by M?ta Smith
My daddy is a powerhouse attorney that has been toying with the idea of running for office when his buddy Barack Obama steps down from the Senate and hopefully steps up to paint the White House black. If he wants it, he’s got an excellent shot at winning too, because that’s precisely what my dad is known for: winning at every single thing he puts his heart and effort into. My dad’s the guy that you call when your civil liberties have been violated, if you’re a celebrity charged with the murder of your ex-wife and her new lover, or if you’re fighting a big business that is responsible for the wrongful death of a loved one. He makes the late great Johnny Cochran look like a loser. My dad’s win-lose ratio is phenomenal; he has one of the best track records around. And he has qualities that are scarce in lawyers: honesty and integrity. He’s not the lawyer that will use your case to try to shift the attention to his own agenda or use your problems as a photo op; and he won’t take on a case if he feels you’re full of shit and you’re out just to make a buck. Yet he isn’t some idealistic dreamer who can’t pay the rent because he’s out defending the rights of all the downtrodden of society; he definitely makes a pretty penny and his net worth is well into the millions.
I know my dad loves me. But I also know he always dreamed of a son to follow in his footsteps. Although he didn’t get a son and I’m an only child, I know he hoped that Daddy’s little girl would become a lawyer or a doctor or something professional and I definitely didn’t live up to his expectations. He always seems so sad and let down when I’m around him, so I try to stay away because the guilt is a motherfucker, and my dad is a pro at the art of negotiation. If I’m around him too long there’s no telling what he’d talk me into! He’s tried everything under the sun to sway me, but it’s futile because music is my passion. Living without it would be like living without oxygen. I just can’t do it.
My father once offered me a Ferrari if I’d just go to law school, but as tempting as the offer was, I stood fast and in the process broke his heart (or so he says when he really wants to lay the guilt on extra thick). I wish I could have been Daddy’s little girl, his angel, his princess; I wish I could just be accepted and loved unconditionally and that my family would support my dreams but that’s just not the way it is, so I’ve had to sacrifice all that to be true to myself, to do what I want. My father now refers to me as the most important case he ever lost. Nice, huh? Still, I don’t think my choice of vocation would be such a big deal to my father and grandfather if it weren’t for my mother’s constant meddling and negative vibes.
My mother is a real piece of work. Monique Toussaint LeBlanc Hayes is from an impressive and rich family from New Orleans. Her father was one of the first “colored” cardiologists to practice in New Orleans and was on the parish council. Her mother was a well-known socialite in “proper black society,” herself the daughter of a New Orleans doctor. My mother is third-generation money, and her relatives are so sedity that they thought that my father wasn’t good enough! They didn’t approve of my grandfather’s “rabble-rousing” during the civil rights movement, nor were they too keen on my father’s “Negroid” features. They’re a bunch of Uncle Toms and sellouts, I’ll admit, but I’ll cut anyone who talks shit about them. They’re my Uncle Toms and sellouts so even though their way of thinking digusts me, what am I gonna do? You can’t pick your family.
Mother’s family is really into being Creole. They don’t really even consider themselves black. Being called African American or African anything is considered fighting words. My mother almost has a coronary whenever I tell her that there’s no such thing as Creole and that Black is Black, but it falls on deaf ears. It doesn’t sicken me to think that mother’s clan is actually proud of the history of rape and forced miscegenation that made them as fair as any white man, with so-called good hair. I think that everyone should be proud of whom, where, and what they come from regardless of the circumstances, and hold their heads up high. What pisses me off is the fact that they think that their “French” blood makes them better than other black folks.
My mother is a large part of the reason why I am admittedly somewhat fucked up. When she wasn’t trying to brainwash me with her colorist and elitist ideology, she was filling my head with materialistic bullshit. My mother has never heard the saying “make money, don’t let money make you.” Money is her identity, her security. In her eyes it’s just one more thing that makes us superior.
When I was growing up, I couldn’t wear anything that wasn’t name brand, and when I say name brand I don’t mean urban fashion, which was a big no-no in my household. I mean haute couture from the best fashion houses in France, and at the very least the high-ticket items available from Saks, Neiman’s, and Marshall Field’s. The only exception was the clothing that was custom-made for me at my mother’s insistence because so many girls emulated my style, a fact that she was fiercely proud of. I was given my first charge card at the age of seven, and by the time I was sixteen, I had store charges for every major department store, with the exception of Sears and Penney’s and the like.
I was never allowed on public transportation, not even cabs, because we had a driver who could take me where I wanted to go, though that fact never stopped me from riding the CTA just to be spiteful. I got a BMW for my sweet sixteen and a Range Rover when I finished undergrad. I got my hair done by a professional stylist every week without fail, but I never had to go and sit and—heaven forbid—wait in a beauty salon. Some of the nation’s finest stylists came to my house to do my hair.
So how did a man from a family so proud to be black, a champion of the underprivileged underdog, end up with a woman whose family was ashamed of the melanin in their skin and wouldn’t dream of commingling with someone who made less than six figures a year? Aside from the fact that Mother is really beautiful and smart (despite her antiquated, brainwashed way of thinking), it was simple: she got knocked up. My parents were college sweethearts who met and fell in love while attending Howard University. They had a whirlwind courtship and were married after less than a year of dating, but the real truth is that my father was quite the playboy and was not ready to settle down, so my mom got pregnant on purpose to trap him. Mother smelled the potential money my father was going to make, and she loved how much people practically worshipped my grandfather. Being associated with them made her feel important. She wasn’t going to let my father get away, because although he was darker than a paper bag, he was almost like royalty. Their wedding was featured in Ebony, Jet, and even white mainstream publications. By marrying my father, her place in black society was solidified. I can’t say that I’m pissed, though, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. And life hasn’t exactly been tough financially.
But growing up, I was confused as hell. I was expected to be just as civic-minded and socially conscious as my father’s side of the family and there was mad pressure to be this picture-perfect, prissy Black American Princess like my mother and her people, and the two just don’t mesh well in my eyes. In Jack and Jill, the elite social club for African American families I belonged to, all of the other kids and the parents were super nice to me, but it was so fake. The fact of the matter was that no one wanted to run the risk of getting on my father’s bad side, and my mother was the Queen Bee of Chicago’s black upper- and upper-middle classes. One bad word from her and you were a social pariah. One good word and you were in like Flynn. People were always appeasing me to get in my family’s good graces.
But what people didn’t know, and what a lot of people still don’t realize, is that I carried absolutely no clout or influence with my folks. I was the bad seed, always in trouble and wild as hell. I ditched classes, cussed my teachers out, and was what people considered “fast.” I lost my virginity at fourteen, and by the time I graduated from high school, I’d had sex with eight different guys. But the crazy thing was I did what I did, not just because it was fun, but because I wanted to get caught. I wanted to get in trouble. I wanted something in my life to be ordinary and normal. I wanted to be like other
kids. But my life was anything but normal, and there were very few things under my control. Everything the public could see was controlled by something much bigger than me. There were advisors and press secretaries all putting their two cents in on how the Hayes should appear to the masses. This wasn’t your case of average American parents nagging their kid to make straight A’s and wear the right clothes. This was life by tribunal, and although a democracy might be a great way to run the government with everyone having a fair say in what happens, it is no way to live your own life. Everyone, whether they’re rich or poor, wants to be able to make their own choices in life.
I have made the choice to be who I am, and not put up any fronts. I’m a Jack Daniels–drinking, hell-raising, take-no-shit kind of woman and, not only that, I’ll confess that I’m a bit of a slut, and I don’t even care what anyone thinks about it because it isn’t going to change. I am the antithesis of everything my parents stand for; in their worlds I just don’t fit. I’ve tried, but I just don’t.
Moving to Miami when I finished college was just what the doctor ordered. I was free, at least for the time being, to be whoever I wanted to be. But I had no idea what that was or exactly what I was going to do with my life. My parents cut me off; they changed the terms of my $4 million trust fund so that I couldn’t touch my money until they saw fit, which was when I graduated from law or grad school, when I got married, or when they died. None of that shit is gonna happen any time soon, so even though I had it made as a shorty, I had to make a living for myself just like everyone else. My parents thought cutting me off was punishment, but it wasn’t. For once, I could be normal. I could make my own choices without their interference and it was worth it.
When I first got to Miami, I tried waiting tables, but I wasn’t really good at it. I guess growing up with housekeepers and cooks and nannies put a monkey wrench in any future I may have had in the hospitality industry. So I ended up selling real estate, because I wouldn’t have to be cooped up in an office all day. I was pretty good at it too because, if I say so myself, I can show the hell out of a house. I know just what to highlight to satisfy rich folks and make the sale. But even though I made good money, it bored the shit out of me, so I quit. Still, I was able to buy a nice condo on South Beach and upgrade the Range Rover my parents gave me to a newer model, which I promptly had painted candy pink. I even had a nice little stash to live off while I figured out what I was going to do next.
Then I met Kaos. He was one of the best DJs I’d ever heard, and he was as fine as he was talented. We fell in love at first sight, and were together for two years. He had acquired quite a following, and was blowing up as a DJ, but although I loved the music, I got tired of him always ignoring me, choosing to fool around on his turntables instead of fooling around with me. Then it dawned on me. I would become a DJ too. Since I couldn’t beat the game, I could join it, and I’d have a great career in music as a bonus. Kaos was more than happy to become my mentor, and I was a quick study. Once I got a taste of spinning, I was hooked. Kaos used to tell me that part of the reason that he loved me so much was because I loved to spin just as much as he did, and DJing became as much a part of our relationship as making love.
Kaos wasn’t just my man and my mentor, but my best friend. We could talk about any- and everything, and he never judged me because of my background. Even though he was from the hood and grew up poor, he was the only person who seemed to “get” my angst about my bougie background. He accepted me at face value and never tried to make me be something that I wasn’t. We worked together, we played together, and we lived together and things couldn’t have been more perfect. I was the happiest I’d been in my whole life, and we were planning to get married. But one morning I woke up and he wasn’t there. Overnight my world changed. Kaos was killed in a motorcycle accident. I was the one who received the phone call from the coroner’s office, and I had to identify his body at the morgue. One simply can’t go through something like that and then be okay afterward. It’s just not possible.
Kaos’s death sent me reeling, and it was almost impossible to piece my life back together afterward. There were days when suicide wasn’t far from my mind and I wondered how or if I could go on. But I could and I did go on. In the months that followed, I practiced day and night in the walk-in closet we converted into a “studio.” There was so much of Kaos still alive in that tiny little room. It was my way of connecting with him. Sometimes I could still smell his cologne, or I’d run across a piece of paper with his handwriting on it, and that and the music kept me going when the going got tough. I eventually started to score sporadic gigs on my own at some of Miami’s hottest clubs; I had never worked without Kaos before. I know that some of those first jobs were landed heavily on the merit of my affiliation with Kaos, because I was constantly being labeled as Kaos’s protégé, Kaos’s widow, or Kaos’s girl, not that I minded, because it was true. He was the only man I’ve ever loved, he gave me my start, and I owe everything I am to him. Kaos is the reason that I will never settle down again. No one could ever possibly fill his shoes. He wasn’t perfect, but he was perfect for me. And after about a year or so, I began to receive props for my skills until finally my name began to carry weight on its own.
Today I’m planning on advancing to a whole new level. The Winter Music Conference is the granddaddy of all music forums. There are seminars on mixing and production, on equipment; there are artist showcases of some up-and-coming artists and some tried-and-true legends in the house- and dance-music scenes, and there are a million parties. Over the years, hip-hop has had more of a presence at the conference. In the past dance music has been more of the focus, but I plan on changing that. The highlight of the conference is the DJ battles. They’re a chance to show and prove who’s got the tightest skills. And I know that I’m among the best of the best, so I plan on winning.
I finish my breakfast, walk into my studio, and look through my equipment bags and cases. Everything is in its place. I fool around on my turntables, just to get loosened up and in the mood. I don’t want to overpractice; I just want to take the edge off so my hands aren’t shaky when it’s time for me to compete. I play a bunch of classic rap songs that get me amped: “C.R.E.A.M.” by Wu-Tang, “Oh Yeah” by Foxy Brown, and the “Quiet Storm” remix by Mobb Deep and Lil’ Kim. And when I’m feeling the vibe of the streets through the music, once my pulse is racing and that feeling that I’m the baddest bitch in the world washes over me, I shut off my set-up and head to the bathroom to get my wardrobe and makeup together.
I’m a bundle of nerves by the time I make it to Wyndham Miami Beach where the competition is being held poolside. The venue is packed, but I don’t speak to anyone when I get there. I’m in the zone, prepping myself with a little liquid courage. I pour out just a splash from the jigger before I down a double shot of Jack. Then I pour a bit of brew out of the evergreen-tinted glass bottle of Heineken and watch the froth foam and bubble on the hot asphalt before chugging half of it down. Respect due to the brother who ain’t here, my baby Kaos. He would be so proud.
I pull out a picture from my back pocket. I keep it with me at all times; it’s my good luck charm, a picture of me, Kaos, and Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC taken in New York at the Scratch DJ Academy that Jam Master Jay founded. Kaos and I were there so I could learn some tips to improve my technique from the Jam Master himself. I pour out a little beer for Jay and think to myself that it’s a fucking shame that he had to die such a senseless death—that both of them had to die such senseless deaths. I rub the laminated surface of the snapshot, wishing that Kaos was still here with me. He’s the first person that ever believed that I could make it as a DJ, and no matter how much time goes by, I still miss him so much. But I know that he’s watching every second, and that keeps me from getting sad—most of the time. I picture him up in heaven, lining up angels and seraphim and cherubim, bragging how good his baby girl is and passing around a huge cup of holy wine, and that makes me smile.
I’ve entered
both the beat matching and scratching contests, and I’m one of only a handful of females invited to compete. I am the only sister. I rub my hands together because I see that as a plus: I’ll definitely stand out, and when I reveal the few tricks I have up my sleeve, I know that it will be a long time before people stop talking about me. When it’s all said and done, everyone will know my name.
The contest begins, and round after round of DJs give it their best. Some of them are nice, but not as nice as me.
“Next up, we have Miami’s own Ms. Bobbi,” the emcee announces when it’s my turn. There’s applause and a few people are chanting my name in support, but I block it all out. All I can hear is the thumping of my heart as I step up to the ones and twos and prepare to do my thing. I swear I hear Kaos’s voice saying, “I love you, baby girl. Now kill these motherfuckers,” so that’s what I do.
In my allotted two minutes, I cut, scratch, transform, juggle beats, and put on one hell of a performance. But what really wins the crowd over is when I simultaneously work the turntables, manipulating the fuck out of New Edition’s “Cool It Now” so that all you hear is the name Bobbi scratched over and over again as I remove my shirt to reveal my 34Ds covered in so many Austrian crystals that my boobs look like two giant disco balls. It’s a new take on an old trick. Guys come out of their shirts in battles all the time, but none of them have the assets that I do. I end things with the line from the song that says “if I love the girl, who cares who you like,” and the crowd’s response tells me all I need to know. No matter how the voting goes, I’ll be the people’s champ. I go through the beat matching competition in a haze, but it doesn’t affect my performance. Once again I throw down.
