God Must Have Forgotten About Me

by Jason Lee

  Even though I thought I had done enough to prove myself, kids would still pick on me. It was a horrible time. I was always getting into fights and I hated going to school. I didn’t really have any friends—everybody else in my class had been friends since elementary school or at least since the beginning of junior high. I had spent all those formative years in foster care, so I didn’t develop those types of friendships. The friends I did have were either still in foster care or attending different schools. I felt alone.

  By the time I got to high school, I came in with a whole new disposition. Fuck that, I thought. In high school, I'm not getting bullied anymore. I stayed ready to fight, and even if someone wanted to be my friend, I was so standoffish and aggressive that I deterred anyone from trying.

  ***

  Right before I left The Children's Home of Stockton, there had been a massive school shooting in our community at Cleveland Elementary School. A man named Patrick Purdy, who used to be in the army, drove his car to the school, which had a predominantly Asian population, and blew the car up outside. When the kids ran out, he was on the school yard, and he shot them all with AK-47s. He killed seven people—one teacher and six kids—and shot countless others.

  Some of the counselors at the Children’s Home came in to talk to us about the details of the shooting and went over a safety plan with us. It’s crazy that this happened maybe 20 years ago, yet America is still having a problem dealing with and preventing school shootings presently. Everyone was on edge and we wondered if we would be next.

  That school shooting stayed on my mind for a while, and about a year later, while I was getting ready for school, I heard on the radio that Michael Jackson was coming to town, and when he came to Stockton, he met with all the kids at Cleveland Elementary and told them that God was going to protect them. He urged them not to live in fear and to keep coming to school. He wanted to encourage them in the midst of the tragedy. I thought that was special.

  Then he went to the hospital and visited all the people who were wounded, paid for everyone’s medical bills, and covered the cost of the funerals. He never wanted any accolades or recognition—he was really low-key about it. That was my first sense of what real compassion looked like, and I was mystified by that. I was already a fan, but now I was determined to meet Michael Jackson. When I finally came home, I did research about him and discovered that his company was called MJJ Productions. I found a working number for the company, and I called every day asking to speak to Michael. He wasn’t available, obviously, but I left so many messages and I called so much that I established a relationship with his assistant, Evvy. I would call and spark up the most random conversations with her and then our call would conclude with me leaving a message for Michael. I never thought she would actually relay them.

  Much to my excitement, Michael Joseph Jackson finally called me.

  It was early in the morning. I was asleep, and the two friends who were staying over my house were asleep, too. I was awakened by the phone, and when I answered, there was a lady on the other end asking to speak to me. I was skeptical because she didn’t sound familiar, but I told her that it was me. Then a guy got on the phone to reconfirm, and then he told me to hold the line. A couple of seconds later, Michael was on the phone.

  Immediately, I knew it was him, but Michael talked a lot differently than how he talked on interviews and on TV. His voice was his voice, and it was definitely him, but his voice was less whimsical and light. Simply put, he sounded like a nigga. I don’t know how to define or explain that, but that’s how he sounded.

  When he got on the phone, he said, “Yo, Jason, what's up?”

  I jumped up, and said, “Hello?”

  “What's up?”

  “Wait, who is this?” Nobody was going to convince me that fucking Michael Jackson was on that phone.

  He laughed and said, “You been calling my office every day and you don't know who this is?”

  My heart almost jumped into my throat, and I said, “Well, I think I know who it is, but I want to hear you say it.”

  He paused and said, “This is Michael Jackson.”

  “For real? Yo!” I went over to my friends and started kicking the shit out of them to wake them up. I told Michael, “Yo, nobody's ever going to believe that you're calling me!”

  “Okay, you called me, so what's up?”

  I said, “I didn't think you would call back, so I didn't have a plan, but I'm such a big fan! I'm from Stockton and you were here after that school shooting happened. I think it’s dope what you did for everyone.”

  He said, “Yea, I remember that.”

  “Where are you?” I asked him like we were cool like that.

  “I'm in Trump Tower in New York. I'm recording.”

  I said, “Okay.”

  Then he changed his tone completely and asked when I was born.

  I said, “August 16th , the same day Elvis Presley died.”

  “There's an aura about you,” he began. “I can feel something special. I can feel your aura through the phone.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  I blushed and said, “Well, thank you.” I didn’t know what aura he was talking about but it meant a lot that Michael Jackson had said something positive about me. Then I asked, “So can I ever come to Neverland?”

  He laughed and said, “I don't know. I'm never really there as much, but we'll see.” After that, he told me to stay positive and some other nice things. That was the only time I ever talked to him; I never met him and I never got to go to Neverland, but looking back, it was a testament that I was always surrounded by or connected to greatness somehow.

  ***

  When I came home, I had a strong desire to connect with my siblings. I had a lot of them, but I was really hanging tough with my brothers Link, Chris, and Rodney. I would always take the bus to see them, and they made me feel accepted. I thought I didn’t care about love or whether anyone else cared about me, but I knew that they filled me up in ways I hadn’t been filled in a while. I built an unbreakable bond with them, and my relationship with my brothers was one that I valued above any other relationships. As rough as they were and as questionable their lifestyles were, I was one of them, and we had each others’ backs. They were in a gang, but nobody pressured me into being “official.” I was never jumped into the gang, but everybody knew I rolled with them. Link and I were from the south side and Rodney was from the west. He was a Louis Park Piru, and both he and Link were about eight years older than me. I would hang with Rodney and Link all the time. Rodney was 6' 5" 230 pounds, and the whole town knew not to fuck with him. When I wasn’t with my brothers, I would go out with my cousins to steal little petty shit at flea markets and stores, then we would hit up a barbecue and meet up with more of our fam. Some nights, I didn’t even come back home; I would spend the night at Link’s house and get into some shit.

  At one point, Rodney and I were hanging out a lot, and then he went to prison. He would always write me letters and encourage me to have a relationship with my mom. He would call me often and make sure that I was okay and talk shit about what we would do once he got home. Once he came home, I clung to him. We both have the same father, but he was more of a father to me than my actual father.

  Naturally, like any little brother who looked up to his big brother, I wanted to be like Rodney. He was good looking, had money, and everybody loved him. I always wanted to be that. I always wanted what he had: the cars, flashy clothes, and jewelry. He was our backbone. He gave us a sense of security because people in the city feared him—nobody would fuck with us. One time, my older cousin punched me because of something petty, and Rodney was pissed. He was in prison at the time, but when he got out, he went to my cousin’s house with a gun.

  “Don't shoot me in front of my kids!” he cried. Rodney was seriously going to shoot his ass.

  Then, another time, Rodney came up to my school to scare the shit out of one of my teachers. Don’t get me wrong, I was
an asshole in high school. It was a survival mechanism. This day, I was clowning with one of my classmates and Mr. Peterson had asked me to stop.

  “I didn’t do shit,” I retorted.

  “Jason, please don’t use that language in here. You’re being disruptive. Please be quiet.”

  “I ain’t no little ass kid,” I snapped back at him. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you talking to.”

  “I’m talking to you!” Mr. Peterson exploded. “And if you’re going to be disrespectful, you can get the fuck out of my classroom!”

  I was shocked. At the same time, I was pissed. I walked over to Mr. Peterson and said, “Make me, nigga!” He stood up like he was really going to try me, but then he called security instead. They escorted me to the office, and I was talking shit to them, too.

  Later in the office, the principal had asked what happened.

  “The nigga swole up like he wanted to do something,” I reported.

  “Okay, well, Jason, we’ve been having a lot of problems with you the last couple of weeks. You need to call your mom to come pick you up.”

  I wasn’t going to call her ass. Instead, I called Rodney. I told him what had happened in class—at least, my version—and he was on his way. When he showed up, he had Link and my dad with him. That was one of the few times that my dad had my back, but he was probably just fronting for Rodney. When they came into the office, Rodney had asked if he could speak to Mr. Peterson. The principal told him that now wasn’t a good time, so we waited in the parking lot until after school was dismissed. We saw Mr. Peterson walking to his car, and everybody jumped out.

  Rodney grabbed Mr. Peterson and said, “What’s that shit you was talking to my brother?”

  I laughed and watched Mr. Peterson’s eyes grow bigger.

  “You disrespect my little brother again, and I’mma fuck you up, yo.”

  I didn’t have any problems with Mr. Peterson after that, but I didn’t last that long in school anyway. I had gotten kicked out and was on my way to dropping out of high school completely.

  ***

  During the early ‘90s, the Caprice Classic was the car that everybody in the hood wanted to have, including myself. Rodney was already rolling around in his own Caprice, so I went to Rodney and told him, “Yo, I want to be you. I want this lifestyle. I want it.”

  He told me straight up, “The only two ways you're gonna get it is by getting in these streets and selling dope, or you're gonna go to school.”

  The answer seemed easy enough because I already had a “fuck school” disposition. I struggled with school. I didn't want to be around people. Because I still struggled in my day to day interactions with the other kids, largely due to being so institutionalized, I got kicked out of public school and went to an alternative school. I didn’t like the teachers there, so I left, went and got my GED, and went to work.

  “I want to sell dope. Fuck it. I want to go the fast route.”

  I was already in the streets, so he gave me an eight ball and a gun. My boy, Spencer, and I went down to a bridge downtown that was dark, dangerous, and full of drugs and crackheads. I stayed there all night trying to sell the dope my brother gave me, and I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. I didn’t know how the politics of dope dealing worked. I didn't know you don't negotiate with crack heads, and I was completely ignorant about not letting anybody else sell dope on your block. I wasn't a drug dealer. I was just trying to figure it out.

  Just my luck, the police came and chased Spencer and me down the street. We hopped into a garbage can, and as we were hiding, I was trying my best not to have an asthma attack.

  “Nigga, hold your breath!” Spencer whispered loudly, “They gone hear us!”

  “This shit is too much!” I snapped back.

  I had spent the night running, damn near losing a lung, and hiding in garbage cans— I was so young, and I had no business even at the bridge that night. To top it all off, I had lost some of the dope.

  I called my brother at 6:00 in the morning, “Yo, can you come and get me?”

  “Where you at?” Rodney cleared his throat.

  I told him my location and he came to pick me up with a jerry curl bag on his head. I handed him all the money that I had—it was crumbled up and the bills were in no type of order. I was pulling money out of everywhere, and I was showing him the dope that I had left. It didn't add up.

  Rodney looked at me like I was crazy as hell. “Where the fuck is all the work? What happened?”

  I was fumbling around trying to explain to him, "Well this person didn't have it, so I'm gonna get it from him later. This person said—”

  "You don't get money from a crack head later!” He breathed a heavy sigh and shook his head. He knew I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. “This ain't for you.”

  A couple of weeks later, Rodney went with me and enrolled me in college. He paid for all my books and drove me back and forth to school. I liked the classes that I took in college, but I didn't like college. What I appreciated most about my brother allowing me to sell drugs was that he helped me figure out that it wasn’t for me. I had to have a different plan, and I quickly realized that as much as I admired my brother, I wasn’t like him.

  4 An Introduction to a Queen

  Although I was rolling with my brothers most of the time after I left foster care, I didn’t want to neglect my little sister, Tamica. We made plans to go to the San Joaquin County Fair; the fair was notorious for bringing major Hip Hop and R&B artists to the stage, and this year, Queen Latifah would be performing. My sister was a huge Queen Latifah fan, so she insisted that we didn’t miss the fair that year. "Living Single" had just come on the air, and it was a big show. I was only about 15 years old, but I really appreciated her artistry and her influence in the entertainment industry. I was always infatuated with the music and entertainment industry because I loved to see Black people being amazing, talented, and successful. I wanted that. I wasn't a rapper like her, and I didn't know exactly what I wanted to do, I just knew I wanted to be in the industry.

  My twelve-year-old sister and I went to the fair on our own. In the streets, again, two peas in a pod. We finally made it to the fair, and my sister had a mischievous grin on her face.

  “You want to go backstage?”

  “Let's go.” I didn’t hesitate.

  I let her lead me all the way past the cows, pigs, and shit. We slipped right past a herd of cows and a bunch of saddles and rope on the left side of the stage. We made it to the back of the stage and saw a gate guarding the backstage entrance where Queen Latifah was. We saw that nobody was looking, so we climbed over the fence. We thought we were in the clear until we ran into a security guard who looked at us suspiciously.

  “How did you guys get back here?” he grilled us.

  “Oh, we had our passes because we're with the tour,” I lied. “We're with the people, but somebody just stole our passes.”

  My sister was playing along brilliantly, and our lie was so good that the security guard went and found us some backstage passes. We played cool, but we were geeked as hell. Honestly, I don’t know how we pulled that one off. We were kids. Nonetheless, we were hanging out backstage knowing full well that we had no business being back there.

  As we perused the backstage area, I saw Queen Latifah come outside getting ready to leave. I rushed over to her to make sure I could at least meet her before she left.

  I boldly placed myself in front of her and said, “Hey, how are you? We're fans. This is my sister, Tamica. I'm Jason.”

  She was cool. We started shooting the shit and going back and forth. Here was my chance. “Yo, you know, do you sign artists? My cousin Ruben is a rapper…”

  “Well, where is he?” she replied.

  “He's here in the fair.” I was so shocked that she was even entertaining me while I was talking to her about an artist. I knew that I didn’t have a talent that I could pitch right then, so Ruben was my saving grace.

  “Well go find
him,” she demanded. I did everything I could to find his ass. He came backstage and rapped for her. He gave her his CD, and then we all stayed backstage still kicking it.

  I was about to shift the conversation and kick some real shit to her, whatever that was, but as soon as I started to speak again, she turned away and started talking to some other people and signing autographs. Damn, I was trying to get an autograph, too, I kicked myself. I decided that I wasn’t going to play myself. “Excuse me,” I yelled out to her. “We've been waiting here the longest. Can we get the autograph?”

  Queen Latifah chuckled and said, “What?”

  From there we were going back and forth with each other jokingly talking shit like we’d known each other forever.

  Then I made an even bolder move: “Give me your number,” I demanded. “I want to stay in touch.”

  Her eyebrow must have raised three inches. “Give you my number? Boy, if you don't get out of here!” She laughed while getting inside of her van, but I stood my ground. “I'm not giving you my number,” she said, hanging out the window. “If it's meant to be, you'll find me.”

  I resolved to track her down somehow. I really liked her. There was something about her that captivated me. She was cool and down to earth, but more importantly, she was someone who was where I wanted to be professionally. The fact that she acknowledged me made me really want to pursue the relationship.

  ***

  Three days later, I was set to spend the night at my grandmother's house. I needed to make a few runs, so I called my brother, Link, to pick me up. He arrived around 9:30 am and let me know that he needed to get a car wash before we headed to our destination. He had a Caprice Classic, and amongst the guys in our crew there was an unspoken rule that you never drove around in a dirty car. Especially a Caprice. It was cool. I got in the car, and shortly thereafter, we were at the car wash. This establishment was where some of everybody hung out. There were crackheads, and all the homies there getting their cars washed, too. People were playing music—my brother’s being the loudest, of course—and it just seemed like a real chill Saturday morning. I was sitting in the front passenger seat, and he was outside cleaning the car.