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Authors: Treasure E. Blue

Harlem Girl Lost

BOOK: Harlem Girl Lost
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This book is dedicated to my mother,
Mrs. Ernestine Smalls Blue, and to Mrs. Debra Manson Wood.

As I write this dedication, tears are falling from my eyes because I miss you so much. In our brief lifetime together, it seems I've known two of you. One was the strongest, most loving, most beautiful mother a child could ever have wanted. You were our protector, our savior, our world.

The other was the one … none of us could ever understand. The one we cried many nights for, praying that no one was hurting you too badly. The one who used to come home bloodied, robbed, or raped.

No child should ever have to admit this, but I waited for you to die, because I knew livin’ was too hard for you.

It wasn't until I began writing this book that I truly understood. The real reason you were so hard on me was because when you looked at me, you were looking back at yourself; because you knew … I was next.

I love you, Ma.

To Debra (Sunshine)

Debra, to this day I have not met someone as loving and giving as you. You were the first person to recognize my talent, which I was too blind to see for myself. It was you who believed in me when no one else did. I forever am indebted to you. Chalae and Shadae miss you like crazy, but they will be okay ‘cause I got them covered.

P.S. If I get to heaven, we gonna party like we used to every New Year's!

A boy “without his mother
is like a man “without a country.
But a girl “without her father
is like a “woman “without a universe.


Steven B. Smalls

Prologue

Spelman College dorm room,
Atlanta, Georgia

Dear Silver,

What the hell is wrong with you? You are pissing your roommate off by waking her up with your nightmares, and that shit has to stop. Gail's got every right to be pissed, because this is, what, the fourth time this week? Plus finals are all week. Shit, it's only so much the girl can take. She already bent over backwards for you when she took you to see the school's physician to help you out with your little problem. So it's only right to take her and the doctor's suggestion to seek “other help.” I know you are scared, but you simply got to get over it and face your fears and go see one, I hear they can really help, and … Stop! Who am I foolin’? You know damn well black people don't get down like that! See a shrink? Hell, no, we're too afraid that we might find out we are really schizo!

Besides, I already know I'm fucked up, so I don't need anybody trying to get in my head to tell me that. And if they do find out, that shit will follow me the rest of my life
and ruin any chances of me becoming a doctor. I might be crazy, but I ain't stupid. Besides, I already know why I'm having these nightmares—I just don't know how to stop from having them. I know it's got a lot to do with what happened to me when I was little. Keeping all those secrets inside and trying to forget about it as if it didn't happen is my problem. But like all terrible secrets, they eventually catch up with you, and after a while they will drive you out your mind! I know I need help, but if I got any chance on making it into med school I … strike that, it would not look good on my records.

I asked the doctor if there were any alternatives other than seeing a psychiatrist. Seeing my reluctance, the doctor probably assumed that my problem was due to the stress and rigors of my studies, so she suggested that I try this shit, self-analysis, which is to put on paper anything that comes to mind. She said that in order to get to the root of my problem, I should unconsciously write and let it just flow, and above all—be brutally honest. She said that I would always be as sick as my secrets if I didn't expose them. I don't have no reason to be ashamed because nobody's gonna read this anyway, so I have nothing to lose. Besides, these dreams are fucking killing me!

So the doc wants honesty … I'll give her mad honesty. Here goes. I'll start out by writing about my mother, Jessica Jones. Mommy was the most loving and generous person you could have ever wanted to meet. She was the type of person that would give you the shirt off her back if she had to. She was gorgeous, perfect.

The thing I liked most about her was the love and
honesty that she gave me. At times, it seemed like we were sisters because she didn't preach to me. She'd talk to me like you would talk to your younger sister, always schooling me. Mommy had to bust her ass real hard to provide me with shelter and nice clothes and to put food on the table. She worked the graveyard shift in downtown Manhattan, and she was good at what she did—she was a professional whore and heroin addict.

As far as my dad goes … I never knew him. Even though Mommy talked to me about everything under the sun, that was one subject she would rarely discuss. The only thing she said about him was that I got my hazel eyes from him and that she killed him with kindness. I'd be lying if I said I miss not having a father around, but like my mother always said, you can't miss something you never had. Besides, I did have a father figure in my life … well, sort of. I had my Auntie Birdie. He's a retired prostitute—a transvestite. He and my mom met while they were on the “hoe stroll” over by the West Side Highway in Manhattan. She was only seventeen, so young and inexperienced that Birdie (with the type of heart he has) felt sorry for her when a ruthless pimp started to beat the shit out of her because she didn't choose him. Everybody just stood there and watched this punk motherfucker beat my mother like she was a fuckin’ man. She said just as she was about to lose consciousness, the pimp was lifted off of her by what he must have thought was a large woman. Now, Birdie is 6’ 6” and nearly 7 foot when he wears his stilettos, and when the pimp saw who it was, he pulled a switchblade and said he was gonna shove
it up Birdie's ass. Big mistake! Birdie not only took the switchblade from him, he gave the pimp such an ass whuppin’ he had to spend six months in the hospital. Legend has it that Auntie Birdie was an amateur boxer in his younger days. After that he took my mommy under his wing and we've been together since. He loved my mother and me so much that we became all he had.

What I disliked most about Mommy was her nasty heroin addiction. Remembering those days brings back so many bad memories that I become overwhelmed with emotional anguish. In other words, the shit fucked me up! It was so horrible. In fact, I used to watch her shoot up right in her pussy because she couldn't shoot it in her arms. In her profession, a junkie whore with track marks on her arms was not too appealing or financially viable. I can't count the number of times Birdie or I had to revive her from a near overdose. I remember the first time I saw her OD'd—her skin was ashy, her eyes were rolled in the back of her head, and she had vomit all caked up on her mouth. It was fuckin’ awful! I remembered all I could do was cry as I shook her and begged her to wake up. I thought she was dead. I was so scared that she had died that all I could think of was that there would be no one to take care of me. In fact, to this very day, I still have a fear of being alone.

After the overdose incident, Mommy taught me how to bring her back to life in case it happened again. She told me that I should get a bunch of ice and put it inside her panties and to place some under her armpits. She said if that didn't work, I was to shove a couple of cubes up inside her twat—I was six years old! But needless to say,
after a while it became as normal as shampooing my hair. I became her personal resuscitator. But that wasn't the worst part. Did you ever see someone you love dope-sick? Oh, my God, there's nothing worse. It's like … how can I explain … it's like watching your child get their fingers crushed in a door, and their pain is so excruciating, but nothing you do can take the pain away. I wanted to take Mommy's pain away so badly, but I was fuckin’ helpless. I would ask her, “Mommy, what's wrong? Can I help?” With a forced smile she would always say, “I'm okay, baby. Mommy's just a little sick. I ran out of medicine, but not to worry because the doctor is on his way.” Now, you know who the “doctor” was—he was the friendly neighborhood dope man. Even though I despised him for pushing the dope on my mother, I remember being so relieved when I heard him knock on the door. Mommy would rush to the door and rip it open and then pass him something real quick and run to the bathroom. I would smile because I knew when she came out she would instantly be cured of her sickness.

Mommy peddled her goods on the famous Times Square—Forty Doo-Wop, the Deuce, or whatever you want to call it. She made no bones about what she did, and most importantly, she made damn sure I wasn't lame to nothing that she did.

When it came to her profession, she had her own philosophical way of putting things. She would say, “Show me a woman with a pussy and I'll show you one rich bitch,” or “Selling pussy is the oldest and the most respected profession in the world,” or “Behind every great
dick is a greater pussy,” or “It has broken some of the strongest and most powerful men in the world, from kings of Africa to kingpins of Harlem—pussy has brought them all to their knees. It's called pussy-whipping!” That shit used to crack me up. If you look at it, she was right, ‘cause look what happened to Bill Clinton, the president of the United fucking States, mind you. Women are real dons … or shall I say divas?

But to hear a lot of girls tell it, you'd think that they are doing something different from my mother. They sell their ass and do drugs like their shit don't stink. They're only delusional, fooling themselves. They run around saying, “I don't do drugs, I only smoke weed and drink a lil’ bit of Thug Passion.” Duh … what do you think weed and alcohol is? It's a fuckin’ drug! “But weed is innocent, it ain't like crack, weed is from the earth.” From the earth … dumb bitch, where the hell do you think coca leaves come from, Mars? Do me a favor and ask any crackhead, any heroin user, or any other addict for that matter, what drug did they start out using first, and I'll bet your ass a thousand dollars to one that they'll say either “innocent” weed or “innocent” alcohol.

How many girls you think actually aspired to become a fiend and degrade themselves by sucking and fucking niggers to get that next hit? What I'm saying is that you just never know, so why take the chance? To this very day, I don't even know how alcohol tastes, ‘cause Moms told me once you have a taste of any of that shit you're gone! I'm not going to be fooled by the illusion that one drug is worse than another, ‘cause that shit leads down the same
road of destruction! See, that's how Moms got caught out there, which is why she schooled me to the fact that a drug is a drug is a drug! She knew better and did everything in her power to make sure I knew the truth!

And how about those girls that are spreading their legs to every Tom, Dick, or Rapper just because they have a record deal or a fat ride and fatter pockets? Most of these dudes are just lookin’ for a quick chick to pick up so you can suck their dick till you fuckin’ hiccup. “But he said he love me.” Hoe, puh-leeze! If I could get a dollar for every time these same cats called you a chickenhead (extra crispy at that) after they twisted you out, I'd be one rich sumptin’-sumptin’. They don't respect or care about you once they got the drawers. If you don't believe me, ask to meet their mommas and see how many excuses you'll get.

At least my moms kept it real. She didn't care what them other heifers said about her, ‘cause her motto was, “I'd rather be a rich talked-about bitch than just a talked-about bitch any day!” She told me if any bitch ever tells you she never tricked a little, she's a lying bitch, ‘cause every girl does. Once a girl figures out that she is a walking ATM, them same cats can call her a chickenhead all they want, because she'll be one filet mignon–eatin’, Dolce & Gabbana–wearing, shine-glistenin’ chicken from then on.

She broke it down like this: how many times have they dated a man who took them out to dinner, bought them an outfit, or gave them some jewelry or some money? I don't care if he's a boyfriend, husband, lover, or lovette (for those who lick—I mean
like
the female persuasion). Any
chick that answers yes to one or more of those above, welcome to the Good Pussy Society! Your pussy, his loot! Prepaid pussy plan.

Realistically, I had to think like that to keep things in perspective to help rid me of the shame and humiliation I had coming up. I didn't feel normal—I felt nasty. No matter where I went or how much I achieved, I still felt dirty and less than other people. I would constantly imagine, “What if these people knew that my mother is a whore, or that my auntie is a transvestite, how I live, the things that have happened to me?”

But in spite of it all, I managed to keep my head up, because I reasoned that my mother had to do what she had to do to survive, and what she did is no reflection upon me. It took me a long time to learn to think like that. What's done is done! Even if I didn't understand it, I just had to respect it and move the fuck on. For people like me, who saw the truth, I cry a river for them, because I, like them, saw a glimpse of how fucked up this world can truly be. I know how it feels to suffer, suffer only because we were born into a hellish world that no child should need to see or have to bear. But here we are.

If they were anything like me, I blamed everything on somebody else. My motto was simple: “If there's no one else to blame, say fuck it and blame it on my momma.” But blaming somebody else was so easy; moving on was the hard part. So that left me with two choices. Should I feel sorry for myself and live a lonely miserable life, or should I shake that shit off and live out my life till the motherfucking wheels fall off?

You're damn right, I chose the latter. See, little did I know Mommy knew she was caught up in the grip of that madness, so she sacrificed her own life while preparing me for combat, ‘cause she knew that it would be harder for a sister to make it. So she groomed and inspired me with the only thing she could possibly offer me—pure and unadulterated truth, even if it hurt. She knew that the real truth is very scary—but it's how you handle the truth that's going to make the difference in your life.

If I had one wish, I would tell all the children who suffered because their parents were addicts or alcoholics and saw all the horror that came with it that it's not your fault. Because it's not! It's not your fault if you were molested like I was, beaten like I was, or homeless and abandoned like I was! And it's definitely not your fault if you developed some dreadful disease or addiction. Whether it's an addiction to drugs or alcohol, sex or crime, it really doesn't matter, because it's not wholly your fault—and believe that!

She taught me that everything that glitters isn't gold and everything that looks sweet damn sure isn't sugar. Because the things in this world that look enticing are really a ploy to get you hooked. Whether it's money, fame, fast cars, beautiful houses, or sex and drugs, it's all a setup to deceive us into thinking that these are the most important things that we need in our lives. Mommy made damn sure I didn't fall for that fake cellophane okey-doke shit those cats be talkin’ in Harlem. She told me that if I don't stand for something I'd fall for anything, and standing up for myself was something I definitely did.

BOOK: Harlem Girl Lost
6.65Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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