by Mack Mama
I had never met my father. I had only spoken to him a few times while he was in prison, but I needed him more than ever. Every time he came home from one of his bids, he would promise to come see me, but it never happened. When my mother started on her shit again, I needed him in my life. I didn’t want to go back and live with my godmother. I had to take care of my mother, but I really felt alone. I was too young to have all of that stress on me, and I cracked a few times. She started selling all of the furniture in our apartment and stealing from me, which eventually caused me to suffer a breakdown.
I know now that my first attempt at suicide was a ploy to make her stop getting high. I had a nasty argument with my mother after she sold the washing machine and our dining table. I called her every name in the book. At that point, I had lost all respect for her. She had broken another one of her promises to go to rehab, so I threatened to kill myself. I actually climbed out onto the ledge of our eighth floor apartment and refused to come in. Someone called the fire department and they coaxed me down from the ledge. That was my first attempt at suicide. The second time, I took a lethal combination of her medication. I had mixed the AIDS meds with the kidney failure drugs. I told her that since she wanted to kill herself, she should just do it, and then I offered her the pills. Of course, she refused to ingest the lethal dose of medication, so I began to swallow down the pills like a madwomen. I had to get my stomach pumped, and the hospital wanted to send me to a psychiatric hospital for juveniles. I didn’t want to go, so I had my mother and my best friend, Queenie, sneak me out of the hospital. It was like “Mission Impossible”, but they got me out of there. My mother felt so much guilt that she would do anything for me.
She knew that I was torn up mentally over her problems, but she was too messed up to fix it. I resented her back then, because I felt like all she had to do was stop getting high. It obviously wasn’t that easy. I wish that I could tell her that I understand it now, but it’s too late. My biggest regret is that I was too hard on her while she was in the midst of her addiction. My life was full of turmoil and pain. The only relief I had was the streets, so I dived head first into crime and deviant behavior. The gifted little girl with the good manners was gone. I was slowly dying and being reborn as Satan’s daughter. I lost all faith in God. If there was a God, why was my mother suffering the way she was? That was how I thought, but the reality is that she did it to herself. The years of shooting heroin combined with unprotected sex with her boyfriend, who was also a dope fiend, simply caught up with her. That situation made me very bitter; more than I was when I longed to be with her as a child. It seemed like I would never be happy.
Chapter Three
DON’T TURN OUT LIKE ME
This is the chapter that I really want my daughter and other young girls in the world to analyze and learn from. I ruined the first part of my life by making all of the wrong choices. I was using my mother’s mistakes and her life as an excuse to destroy my own. That was truly sad. I would never want anybody to repeat the mistakes that I made. I hope by telling my story, it will prevent young girls who can relate and dealing with similar situations from wrecking their lives.
I started selling drugs for a local dealer named Kelvin Martin a.k.a. Fifty Cent. He was the gangster from Fort Green projects who the rapper, Curtis Jackson, named himself after. I had decided to switch up my hustle because I was getting too hot in the stores. I took a shot at selling crack. I hated staying with my mother because of all the drug activity that she brought into our apartment. It became a crack den, and she started stealing from me to feed her addiction. My home had become a living nightmare. I just wanted to make a lot of money and get my own crib. I had dreams of getting rich by selling drugs, but did that turn into a fiasco.
I worked for twenty percent off of every hundred that I made, which was a measly amount for all of the risk that I took. Fifty Cent knew that if I got caught, I wouldn’t do anytime due to my juvenile status. My downfall was that I wanted to buy clothes from the crack head boosters and, before I knew it, I had dipped into his cut of the money too many times. I didn’t realize it until the shorts began to add up, and he brought it to my attention the hard way. Fifty sent Crime, one of his lieutenants to bring me to meet him. I was very nervous. He had never dealt with me directly, and I was intimidated to meet the infamous gangster. He was known for his ruthlessness, and I didn’t know what to expect. I was brought to a building in Farragut Houses, the projects where we sold the drugs, and then escorted to the roof for the meeting. It was all done in silence. I almost shitted my pants when I stood in front of him. It was not his stature, because he was all of fight foot three. He was a little man with a deep growl and, when he spoke, it’s almost like he was barking at you “YO, B***H WHAT UP WITH MY MONEY?” he barked. I almost collapsed.
“What do you me-mea-mean? I stuttered, shaking uncontrollably. I knew exactly what he meant. My shopping had caught up with me, and I was about to feel it.
“Well since you don’t know what I’m talking about, how ‘bout I tell you, he stated calmly then roared, “I WANT MY MOTHERF*****G MONEY, NOW! B***H, YOU BEEN DIPPING AND YOU OWE ME FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS HOE!”
“I didn’t dip in your money. I swear to god,” I cried. I was beginning to hyperventilate. I looked at him and Crime wildly, trying to figure out how I was going to get out of the situation, and wondering why the hell were, we having this discussion on the roof.
“I WANT MY SHIT, B***H! OR YOU ‘GONNA HAVE TO SUCK ME AND MY MAN’S D**K RIGHT NOW” I was horrified at the thought and sick to my stomach. My mind was racing and, all I knew was, I wasn’t going to suck nobody’s d**k.
“IT WASN’T ME!!” I yelled frantically, trying to convince this ruthless, cold-blooded killer that I didn’t steal his drug money. I started telling on the other worker, and blaming her for everything. I didn’t care! All I knew was, I wasn’t going down by myself.
‘B***H, IF YOU DON’T COME UP WITH MY LOOT, I’MA THROW YOUR A** OFF THIS F*****G ROOF” he threatened, his growl as ferocious as a Lion when he attacks his prey.
“I will get you your money. Please don’t killllllllllllllll meeeeeee” I started wailing.
“B***H, SHUT UP! I’M GOING TO MURDA’ YOUR ASS IF YOU DON’T GET MY MONEY TO ME BY TOMORROW.” He dragged me to the edge of the roof, and squeezed my neck, and whispered in my ear, “Hoe, you better have my money” Then he abruptly released me. Most importantly, he didn’t sodomize me, which I was forever grateful for. After telling my mother and my sister’s father, who was staying with my mom at the time, what transpired, they both managed to come up with four hundred dollars, so that I wouldn’t die. That was one time that my mother put me before getting high. She knew the situation was serious. Plus, with the reputation that Fifty Cent had in the streets, she wasn’t going to let her baby get hurt. I loved her for that.
That was the end of my stint as a drug dealer. I never tried that bullshit again. I was utterly traumatized. Ironically, a few months later, I started messing with him. This was not by choice but by demand. I was visiting my best friend’s aunt when in walked my worst nightmare-Fifty Cent. I was in complete shock, and I nearly fainted. I was hoping to never lay eyes on dude again, but there he was, standing in the door way with an evil grin on his face. “Come here, bitch! Long time, no see” he said smirking at me. “Hi, Fifty” I said meekly, hoping he would finish talking to his aunt. I had no idea that she was even related to him. He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the other room like a caveman, and then flung me onto the bed. The unthinkable was taking place and I couldn’t believe that his aunt was letting it happen. I mean, if a grown lady couldn’t control this madman, I didn’t stand a chance in hell. He was around twenty- four and I was a tender fifteen. That was definitely illegal. It was the norm for most of the drug dealers and hustlers in the hood to sleep with underage girls. It was never an issue because most of our mothers were either drug addicts or drunks. So who cared? Plus, no one who I associated with had a father-figure
in their home, so we looked for that guidance in the older guys from our ‘hood.
From that day on, I became Fifty’s girl, which only defined me as being one of the many girls he dealt with. I guess he liked my innocence, because I was definitely not in his league (at that time). I would never allow my fourteen year old daughter, who is eleven at the time of this writing, to date a twenty-four year old man. Mentally, a young girl is just not ready for the mind screwing (manipulation) that an older man can do to her.
That relationship didn’t last long. Kelvin Martin a.k.a Fifty Cent became a police informant after he was busted carrying a pistol. He snitched on several dudes in the projects and was hated by many. Shortly after that, he made an attempt to cross the wrong individual and, for that mistake, he was murdered. He was literally gunned down in a pissy stairwell and left to die. That’s Street Justice! The eighties were definitely a wild era. It seemed like most of the hustlers in my projects had started to murder each other. I believe the crack epidemic played a huge part in the backstabbing and envy that caused a lot of the murders in Fort Greene. When money comes into play, it becomes a power struggle, and grimey behavior follows suit. The Pony Pack was the most powerful drug organization in my projects at that time, and the majority of the guys involved were either killed or locked up for the rest of their lives. Those who survived death, but lost their freedom, if you’re reading this, I urge you to be strong and grateful for your life. Don’t ever stop fighting for your liberty, because everybody deserves a second chance. To the few O.G’s (Original Gangsters) who made it and survived that era, while maintaining their freedom, I’m sure they are grateful.
The crack had my mother so gone that I would bring grown men into the apartment to sleep with them. I did that to get her attention, but she wouldn’t say a word. I got away with murder because she wasn’t in her right state of mind. Anyone with an addict for a parent knows that the roles sometimes reverse and the child becomes the responsible care taker of the parent. Also, the child will take advantage of the situation by doing unacceptable things because of the impaired state of the parent. Basically, anything goes, because who cares? When you’re getting high, you began to mask your feelings and prevent yourself from being emotionally attached. I know that I’ve took full advantage of my mother’s state of mind. I lost all respect for her and didn’t have much left for myself. I was on autopilot for self-destruction. The streets had matured me beyond my years, and I became affiliated with all the popular hustlers in Brooklyn. The gangsters and drug dealers all knew me and my partner, Queenie.We earned reputations for being elite hustlers; not to mention, my reputation for busting my gun (shooting people), which I will elaborate about further in my autobiography.
I was bad beyond belief. I would get caught stealing and never considered stopping. I simply learned from my mistakes. Before I knew it, I had developed quite a rap sheet. Now, years later, I have over 36 convictions for various larcenies and misdemeanors, along with 6 felony convictions for various robberies and assaults. As of this writing, my last criminal conviction was for 65 counts of credit card fraud, which I pleaded down to forgery and unlawful use of credit cards. I was sentenced to five years in prison and served forty-two months. At that time, I was sent to a mother-and-child half way house for six months, where I reunited with my daughter. Altogether, my prison time totals up to thirteen years. I was a hot mess and the epitome of a bad girl, thus the title of my autobiography: Tales of an Original Bad Girl. I had decided not to dwell on the details of my scheming and criminal behavior, because I don’t want to inadvertently teach people how to hustler. However, I focused on the bad side of the lifestyle, hoping to discourage the would-be copycats in the world from taking the path that I once took in life.
On the flip side, I got away with more than I paid for and managed to live a lavish lifestyle. I’m a survivor who lived my life on my own terms. I have always been a renegade, but now I am happy to finally have order in my life. I don’t have to look over my shoulder and wonder if I will make it to the exit of a store without being apprehended.
After doing my last five year bid, I reunited with my daughter, and I was ecstatic! I can’t put into words how happy I was to be with my baby girl again. She was all I thought about while I was away. I’m so blessed that my best friend Queenie, who is also her godmother, raised my daughter in my absence. Queenie gave my baby the life that she deserved. My ex-husband had wanted custody of her, but I felt it would be better for her to live with her godparents who had more to offer. She lived in a beautiful home in Ohio, and enjoyed a great life while I was gone.
My ex-husband, on the other hand, lived with his mother in the projects, and thought that he could provide our child with the lifestyle that she was used to. He meant well, but I had to make a judgment call. With the hate and contempt that he felt for me, he would have surely turned my baby against me. The first two years of my incarceration, my daughter thought that I was on tour, and everything that her godmother bought her, she thought it came from me. She told her grand stories of me being a big star, and how I had to travel and perform all over the world to make money to take care of her. Whatever she gave her son, she gave my daughter, and those children were lavished upon. She even told my daughter that her father worked hard to send her money, and how he loved her so much that we would fight over who loved her the most. I thought that was generous of her, because, in reality, he didn’t send her any money to help with her care. Nor did he send me anything after all I had done for him before, during, and after his eleven year bid. I basically dropped out of school, following him around from city to city, while he was on the run for murder. I stood by him during his incarceration. I even married him in prison, making it possible for him to have conjugal visits, and that was the thanks I got. Wow! Those are some of the reasons I can’t trust a man with my heart. I know this is a random thought, and I’m straying away from the topic, but I had to get that out of my system. I promise I will get back to my childhood.
My best friend instilled positive stories inside of my daughter to keep my memory alive for the years that I was gone and, also, to keep the existence of her father in perspective. I wouldn’t allow him to see her while I was gone because he wanted custody of her badly. The police told him that if he could get her in his possession, that her godmother had no legal rights to guardianship. I struggled with that decision, but I knew that Velvet would be raised better with Queenie. He would have had her calling some other lady “mommy” and that would have destroyed me.
I tell my daughter as much about my life as I feel that she can handle. I always tell her ‘Don’t turn out like me’. I wrote a song about it, and I hope it can be an anthem for all the hustlers (active and retired). The song lets the children know that whatever they may have done in life, it’s not the right thing to do, and how much more their parents want for them. I always say, ‘I did it all, so that my baby won’t have to do it’. When I was in the halfway house, I was selected to speak to the troubled at-risk teens in various schools, and I loved it. Public speaking is natural for me because I am a performer. I loved to tell my story, while hoping to prevent young children from choosing the path I did.
The gangs of today remind me of the different crews I used to run with. We ran to the streets because of different family issues. Most of us had addicts as parents; therefore, we found love and guidance from the misguided youths that we’ve met in the underworld. It is an advanced form of peer pressure, which is easy for one to fall victim to its influence. The allure of street life, violence and crime is like the ultimate drug. It’s twice as addictive, but the side effects and repercussions are lethal. The havoc it wreaks on your life is irreversible, because once you catch a case, that’s a mark on your life. Society views felons and ex-cons as being the scum of the earth. Period! The worst feeling is standing before a judge as he flicks through the various pages of my lengthy rap sheet. He glances at me in disgust, and silently forms his opinion of me from the hideous charges he has r
ead. My life is summed up in a thick file that is called my Arrest Jacket. The definition of a jacket is an article of clothing that covers your person. My Arrest Jacket covers my life of crime. I just want to rip it off and shed myself of that negative image. I despise what I appear to be on paper. I pray that all the youth, those that are caught up in the addiction of street life, make it out before it’s too late. If not, they will end up wearing the jacket of shame for the rest of their lives. Just like I do! My only chance of peeling off a layer of that jacket is to make a success out of my life. With the help of this book, along with, my music, I can turn my sob story into a successful ending. Then I can say to my daughter that I’ve changed and made something of myself. I am an Entrepreneur. If I can do it, so can anyone else who desires to change. Do things differently and get different results. Don’t turn out like me. Turn out better!
Chapter Four
What You ‘Gonna Do?
The first person I shot was this guy from Farragut projects, located a few blocks away from Fort Greene. The incident happened out of desperation, a sort of kill or be killed situation. It took place when I was only fifteen years old. I was messing around with my childhood love and ex-husband, whose nickname is Secret Squirrel. At the time, he was on the run for a body (murder), we were like a modern day Bonnie and Clyde. However, he was insanely jealous. He would sniff cocaine and hallucinate about me cheating on him. This one particular time, I sold some clothes to this guy from his projects, but the asshole lied on me. He went back and told Squirrel’s sister that he was screwing me, and I gave him the clothes for free. All hell broke loose when that lie got back to Squirrel. He was so sneaky that I never saw it coming. That’s why his nickname is Secret Squirrel.
