MY FIRST DAY WAS NOT MY WORST DAY. That title would go to the day I was sentenced to 35 years, and the day I was captured after my prison break comes second. My first day was a dejecting experience, but my emotions and lack of productivity will not be what defines it.

The day began with a dream, an illusionary one that many young black men too often pursue. I had the dream of getting paid by snatching cheese from a trap. In pursuit of that dream, I hopped into a rental car with two Mexican nationals, and drove to a truck stop in Southern Illinois. It was there that I was given a key to the ignition of a disabled van that had marijuana secured in its caged cargo compartment. I departed the truck stop unwillingly, under the escort of a dozen federal agents, without even seeing the pot and wearing handcuffs and shackles. It was a reverse sting. A trap. My illusionary dream was cut short with my being caught trying to snatch the cheese from this trap.

This was my first day, and yet it was not, for it was not my first time. Like many 28-year-old black men, I had several first days in jail.
This first day happened to have a lot in common with the other first days, in particular my very first day, which was 18 years earlier, when I was only 10 years old. On that first day, three other little black boys and I were treading through a predominately white neighborhood in Long Beach, California. A cop had placed a bicycle on the sidewalk half a mile ahead of us. When we stumbled upon it, sitting there with no apparent owner, I hopped on it and tried to pedal away. But – just like the van filled with marijuana –, the bicycle was disabled. The chain was broken. It was bait– cheese on a trap. It was part of a sting to entrap little black boys walking through the wrong neighborhood.

That was my first, first day. This next one is my last first day. Just like on that very first day, I found myself in a jail cell. But this time, there was no getting out.

No calling Momma, Auntie, or Grandma to come get me. This time, I was not charged with attempting to pedal away on a disabled bicycle. I was charged with attempting to possess a natural plant that is now exchanged in the open market. One that many states now collect taxes from. This was a big deal, one that would certainly ensure that this first day would be my last first day.

Unlike 18 years ago, this last first day in jail was more of a wake-up call.

The holding cell was packed with musty, black bodies that belonged in a shower rather than a cell. It resembled the basement of the slave ships that traveled across the Atlantic. It was odd and scary considering the fact that Blacks made up only a very small percentage of Southern Illinois. The year was 2004. It was not slavery or the Jim Crow era. Instead, it was the era of America’s war on drugs and mass incarceration, and it had taken me 18 years and a reverse sting to realize how insidiously wicked it was.

This first day was a frightening experience because I now realized that I was up against more than just criminal charges for a mere weed case. I was up against the United States government and a system that was arguably designed to keep black men enslaved under a different name. A system that was designed to decimate communities like mine. I was also up against the odds that had been stacked against me over nearly 400 years of oppression. I now had to try and break that cycle while confined to a state of existing that was only one mental state away from death.

The charges read United States v. Quawntay A., but I would not be the only person affected by a conviction. I had just learned earlier that I had a child on the way. I had more to worry about than ensuring that I had Top Ramen noodle to eat and a shank to keep the predators at bay. I was now worried about not becoming a deadbeat dad, and ensuring that my child would not repeat the cycle and end up trying to pedal away on a disabled bicycle as I did.
I could have written about the treatment from the guards, the terrible food that I dared not to taste, the hard concrete bench I had to sleep on that night, the rebellious drunk, the kid with the gold-plated teeth who could not afford to post a $300 bond, the crackhead who joked as if he had not a care in the world, the heroin addict vomiting in the corner, the way other prisoners stared when I entered, and all of the other typical first day experiences in prison.

But when this day could very well be the first day of the rest of your life behind bars, your mind tends to focus on more profound things. It is like your life flashes before your eyes, and you wish you could go back and do things differently.

My first day was far from being my worst day. It was a day of awakening. A day that every young black man who has a dream of getting paid by snatching cheese from a trap should be aware of. Let my first day – and last first day – be yours, so that you will not have to experience it for yourself. And then we can call my first day a great day.