously didn't understand the significance of what he was saying. I explained to him what Tommy had told me-that society was afraid of people like me. So I told him about my perfect lil Marcia Brady past and made it clear that no one needed to be the wiser.

Realizing I wasn't budging on the Marcia Brady story, he asked if he could tell some people.

"Go ahead," I said, "but don't come running back to me when you get your feelings hurt."

I thought the subject was dropped.

Two weeks later, Professor Sutton summoned me to his office.

"NBC News wants to talk to you," he announced proudly.

I was instantly alarmed. In the past, whenever I was told someone wanted to "talk to me," it usually meant they wanted to kick my ass for something I'd done. My mind raced with fear as I tried to remember if I'd ever robbed anyone at NBC.

Professor Sutton calmed me down and explained that he'd done what he'd said he'd do. He'd talked to some people about me. They'd started interviewing him about gangs. Halfway through the interview, he began talking about me. They decided to scrap that story and, instead, wanted to interview me.

I was speechless. When I could talk, I said no. "Fuck no," actually.

But Sutton was relentless. It took a while, but he finally convinced me to say yes.

A week later, for the first time in over twenty years, I publicly got real about my past for the local news interview. After it was over, I waited for the negative backlash I'd always been expecting. It never came. The phone rang, all right. But the calls were from people who wanted me to come and speak. They wanted me to speak. The speaking requests were many more than I could fill. But I did what I could. For the next ten years, I spoke as often as I could-and for free.

Professor Sutton was right. I was helping people with my past. Finally, something good was coming from having lived all those years in hell.

- Although it took three long years of attending State full-time, graduation day was finally approaching. Several weeks beforehand, a woman who identified herself as representing San Diego State called me to inform me I was graduating "magna cum laude." I had no idea what that meant. (It's not like we sat around the crack house saying, "You know so-and-so graduated magna!") Over the years, I'd heard people mention student loans; I thought that, since I had a job, I wasn't eligible for a loan. (A price I paid for not asking questions.) So the entire time, I paid my own way through school-books, tuition, everything. To me, magna sounded like "more." I thought she was saying I owed the school more money before I could graduate. I began to go off.

"I'm not giving you people another damn dime!" I was hot! The nerve of them, asking me for more money!

"I've paid my own way the WHOLE time I've been here. And even through City College. I paid for my tuition, my books, my-"

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" the woman exclaimed, interrupting my ranting. She then explained to me what it meant to graduate magna.

For a few moments I was speechless.

"You mean I'm graduating with high honors?" I asked, unsure if I truly understood what she'd said.

"Yes! That's quite an accomplishment! And I understand you've worked full-time the entire time?"

"Uh-huh," I said softly.

"Well, you should be very proud of yourself."

I was too stunned to be proud. I wasn't trying to graduate magna. Hell, I was just trying to graduate.

- Eight and a half years after starting community college, I graced the stage at State. Again, I glided across. Again my family was in the audience screaming and cheering me on. Again, as I took the scroll I realized it was worth every social event I'd ever missed-I had achieved yet another goal I thought was impossible for someone like me.

I reminded myself that, with a lil bit of faith and a whole bunch of dedication, perseverance, hard work, and the support of loved ones, maybe anything was possible.

I just hope this crap works in law school!

52.

PART OF THE law schoolapplication process is taking the Law School Admission Test, or the LSAT. The conventional wisdom is that unless a student scores at least 165 on this test, they should hang it up-they're clearly not law-school material. If the score is less than 142, law schools won't even look at you.

I knew how important this test was, and I was determined to do well on it. I took an expensive study course that was specially designed to teach people how to do well on the LSAT. I attended every class and I studied diligently. But, try as I might, I could never get a practice score above 139. I believed the test was culturally biased, and I informed the teacher of my opinion. Of course, he didn't believe me and set out to prove me wrong. He announced to the class that we would attack the next question as a group. The part of the test we were working were "assumption questions." In doing these, a scenario would be laid out and then the student needed to make certain assumptions to be able to pick the correct answer.

The scenario of the next question just happened to involve a police officer pulling over a car full of kids.

"Now," he asked the class, "what's the first thing you'd want to know to be able to answer this question?"

The class was silent for a few moments. I didn't have to think long before speaking up.

"I'd want to know the color of the occupants." I was trying to sound proper.

Everyone looked at me-stunned.

"What?" he asked, truly confused at my response.

"I'd want to know what color the folks in the car are! Because if they're black or Mexican, that's going to play into my answer about why they were pulled over!"

He paused for a moment before speaking.

"Who else would have wanted to know that?"

No one raised their hand.

"Okay," he said slowly, "did anyone else even think of that?" Again, not one person raised his or her hand. (Oh, did I mention that I was the only minority in the class?) He instructed the class to return to individual study and turned to me.

"I see your point."

Though he didn't go so far as to admit that the test was biased, he did agree that my thinking was definitely different. But he also warned that the test was what it was, and if I wanted to do well on it, I had to learn to think like "they" did. He returned to his desk, indicating to me that the discussion was over. I returned to studying but knew I was fucked.