God Must Have Forgotten About Me

by Jason Lee

  God Must Have

  Forgotten About Me

  Jason Lee

  Copyright © 2019 by Jason Lee

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  House Capacity Publishing

  kierra@housecapacity.com

  www.housecapacity.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Rodney

  Contents

  God Must Have

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Jason Lee Unlocked

  1 Surviving Stockton

  2 Foster Care

  3 Readjusting

  4 An Introduction to a Queen

  5 Love on the Low

  6 Rodney

  7 Death And Destruction

  8 Forgotten

  9 An Iconic Connection

  10 Sobriety and Fatherhood

  11Toxic Ass Nigga

  12 Trayvon Martin & Activism

  13 Meeting Floyd Mayweather

  14 Career Rebranding

  15 Breaking Barriers in my Own Lane

  16 Broken Family Ties

  I Am Not an Anomaly

  Jason Lee

  Acknowledgments

  I submit this book to the world with all of the pain, love, promises, and fears that I’ve endured. I’ve planned a lot of things, but authorship was not one. But as I’ve looked back over my life thus far, I knew I had to share my journey with the world.

  Getting here hasn’t been by chance or luck. First and foremost, I thank God because he gave me the strength to endure and the clarity to see it was my purpose to share.

  To the Easter Family: thank you for showing me God and allowing me to become apart of your family. You helped shape the MAN I’ve become. To Pastor Easter and Elnora Easter: I know I never told you both that I loved you, but I did and still do.

  To my sister, Tamica Barney: we’ve been through a lot and we have a lot more to go. You have always been my biggest supporter, and that means a lot. Thank you for always being there.

  To my cousin, Anthony Dunn. You’ve been an unconditional staple of my inner circle. Love and appreciate you.

  Thank you, Kitchie, for the introduction to Floyd Mayweather. Who would have thought we would become family.

  To Floyd, you have undoubtedly instilled a passion in me that can not be measured. You have been more than a man of your word. You have been such a generous light to so many people, and I would have never found the courage to start Hollywood Unlocked had you not told me I had a big future. Thank you for being my family.

  To Calvin Phillips, my best friend: thank you for holding me the night Rodney died and for never wavering on our friendship. You have always been my ace, and I know God put you in my life to keep me balanced.

  To Lature Van Duren: thanks for showing me that I could love and trust someone. I know I drive you crazy, but as you know, I blame you lol. You’re an amazing soul. Please stay true to who you are and never leave.

  To Edwin Fleming: I wish I would have said goodbye. Thanks for making me feel special when it seemed like nobody wanted me.

  To Dana A.K.A. Queen Latifah: I don’t think I’ve ever seen you truly receive my words on how impactful you’ve been on my life. Not because you didn’t want to but because you’re so humble that I don’t think you know how. I love you for what you represent and for always being a light when I needed it. You’re a special person and I pray that others get to have someone like you in their lives.

  To Kierra James and the staff at House Capacity Publishing LLC, I want to give a special thank you for helping me share my story with the world.

  To Jenifer Lewis: after reading your book and having you on my show I knew I needed to put my pain to paper. What a healing experience. Thanks for having the courage to tell your story because in doing so you gave me the courage to tell my own.

  To all of the group home staff, teachers, former employers, bus drivers, neighbors, union members, friends and family that helped shape who I’ve become I thank you. I don’t regret anything because it’s all led me to this place.

  Jason Lee Unlocked

  I remember sitting with my accountant and going through all the money that I've made throughout my career. Reality TV money, consulting money, event-hosting money—I realized that I didn’t enjoy it. None of it. I’m grateful for what I have, and I can honestly say that I’ve done well for myself: I started my own company, I’m on the cast of “Wild ‘N Out,” I’m on “Love & Hip Hop,” and I have a syndicated radio show that is live in 52 markets. I became partners with Floyd Mayweather, one of the richest athletes in the world, and I’ve befriended some of the most talented, notable people in the entertainment industry. I know everybody, but not everybody knows me. They know Hollywood Unlocked. They know how I act a fool on “Wild ‘N Out.” They know some of the dramatic situations I’ve been a part of on “Love & Hip Hop.” They know my industry beefs and my clap-backs. They know what’s on my Instagram.

  And since I’ve mentioned Instagram, if you go through my page, you won’t see pictures of anyone who I'm in an intimate relationship with. You don't see my family. You don't see anything personal. People don't know me. People know what I've given them, and I've given them my work. I've given them my brand. I've given them exactly what I wanted them to have.

  This is the first opportunity I’ve given people to actually know me. I’m unlocked, and this is my storyline in front of the whole world. My narrative. No coaching, no filter, no holding back. I’m excited to present something that shows who I am. I think when people read this, their perspective will shift, although I didn’t write this to convince or beg people to see me a certain way; I don’t really care about that. I’ve made my money the best way I knew how, but I guess as with most people, I’m looking to be understood. I’m looking for people to connect with me. I’m not just the blogger who starts shit, the blogger who shows up and drops the tea, or the blogger who’s got the plug on everything. I tell the truth. The truth hurts people sometimes, but I want people to really understand my truth and my journey.

  In this book, I’m introducing you to broken Jason. The bright seven-year-old boy who had his light dimmed with the reality and cruelty of his circumstances. The rebellious 10-year-old boy who fought like hell to make it in the foster care system. The angry, fragile Jason who had to figure out how to live after experiencing debilitating trauma. The determined Jason who tapped into his inner anguish and used it as fuel to propel himself in the entertainment industry.

  My story is for people of color. It’s for white people. It’s for young teens as well as seasoned adults. It’s for mothers, fathers, grandparents, sisters, brothers—family. It’s especially relevant to anybody who is following a dream, anybody who was abandoned by his or her family, anybody who had or currently has parents on drugs or who is the product of a single-parent household. I’m also reaching out to people who have been victims of abuse, and anyone who’s trying to figure out how to persevere or overcome trauma. This book is for those who feel stuck or lost. Those who are going through the hardest trials of their lives.

  This book is probably the most important book I'm ever going to write. I've told a lot of my stories about my background on my show, but this is an opportunity for
me to search myself and share details of my experiences. Here is a way for me to illustrate and provide color and texture to my feelings and emotions. I am certain that my story will impact other people because, shit, I went through too much for it not to help someone else. I also know how powerful words are, and I believe in the power of testimony.

  1 Surviving Stockton

  I’ll never forget the first time I saw someone get killed. Even though I was only seven years old, I was able to walk to the store by myself—the store, although it was like two or three blocks away, was in the roughest part of town. One time while I was headed there, two guys got into an argument out front. One of the guys nonchalantly pulled out a knife and started stabbing the other guy in the neck. He didn’t care who else was in the store or who else had seen him. He was literally sawing his fucking neck like a piece of wood. Blood was squirting everywhere.

  I was as white as a fucking Klan sheet, but I still ran in to get some milk. I rushed back out, but I couldn’t shake the memory of this man bleeding out and dying in the store. In broad daylight. A motherfucker just sawed someone’s head off. Surviving Stockton was a miracle. I had chance against me. I needed to do whatever I could to not only survive Stockton, but to become everything great that my environment wouldn’t allow.

  ***

  I grew up on Sutter Street in Stockton, California. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment: my sister, my mom, and me. It was well furnished and we lived comfortably—at least to my standard. But now, looking back, I realize that we lived in a rough part of the city. It’s rough, rough now, but it wasn’t as rough in the early ‘80s…even with crack being pushed into our neighborhood. I wouldn't say we were poor, but we weren't middle class either. I don't really know what we were, but when times were good, we didn't need anything.

  My mother was Italian and Greek. She was born and raised in Los Angeles, and then she migrated to Stockton with her family. My father is from Mississippi and migrated to Stockton with his mother and all 14 of his brothers and sisters. I wish I could make up some bullshit about how my mother and father met, fell in love, and started a family together, but the circumstances of my birth weren’t that at all. My father was married to another woman when I was born. Shit, he’s still married to her.

  He had a side relationship with my mother, and she got pregnant. She was a white woman, and in the ’70s, the whole idea of having a Black man’s baby was already taboo. Not to mention, my mom’s mother was racist. I really think my grandmother resented my mother for having a Black child, or it could have been the fact that my mother was raped by her own father. She said she told my grandmother, and she didn’t believe her. Needless to say, that was a strained relationship.

  My mother’s doctor told her to abort me because the child she was pregnant with before me had been born with Down Syndrome and died. Also, my mother had been bitten by a bat so there was speculation that she may have had some poison or some shit that would cause severe complications with me. They wanted her to abort me, but she didn't. That was one of the few things that I thanked my mother for: she gave me a chance to be.

  I wasn’t the only child my father had on his wife; in fact, he had seven kids out of wedlock. He used to frequent a club called “The Flamingo,” along with all the other women he’d fucked and impregnated. I know that he and my mother had been there together at some point because all the women had conflicts with her and with each other. They also made it a point to try to keep my father’s children separated.

  I don't think my mother and Joann, my father’s wife, ever had any direct conflict, but Joann sure as hell didn’t fuck with me. When I stayed with my dad after my mom and I started to clash, it was clear that Joann didn’t like me at first. I think there was a lot of animosity that she had toward my mom and dad for having a kid out of wedlock, but her ass was the one still married to my dad after he cheated on her multiple times. I digress.

  I didn’t really spend too much time around Joann; shit, I barely spent time around my father. My oldest brother, Rodney was more of a father figure to me than my dad ever was or could be.

  ***

  Things were good at home until I was about six years old. I loved going to school. I had a big imagination for what school would teach me, and I had the best times playing with other kids. I was in first grade, and I had a girlfriend named Tamara—a white girl with red hair and freckles. It was ironic because my sister, Tamica, was a big fan of Strawberry Shortcake, and Tamara reminded me of Strawberry Shortcake in a lot of ways. Back in those days, I was a bright, whimsical curly-haired kid, and there were a few girls who thought I was cute. I didn’t pay them any mind because my heart belonged to Tamara, and I was going to be faithful to her, damn it. I decided to take the next big step in our relationship, so I gathered up the courage to talk to Tamara about it.

  “Tamara, you’re pretty,” I declared. “I think we should hold hands when we go to the playground.”

  She looked at me curiously. “But if I hold your hand, how will I jump rope?”

  She got me. I hadn’t thought that far into our blissful future. “Hmm,” I calculated. “Why don’t we just hold hands when we go out on the playground and then we let go?”

  She was down with this idea. So, for a few days, we would go out, hand in hand, living in a first-grade romance.

  I loved school and looked forward to helping my teacher do things around the classroom. Whenever she would need help passing out supplies, I shot up like a bullet to be the first volunteer. Her response to me was always warm and encouraging, and I looked forward to her approving smiles each day. I loved learning, and math was my favorite subject. Even though we were doing simple math, it was rewarding to figure out a puzzle of numbers and symbols and be celebrated for having the right answer.

  ***

  “Put your hands up!” I burst through the door after another day of school. I would take the bus home, so after I reached my stop, I would go straight home.

  “Oh, you got me!” my mother would giggle and play along. I wanted to be a police officer when I grew up, so I was everyone’s tiny-tot deputy for a while. Both my mom and dad were correction officers, and it was fun to hear stories about the things that would happen at the prison where they worked. I loved seeing my mother in her uniform even though she wasn’t quite a police officer. I was a kid, so shit, she was the police to me.

  I lowered my weapon and then scanned the area for my favorite beverage: “Mom, do we have any more chocolate milk?” I was a fiend for chocolate back then. Shit, even today if you really want to make me happy, drizzle a little chocolate on something and we’re good.

  “Let me check, baby. I think your sister might have drunk the last one.”

  I immediately shot a threatening look at Tamica, who was only about three years old at the time. I’m sure she didn’t notice or care that I was upset about her drinking the milk.

  “Aha! I found one!” I all but wagged my tail when my mother produced that little brown and white box of chocolatey pleasure. I was living the life. What’s there to live for if a man can’t come home from school to a cold box of chocolate milk and then watch some cartoons in his Superman pajamas?

  ***

  I loved my mom then, and she was a good mother before the drugs. She was very loving and nurturing, and she did a lot for us, even though she was a single mother. I think she was very proud to have her kids during those days. When she was in a good mood, she would fill the house with the sounds of Michael Jackson or Prince, or some R&B and Marvin Gaye. I would look on bashfully as she sang and twirled to the music.

  “C’mon! Dance, Jason!”

  I couldn’t pass up on the invitation. As a kid, I loved to dance, and Michael Jackson was my favorite entertainer. At her beckoning, I burst into a moonwalk, twirled, and then grabbed my crotch. She was eating it up. I only had an audience of one, but I was killing it like I was on stage at Madison Square Garden.

  Christmas used to be good for us. My mom would have Santa com
e over, and we got every toy we wanted. One of my favorite gifts was a pogo stick. I used to hop all over the parking lot with that thing; we weren’t allowed to play anywhere else because our neighborhood was so bad. For birthdays, our parties were always the shit. All the community kids would come over, and we would have fun. Like normal kids, we dressed up for Halloween and went trick-or-treating. Those were the days when she was present.

  When my mother got into drugs, a lot changed. She wasn't abusive; she was just more absent. She left us home alone often, and my sister and I had to take care of ourselves. Then we got babysitters, but that didn’t last long. I was three years older than my sister, Tamica, but I was the person who used to meet Tamica after school. I was her caregiver at seven years old—I made sure she ate and bathed, and even tried my hand at potty training:

  “I pee-peed!” she would shriek.

  “Ok, let me find the diapers.” I located a chair so I could stand and look on the top shelf where my mother usually kept them. I procured one, but it took me more than a few times before I was able to figure it out.

  “Ok, here’s a new diaper, but you gotta use the toilet the next time, ok?”

  “Okay, Jason!”

  I would help her with her homework, and we would play school at home. I would also pretend to be a teacher— she'd be my student, and I'd go over her homework. Tamica was only in preschool, so she didn't really have homework, but we used to pretend that she did.

  “Hey, Tamica, what starts with A?”

  She thought for a second and then she lit up, confident that she had figured it out.

  “Fruit Loops!”