Tales of an Original Bad Girl Read online

  As much love as they lavished upon us, I was still very miserable. I missed my mommy and worried about her. I didn’t know that she had been arrested that day at the park for unlawful sales of narcotics. It seemed like she had just disappeared off the face of the earth: no phone calls, no visits, no Mommy. It was very hard on me emotionally. No matter how good my god parents treated me, I would walk around with an attitude; sucking my teeth and stomping my feet. As I grew older, my ‘tude didn’t improve. I was being raised in a middle-class neighborhood with working- class people, which was a far cry from the drug addicts and thieves my mother had me around, so it was very ungrateful of me to behave like I did.

  I hated going to church three times a week, and then all throughout the weekend. My godmother was an elder in the church and the president of the missionary; therefore, she was very active in the church functions. I was force-fed church and rebelled big time. To make matters worse, we weren’t allowed to go outside. That was insane to me! All of my friends would be playing outside and I would have to watch them from the terrace, longing for a chance to play with them. It was not going to happen! Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t cruel or intentional punishment. My godmother was just a very paranoid, older woman in her sixties, who loved us so much that she became obsessively over protective. It messed my head up! I just wanted to go outside, but I couldn’t understand the reasons for not allowing me the privilege. We lived in a decent neighborhood in the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn; therefore, it was no valid reason for my incarceration. That’s exactly how I felt (like I was locked up). So, when I finally got a chance to taste freedom, I took off and running. I promised myself I would never deprive my child of his or her freedom when I give birth to one. It had stunted my growth socially, because I wasn’t used to playing outside and interacting with my peers. I actually got teased and taunted for not being able to come outside, and it became a very embarrassing situation. It caused my bitterness to grow and I became very resentful.

  My mother came home from prison when I was seven years old. My sister and I would visit her on weekends and summer vacations. Those were my happiest times and I wanted more, because we had so much fun together. I remember simple things like lying in the bed with my mother, watching her favorite soaps, or when she would take turns tickling my sissy and I until we laughed hysterically and surrendered. She was clean and trying to get her act together and I was proud of her. The poor thing had ruined one of her kidneys with all the drugs in her system at such a young age. She contracted a kidney disease and had to undergo dialysis. It was horrible! She went to the hospital three times a week, hooked up to a dialysis machine, which lasted four hours. She would get attached to all of these tubes that transferred her blood to the artificial kidney to be cleaned and returned to her body. The process was very draining, which caused my mother to become very depressed. This opened up the gates for her addiction to kick back in, but I have to give it to her, she tried to fight it just to be with us. I begged my mother to let me come back and live with her. Also, with some heavy pleading with my god mother, I was allowed to go back. However, my god mother was adamantly against this move, because she knew that my mother’s drug habit could possibly return.

  So, against her protest, I went back to live with my mother, but my little sister chose to stay behind. I was in my glory until I had a taste of P.S. 67, the public school that was located smack in the middle of the Fort Greene projects. That was where my mother resided, which was the most notorious housing projects in Brooklyn. Those kids were a rough bunch and I definitely did not fit in. I wasn’t ready for the transition. The treacherous kids immediately smelled my fear and zeroed in on me. In their eyes, I was a rich kid, because my god father would bring me lunch every day at lunch time. He would arrive in his station wagon that he used for a cab. Let’s just say to a bunch of second graders, his old “Betsy” looked like a limousine.

  I was well- spoken and stuck out like a sore thumb with my manners and proper speech, which got me instantly “befriended” by the school bully. She strongly suggested that I bring some money to school and give it to her and her buddies. It was extortion at its best. That’s how bad some of those project kids were. I was scared to death and didn’t want any problems, so I started stealing my godmother’s church money when I would visit her on the weekends. She was the treasurer for the missionary group in her church and I knew where she kept her stash. Not only was I robbing my godmother, I also stole from my mother’s boyfriend every chance I got. I obediently handed over the cash to my bully, which was much to her and her cronies delight. They made me feel like I was their best friend, with only the slightest threat when the twenty and fifty-dollar bills slowed up. It was amazing how these young children knew the art of coercion. All I knew was I didn’t want to get beat up by the hard core little gangsters.

  I almost came close to getting my butt kicked by another tough, little pit bull with red hair. She hated my guts and was jealous, because she couldn’t get in on the extortion gig. The other crew had that on lock, so she started harassing me. One day, she waited for me after school, and tried to make me fight her. She and her crew had me surrounded in a circle, taunting me with insults. I will never forget the fear I felt, and how my heart pounded in my chest. I ran while the whole school chased me, anxious to see me get beat down. I made it to my mother’s building and slipped into the pissy elevator before the unruly kids made it into the hallway. When I burst into my apartment, crying hysterically, my mother couldn’t believe my story. She began to rant and rave about the situation. At first, I thought the outrage was because those animals were trying to attack her baby. On the contrary, however, she was furious because I didn’t fight the bully, and I ran like a chicken. Huh? I couldn’t believe it! She actually wanted me to go down stairs and fight the girl. I looked at her like she was an alien with two heads. That wasn’t my nature. I wasn’t about to go up against those beast. Suddenly, I longed for the peaceful existence I had when I lived in the middle-class neighborhood with my godparents.

  Now, I realize now my mother was trying to teach me not to be a punk, but I wasn’t ready back then. I didn’t have enough anger built in me during those times, but it surely reared its ugly head in my later years. Like all things, the party finally ended and the shit hit the fan. My teacher saw me passing forty dollars to my bully. She immediately wanted to know where I had gotten so much money from, and why was I giving it to the girl. The investigation was launched and both my mother and god mother were contacted. Mrs. Robinson wasn’t having it! She immediately had me transferred back to the school district I grew up in. That was the end of my stay with my mother until I turned fourteen years old.

  At the age of eight, I began reading adult novels. I just loved to sneak and read my mother’s Jackie Collins and Sydney Sheldon books. I was addicted to trashy novels and couldn’t get enough. Jackie Collins taught me about the world of the rich and famous, and how they lived with such sexual debauchery and outrageously lavish lifestyles. I wanted that lifestyle! I wanted to blow-up and be a famous celebrity when I’m grown. I didn’t have any particular career goal I just knew I wanted to be rich and famous. That was instilled in me from an early age. My money addiction came a few years later, but the seed was planted at eight years old.

  Chapter Two

  MY LIFE

  Back at home with my godmother, I excelled in school, and I was the valedictorian at my junior high school graduation. My favorite teacher, Mr. Nash, referred me to a gifted program for advanced academics, which everybody was excited about. I knew that I was smart, but I didn’t consider myself a genius. When I got to high school, I realized that I was actually terrible in math, and the “smart” thing was overrated. I could barely keep up with the Caucasians and Asian students who were wizards in math. I was out of my league. Although I did well in English and Creative writing, I failed miserably in Math and Science, which caused my grades to plummet. I had let my family down and shortly thereafter, I was kicked ou
t of the gifted program. That ruined my desire for school. I started skipping school to hang out with my friends, rather than face the fact that I wasn’t able to compete. Peer pressure is real! Instead of applying myself and trying to keep up, I slacked off in school, while opting for new experiences. For one, I picked up

  a nasty cigarette habit, because I wanted to fit in. I was being a follower: the cool girls smoked, so I wanted to be down. It was a disgusting practice, but I loved blowing smoke rings and acting like I was grown. I managed to kick that nasty habit when I turned nineteen years old. I feared that I was a shoe in for cancer, since I had a hacking cough from smoking two packs a day, starting at the tender age of fourteen. I believe that it actually stunted my growth, because my mom and dad were both tall in stature, but I have long legs and a short torso! CIGARETTES SUCK!

  Then there were the boys. My body had started developing and sex was a hot topic. I, for one, didn’t have any legitimate, sexual desires, but since all my friends were “doing it”, I wanted to be down. I had just turned fourteen when I lost my virginity at a hooky party thrown down the hall from my apartment. If my godmother would have known that not only was I skipping school, but I was down the hall having sex, she would have dropped dead. I still remember the boy. He was basically a hook up. I didn’t know him personally, but he was a homeboy of my friend’s boyfriend. A rather unromantic hook up, I might add. There were absolutely no sparks between us. It was such a casual matter. I told him I wanted to lose my virginity and he grinned like a buffoon, and then climbed on top of me. I felt an uncomfortable poke and a slight burning sensation, and, four humps later, I was indoctrinated into the sex club. The only thing I felt was disappointment. I kept waiting to feel the big deal that all my friends were raving about, but instead, I felt nothing. The entire situation was a waste of my time! I thanked him for “nothing”, got dressed, and chilled to three o’clock. That way, I could pretend that I attended school and came home.

  My real sexual experience happened when I met this cutie outside of my church. I was in the corner store, buying some candy, when this older hunk came up and started to flirt with me. I almost did a double take like… Who, me!? I couldn’t believe he was asking me for my number, I looked like a complete dork in my church dress, and he was clearly older than my fourteen years. I found out that he was seventeen years old, which made him seem so cool and mature. Shoo, he was cool and mature. He was a thug, or may be a drug dealer. Who knew? All I cared about was that he liked me. I started calling him and we arranged to meet at his crib. I was floating on cloud nine. I knew that we were going to have sex, and I was going to finally feel what making love felt like. I was in love already, or at least I thought so. He didn’t disappoint me! He wasted no time with the small talk and quickly undressed me, which I had no problem with. I was very excited and wanted to experience real sex. First of all, he was thick and had a nice length. It was intimidating at first, but he proved to be quite the considerate lover. He thought I was still a virgin and loved it. I knew enough to know guys loved to feel like they are the first to pop a girl’s cherry. I skipped school for a month straight, to go to his house for hours of sex 101 and I excelled in that subject. I became a straight “A” student.

  Soon, I was kicked out of the gifted school altogether, and was put into an alternative school for truancy. That was the beginning of my downfall. Fourteen was a coming-of-age time in my life. I’ve had enough of the strict rules and not being allowed to go outside. I was really “smelling myself” (my godmother’s term for being grown) and nobody could tell me nothing. So, I decided it was time to give it another shot with my mother. She was in recovery and hadn’t been in jail for a while. It was time for me to be with her again. It was the worst move I have ever made in my life.

  In the beginning, it was a great move. My mom and I were best friends, so we had a nice time reuniting and vibing with each other. I was on top of the world. I wasn’t the scared, little girl from the middle-class neighborhood any more. I loved the Projects and made plenty of friends from my years of weekend visits. Even my former bullies became cool with me and, unlike my godmother my mother let me go outside. I loved it! Unfortunately, I picked up another nasty habit - boosting. Stealing was in my blood. My mother was a thief and, inadvertently, she taught me the art when I was a little girl. It all came back. Instinctively, it was second nature for me. I thrived in the art of making things disappear on my person, and I became the best at it, which is a sad claim to fame.

  I remember the first time I went boosting in A&S department store, which was located downtown on Fulton St in Brooklyn. All the boosters would gather in front of Albee Square Mall, along with the guys who would go to Midtown Manhattan and snatch the money bags from the local merchants when they did their bank drops. It was wild and exciting. Everybody who was somebody in Brooklyn hung out at the Albee Square Mall.

  My two best friends and I decided to stop dreaming about Guess jean jumpers and actually go and steal some. I forgot whose idea it was, but I was so with it. We crept into the department store and headed up the escalator to the Guess section. We had no plan, and none of us had ever actually stolen anything before, so we were nervous but determined. We located the denim jumpers and immediately started yanking off the buzzers, recklessly tearing holes in the clothes. My adrenaline was pumping wildly as I wobbled to the exit with the jumper and a Mickey Mouse sweater (they were popular items back then) between my legs, stuffed in my boosting girdle. Two seconds before I reached the door, I burst into a sweat. I just knew someone was going to grab me. Luckily, I got away with it. That time.

  Our noses were wide open. You couldn’t tell us anything after that. We tore that department store up! I had every flavor Coco Cola, Mickey Mouse, and Guess Jumper there was. I would say around the tenth boosting spree, the shit hit the fan. By then, my partners and I were cocky. We thought that we could waltz in any store and take whatever we wanted. The undercover store detectives in A&S had a trick for our butts. As we were leaving, they ambushed us. We tried to make a run for it, but as we scattered about, racing to the exit, they tackled us, and then dragged us to the security office. The gig was up! Our parents were contacted and had to come pick us up from the store because of our juvenile status. My home girls were done, but I wasn’t deterred in the slightest. I looked at my mother as she tried to lecture me about stealing, saying to myself, “Please! I know she ‘aint talking. She taught me how to steal.” She just shook her head and called me hard headed. She knew good and well that she passed the disease on to me.

  After a while, I got better at stealing, while she felt bad and apologized for stealing in front of me. She admitted to inadvertently teaching me how to become a thief. I felt like I had surpassed the master, because my mother was a petty thief. I, on the other hand, became a professional. I graduated from clothes to high-end merchandise like sable and mink coats, which was a big accomplishment in the underworld.

  The first time we got caught, I vowed that I would get better. I was so greedy that I would get caught in Macy’s on the 34 Street and 7Avenue entrance, but they would let me go due to my juvenile status, then I would go right back in the store via the 6 Avenue entrance and start stealing again. It was like a drug and I was hooked. The adrenaline rush I felt when I stole was better than sex. I was insane!

  Two months after I moved in with my mother, the worst thing in the world happened to us. She was diagnosed with AIDS. Nothing compares to the devastation of a fourteen year old finding out that her mother was going to die from a horrible disease. My mother had the worst luck in the world. First, she was riddled with illness from the age of seventeen when she found out about her kidney failing. Then, at the age of thirty-four, she was told that she was going to die. Prior to that, she was in and out of the hospital due to complications with her kidneys. So, in retrospect, I can’t blame her for getting high. Nothing prepared me for the crack epidemic that hit the ‘hood hard in the 80’s. Almost all my friends’ parents (if the father
was around) got high off of crack or heroin. When my mother broke the news to me about her having AIDS, I totally freaked out. At that time, nobody knew anything about that disease, but it was known to kill off its victims very quickly. The disease was so new that the doctors had no idea how to contain or cure the epidemic. I cried hysterically and was almost inconsolable. I had finally reunited with my mother and she was going to die. That was also the end of her recovery. She immediately picked up the crack pipe.

  The next day, I came home from boosting to find my mother holed up in her room with about five of her “new” friends. I say that because I had never seen these people before. I knocked on my mother’s bedroom door and she wouldn’t open it up. Then I smelled a strange, sour, sweet odor wafting in the air. It was the pungent smell of crack. I couldn’t believe that my mother was getting high again. She had promised me that she was going to stay clean and be the mother I’ve always wanted. When she finally opened her bedroom door, she looked like a zombie. That just made it worst, because she was already disfigured from the renal failure. Her skin had darkened and she wasn’t attractive any more. I’ll never forget how dilated her pupils were, and the glazed, spacey look she had when I accused her of relapsing. She tried to lie but could barely get the words out. She was stuck! At that moment, I knew that I’d lost my mother. It was like a demon had taken over her body. Her eyes looked almost lifeless. My life was never the same after that day. I tried to tell her that we could fight the virus together. Like she was doing with her kidney disease, but she was just too weak in spirit. It was much easier for her to forget her pain and suffering by getting high.