4BG
They say you can’t miss what you never had; but
in a few short hours I have become obsessed with this child I will never know. How could I have a miscarriage when I didn’t even know I was pregnant? How could I get pregnant if Obie and I are always careful? That one time that we weren’t was so long ago. I had my period after that, remember? I just don’t understand. I know I said I didn’t want any babies; if I had known I was pregnant, I would have taken better care of myself. What would it have looked like? Dark like me? Light like Obie? Creamy brown like BB with killer grey eyes and dark curly hair? I am all “deathed” out, can’t take any more. A wave of grief engulfs me; like at the ocean, it pulls me under; in its wake, I am unable to talk to anyone. Are you listening God? It’s me, Princess. I’m sorry for the wrong I’ve done, beg Your forgiveness in Jesus’ name, ask that you please don’t heap any more on me right now. I know if I hadn’t started that fight with Obie my baby would be alive today. I made a promise, I broke it, but the cost is so high, Lord. So high. They wanted to do a vacuum aspiration to empty the contents of my womb. Isn’t it empty enough? I knew it would hurt so I “threw one;” they made-me-anyway. Afterwards the nurse comes in with a RhoGAM shot. “I don’t need that,” I tell her. “You’ve never been pregnant before and you’re RH negative. You have to take this so your body doesn’t attack your next baby.” “Miss,” I repeat impatiently, “I don’t need that thing; I’m DU positive.” “The doctor said--” Nursey began; I cut-her-off-at-the-pass. “Get that thing away from me,” I order her, tired of farting-around-with-the-help. Nursey runs out of the room like her ass was on fire, probably to get the doctor. “You really need that shot,” Young advises me. Nigga please. “Don’t you think I know my own body?” I snap. “I don’t need it. I’m DU positive. Bring me an OB who knows what the Hell he’s doing; watch him agree with me.” What they send me is some bullshit resident; I flip. What is it about the male species that has them believing they know more about a woman’s body than she does? I’m getting damn frustrated here; you know what that does for my mood. Young has them sedate me; says I’m not “acting rationally.” How rational is one in the midst of a miscarriage? I can’t tell you: this is my first. I can tell you the Head of the GYN Dept confirms that I do not need a RhoGAM. The hospital moves me upstairs to a private room; one by one, family members come in to sit with me for half an hour; Obie comes in last, stays the-rest-of-the-night. He doesn’t sleep, neither do I; in the morning I recover my ability to speak. “Why you ain’t tell me you missed your period?” Obie asks in a non-threatening, non-accusatory tone of voice. “I was scared,” I explain. “I thought something had gone ‘haywire’ inside me.” Although I don’t say it out loud, I thought I had Cancer like my mother. “You okay?” What a dumb question; I can’t bring myself to answer that one. But he means well. “What about you?” Answer a-dumb-question with another-dumb-question? Get-no-reply in return. You-know-how-it-goes. Here I am, on every channel for the third time in six months; we sit-in-silence as the television watches us; I’m becoming a regular evening-news-staple. Didn’t that used to be Obie’s job? That was a joke; if I had any sense of humor left at all, I might even laugh. Might. Somewhere along the line I doze off; dream of a beautiful, chocolate baby; awaken in tears. He, too, has been crying. My eyelids flutter-and-close; when I open them again it’s morning. They say I lost a great deal of blood; it needs to be replaced. Under normal circumstances, I would have been released after twenty-four hours; I have to stay until my condition stabilizes. On the third day, I rise phoenix-like from my latest tragedy to leave the hospital. As we walk out the front door, flashbulbs go off in my face. When a celebrity talks about the high-cost-of-fame, this is it in-a-nutshell, folks. Despite Obie’s campaign, and the one thousand free T-shirts he gave away on our website declaring such, the whole “Leave The ‘Girl Alone” thing is quite-obviously-lost on these people. Back at the house my very shaky Princess-self prepares to pack my bags. Obie has to get back to work; this movie means-the-world to him; now he’s twice as anxious about leaving me. I assure Obie everything will be “okay;” encourage him to “move on.” Our movie has begun to roll again; I’m pret-ty ea-ger to get back to work myself. A lot of time-and-energy has been invested in this flick, as well as one-girl’s-life. Sitting at home will give me too much time to think, anyway, which at this point is not-a-good-thing. Besides, another day of Obie hovering over me might drive-me-crazy. In the kitchen Obie keeps staring at me with sad, doe eyes. The sadder he looks, the worse I feel; I can’t bear the sight of him anymore; I turn away; Obie puts a hand on the small of my back. “I’m so sorry, Cess.” “It’s not your fault, O. If I hadn’t picked a fight, you would never have fallen on me. I promised myself I wasn’t going to do that anymore—” Tears well up inside of me; I press my head against the wall to hold them back. “It’s okay to cry, Baby Girl.” No it isn’t; if I start to cry, I might not ever stop. I hold up my hand, palm side out, to let Obie know I need-a-few-minutes. A little closer now, Obie puts his other hand on my back, leans in close. His lips brush the back of my neck; his hands slide around to my stomach; his head rests on mine. Almost simultaneously we begin to cry. “We’ll have another baby,” Obie promises me through his tears. I turn to face Obie; reach up on tippy-toes to kiss him comfortingly. Soon we are kissing with intense ardor that morphs straight into messing around, in the kitchen, up against the wall, with the whole family out in the living room. We straighten our clothes, cry in each other’s arms some more. At the airport the next morning, the family gathers one final time. After exchanging heart-felt-goodbye’s we board separate planes to our separate sections of the continent. This movie shoot does the trick; keeps my mind occupied; I don’t have a chance to dwell on my miseries. The cast and crew are very sympathetic; on we go, business as usual; I make it clear I don’t expect any concessions just because I lost a baby. I’m here to do my job, period. Let’s-get-this-shoot-underway. The following week Obie comes to shoot Nicole’s tribute video, which will run over the closing credits. At least everyone’s all in one place. All day long I cling to Obie like white-on-rice; that night we make wild, crazy love until the sun comes up; Oh well. Obie has to wrap quickly, get back to his set; once more I’m left feeling like we-didn’t-have-enough-time-together. Obie’s movie is taking longer than planned; last minute rewrites have improved the story line tremendously; Obie is so, so very excited about the film’s potential. My shoot wraps in two weeks. I’m looking forward to hanging around with Obie, and of course we’ll be together for a couple of days when my next video shoots. Knowing this isn’t making it easier for me to let go. At the airport I grab hold of Obie’s coat sleeve; he brushes me off; walks away. “’Girl you gonna make me miss my flight,” he says, irritated. “I know; I don’t want you to go,” I needle. “It’s not like I have a choice, Princess,” he replies; I can see Obie’s getting angry. “We never have time together,” I whine. Obie spins around to face me; beneath his anger I sense a terrible loneliness. “I don’t like it any more than you do,” he goes off, “but I have to deal with it, and so do you. Another couple a weeks and it’ll be all over. Right now: I gotta go.” Obie moves towards his gate; like an ass I grab him from behind. He pushes me off roughly; way too roughly for my taste. “I’ll call you,” he promises as he departs. Now where have I heard that before? Last night I dreamed about my pretty chocolate baby again. Once I realized, I panicked, got off the bus, only: I didn’t know where I was. Lost too, I stand on some strange corner crying my eyes out for my lost baby. Dionne’s shaking hands wake me up. “You were cryin in your sleep again,” she says gently, handing me a tissue. My face is soaking wet. A messenger, escorted to my trailer, hands me an official-looking-document; says: “Princess Davis? You’ve been served.” I open the damned thing to see what it is; Albert’s parents are suing me for “wrongful death.” After what HE did to ME??? Nigga PLEASE. My first response is to get truly pissed. Reading on, I see I’m being sued for twenty million dollars. Daaaamn; this is serious. I’m going to need a lawyer. He’s going to have to hear the whole story. Depositions will be filed; the whole sordid mess will be all over the news. Then I’ll have to endure “vicious whispers” and “snide remarks.” ---“Didja hear what that one dude, Einstein, did to Princess?” ---“She’s a lying slut.” ---“That bitch got what she deserved.” This is So Unfair. So, So Very Unfair, Damn It. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get away from this shit. I don’t want the world to know; I just want to forget-it-ever-happened. The more I think about it, the more my head hurts. My vision blurs, the world starts to spin; somebody is screaming very loudly. Oh shit. That's me.
It was my baby; I miss it terribly; it was gone before I had a chance to know it was here.
Oh-so-softly Obie brushes them away with his thumbs.
I don’t think we’re supposed-to-yet.
This time he was two years old. We were waiting at the bus stop, when I got on I left him behind.
Again.
Princess is havin a miscarriage.
Who knew she was even pregnant?
Did she?
Cause she Sure As Fuck ain’t said nothin to me about it.
If Death comes in three’s ain’t this Number Four?
And can I volunteer to be Number Five?
Please?
I sure can’t take two more a these.
The doctor wants to do a vacuum aspiration, which is a little tube attached to a machine
that will suck The Rest a My Child from Cess’s Uterus.
Aware a what’s goin on Princess comes to, screamin:
“Don’t let them do that to me. It hurts.” What am I supposed to do? If they don’t stop the bleedin Cess’ll die. I done already Put My Name In The Hat to be Number Five so Princess Ain’t Goin Nowhere, you feel me? In the recovery room Princess is hooked up to mass IV’s. The doctor say she gonna need a transfusion. I want her to try to Build Up Her Own blood supply but the doctor say that could take Forever and Princess Need Blood Now. We’ll be damned if she gets some Crackhead’s blood, so we all line up to Donate To The Cause. Uncle BB is a Universal Donor but he and Lee never make it through the door. Homo’s Can’t Give Blood. Uncle BB damn near kicked over the table in the lab on his way out. My turn. “Sorry but I can’t take your blood either.” “I’m Not A Homo,” I rise half outta my chair to declare. “No That Would Be Me,” Lee yells from the hall. Any Other Day this would be Funny but Today...I’m Just Not Feelin It. “Look; you know Obie One just like you know World Famous Freak so Let’s Skip The Formalities I hand over the results from my last four AIDS tests, which I get monthly. Screener Chick is tres impressed. “My mother died a AIDS,” I tell her. “You Can’t Be Too Careful.” “And I Still Can’t Take Your Blood. Besides, Husbands Can’t Donate anyway. ” As Princess’ (dead) Baby Daddy I settle into Cess’s room for the night. With Hood’s words Fresh In My Mind I ask Cess why she ain’t tell me she skipped her period. She say she was scared somethin Bad was happenin to her and I believe her. My head is So Fucked Up right now; very very much so. First I get Princess Pregnant On Purpose, then I make her Lose The Baby. It Don’t Seem Fair. I know I Was Wrong but Damn. I mean Really Though; you feel me? Clearly I’m Payin For Somethin here but I Demand To See The Receipt cause I think I’m bein Overcharged. A’ight?! I didn’t Think The Whole Thing Through and it prob’ly wasn’t Fair to Do That To Cess but we woulda loved that baby. I know it. I feel like shit; and Damn It- I’m cryin. She wakes up at the same time I’m wipin her face dry but falls right back asleep again. I sure feel like shit. “That’s why I called you. Baby Girl’s been screamin her head off for hours.” Oh my fuckin God. “What set her off?” “Beats the shit outta me, I found her like this. We could hear her Way ‘Cross Set.” “Tell her I’m on the phone. See what happens.” In the receiver I hear the muffled sounds a Freak tryna communicate with a Very Unresponsive Princess. “No Good,” he confirms. “Where’s Dionne?” “Dionne’s holdin Cess. Wasn’t much we could do besides that.” “Tell her I wanna talk to her but not if she screamin in my ear.” Sounds a little quieter. Cess still cryin but at least she ain’t screamin no more. “Can you hear me Baby Girl?” She gives a Stifled Cry that sounds Vaguely Affirmative. “What’s wrong?” “Ev-Ev-Everything,” she cries. “You got two more scenes to shoot, then Freak’ll bring you out here to me. Can you Hold It Together til then?” “Maybe. I think so.” “Good, cause I really need you to try. I love you: very very much so and I’m sorry bout The Way Things Been between us.” “It’s Not Just You OB; I can’t do it anymore. I’m Too Tired and Everything is Too Fucked Up. I Can’t Catch A Break & I Don’t Know Why.” “I know Baby; I really do. Won’t Be Long now.” Later that night they mention on E! and again on “MTV News” that Einstein’s family filed a Twenty Million Dollar Wrongful Death Lawsuit against Princess. The picture is So Much Clearer. Very Very Much So, you feel me? I could stand a little Break From Reality myself Right Bout Now.
shall we? I ain’t slept with another man in over a year; the only woman I slept with except for
two One Night Stands is My ‘Girl and I always wear a condom.”
Princess is cryin too; in her sleep.
“What the fuck is that?” I demand to know.
So much is passing by in a fog.
I realize I am screaming; don’t know to stop myself: I don’t even want to.
With all-that’s-going-wrong, why not scream?
Sure-can’t-hurt at this point.
I’m vaguely aware LaRocque is standing over me.
I didn’t even know I was on the floor until he walked in.
He’s saying something to me; I can’t hear him over that damned screaming.
Oh wait…My “bad;”
That’s-still-me, isn’t it.
Hold on… I think I can make out what Rocky’s saying.
“Cess, come on; pull it together now.
I’m goin through enough-shit-a-my-own and I can’t handle all this too.”
My “bad,” el otro vez.
I thought Rocky was saying something important.
Okay, Rocky’s back; this time he says Obie’s on the phone.
Oh well.
Seems Obie wants to talk to me; he’s not into all-this-screaming.
Best I bring it down a notch; what do you say about that, Emeril.
Obie wants to know what’s wrong.
Damn it, what isn’t wrong? You tell me: I haven’t figured that one out yet. Regardless, he asks me to please-pull-myself-together; finish this ghastly movie so I can “move on.” Then he says he loves me. You figure? ‘Cause he sure didn’t act like it at the airport. But, I’ll do what Obie says one more time, for old-times-sake. Then, we’ll see, okay? The director gives me another hour or so to calm-my-nerves. I hardly know the ladies here except for on-the-set-socialization, yet they surround me with more love-and-kindness than I thought existed among Black women. They take turns rubbing my head/back/shoulders; bringing hot soup, soothing tea. I haven’t had this much “female attention” since that-thing-with-Einstein. Each has a story to tell, some of them quite horrid. I never dreamed so many strong-Black-sisters had been victimized by their men. A couple even had miscarriages, or were forced into having abortions. “Survey says:” that’s so, so very much worse than losing a baby. Wrapped in the aura of their overwhelming support, I pour out my rape story. “You came back to work too soon,” LaTrese tells me. “We tried to tell her,” Dionne chimes in. “Especially after losin-the-baby-and-all,” LaTrese continues; “I heard that’s why Chante Pierce quit this film. She lost two babies in a row and when she found out she was pregnant again she went straight-to-bed.” "That and the fact that Dead Nice’s wife is layin to whup her Black ass,” someone adds. Even I had to laugh at that: he’s in this flick too, wife settled firmly-at-his-side. Full of tea-and-sympathy, I return to the set; wrap up my-two-scenes. How I do it, I-don’t-know: I feel like I’m under water; or worse: like I’m in a fog. The last thing I fully remember is getting on the plane with Rocky and Dionne. No, that’s not it—I remember falling into Obie’s arms; Most people don’t understand that crazy is a conscious choice. One literally chooses to go crazy. The choice is not-an-easy-one: It’s the choice between the ravaging pack of wolves behind you and the cliff in front of you. all-too-often they end up bloodied/devoured. Others choose to step-off-the-cliff into the-abyss-of-insanity. I took the plunge. You figure.
he carried me to his car.
Some choose to stay and fight-the-wolves-off;
PRO OB
I never been any good at this Story Tellin Shit so Bear With Me a’ight? When someone asks me why my belief in God is so strong I tell em: I never been in love before. Oh yeah... Princess is my cousin.
Obie Don’t Give History Lessons.
You wanna Know Bout Obie?
Read My Bio.
That’s what it’s There For.
On the other hand some things ain’t Common Knowledge.
That’s why I’m tellin you all this shit now.
So if I start off all wrong it’s cause I’m nervous but I’ll get better as I go along.
I know it.
I wanna find a real good place to start but I can’t.
I mean I just don’t know where a Good Place would be.
Should I Start At The Beginnin and Move Forward?
Or should I Start From Today and Take Y’all Back?
And why am I askin you?
If we start from today then I’m Obie One.
But what person that breathes more than twice a hour don’t Know That Already?
I’m Twenty Eight Rich and Incredibly Handsome:
Six Foot Six 245 pounds a Lean Muscle Mass with hazel eyes and Shoulder Length
Sun Streaked sandy blonde hair I always wear pushed back with one a my
Trademark Head Bands.
I also have a Monster Ego.
I might a Failed To Mention that.
My mother was White, my father is Half White
(Mixed is what they callin it These a Ma Days).
Accordin to my brother that makes me Way Past Mixed, or
as Buster Rhymes so eloquently put it last year at the Soul Train Music Awards:
The Whitest Black Man In History.
That’s Quite A’ight though.
Lack a Color ain’t Killed Me Yet.
Neither has the Three Million White Jokes I endure each year.
And if I’m Way Past Mixed, what the hell does my brother JR call His Self,
Since he got Two Mixed Parents?
All Mixed Up.
As If.
Anyway...
To be Young Gifted and Black is Where It’s At, you feel me?
Look At My Life, dog.
Where would I be without my Jesus?
I ain’t Set Out to be a dancer, I simply Became a dancer.
Me & my Brother From Another Mother JR started dancin when we was eleven.
One minute we was dancin on a street corner, next minute we was famous.
World Famous Davis to be exact.
If it wasn’t for dancin I’d be in prison now,
one jail term in a string a bids for Petty Crimes & Cons.
Hustles? I had a million of em, more hustles than jokes and Jokes I Got, Folks.
God Showers His Blessins down upon me Continuously.
Nudgin me back on the right path whenever I fuck up.
I’m not Braggin or Complainin.
I’m just Statin The Facts Ma’am.
Up til now I been Very Under Interested in the whole Love Process.
Unlike many men my age I am NOT Tired a The Game.
Au Contraire Mein Fried, I LOVE The Game and if it was up to me
I’d Stay In The Game forever.
The Girls The Girls they Love Me, and I Love Em Right Back–
Usually Two & Three At A Time.
But that’s Common Knowledge.
And all this ain’t Sittin Too Well with Princess.
She the reason I’m Outta The Game.
Cess thinks I’m a Ho.
That is Plain & Simply Under Fair: very very much so.
I am Not A Ho.
I am a Very Sexually Active Person.
VERY Sexually Active.
Group Sex is one a the Truly Magnificent Perks a Stardom.
I didn’t make this shit the way it is I’m simply playin by the rules so,
Don’t Hate The Playa Hate The Game?
How Trite.
It’s more like Master The Game or Sit Your Ass Down.
So who is Cess and what is she to me?
Cess is gonna Marry Me and Have My Baby.
Only she lightweight Don’t Exactly Know It Yet.
Oh I keep tellin her.
And she keep laughin and sayin Not In A Million Years Obie.
But I know.
Cess is my Road Dog my Homie my Ace In The Hole; the Keeper a My Secrets.
It’s been Me & Her since the Day I Laid Eyes On Her.
Where I got this Vast Expanse a Lightly Tanned Flesh
Cess is Coal Dark & Luscious.
I would KILL to be that dark.
She got long jet black hair flowing down to the middle a her back
(it’s Not A Weave)
razored cheekbones and chinky black eyes.
The smile from her big beautiful lips lights up my entire existence
and her exquisite pink tongue is tipped with a sterling silver ball.
She’s Five Eleven which is still Seven Inches Shorter than me and 179
Jam Packed Pounds.
The ‘Girl ain’t Fat or Flabby.
She Round, dog.
Drop Dead Gorgeous.
Her Taut Muscular Frame got these Prime Titties she keep Insistin is a C but I say
they More Like A Small D, thick luscious Hips & Thighs and a Bangin Back Side.
All Made Complete by Killer Abs.
Every time I look at Cess I Get Weak.
But That Ain’t Why I’m crazy bout her.
When you been with as many girls as me Physical Beauty don’t Do It For You.
What I’m crazy bout is Cess’s Mind: her Strength a Purpose, her Single Minded Determination
her Love a Our Lord Jesus Christ and
her eagerness to Get To Church every Sunday.
We ain’t never too tired for Jesus.
No matter how late we stay up Saturday night or what we was doin.
Intellectually we a Perfect Match.
I can’t tell you how many times we stayed up talkin but whether we discussed
Bosnia or The Bible Cess’s Quick Wit and Opinions ain’t Made Me Sorry I
Stayed Up Yet.
Cess is Kind & Funny too but she ain’t no Push Over.
She’ll Place You in a New York Minute if she feels Dissed or Played,
Specially if it’s Cause She’s A Woman and I Love That.
I Don’t Want It if it’s That Easy.
A Meek Mild Mannered Woman who goes along with Every Thing I Say
would bore the shit outta me in No Time At All.
I want a woman who can not only Walk Through Fire but can Breathe Fire Too,
a woman with Her Own Mind and Her Own Opinions.
Too many women either have Nothin On They Minds cept Shoppin or they too busy
Tryna Impress to give you they Honest Thoughts.
I guess that’s why I always put Fallin In Love in the same category as catchin AIDS:
Incurable and ultimately leadin to a Long Slow Painful Death.
Bein with Princess has really Changed My Mind.
Mark This On Your Calendar, Folks.
Princess is gonna Marry Me; and Have My Baby.
I’m Not In Love (so Don’t Forget It) but I could Get There.
Marryin Princess wouldn’t be like Goin To Jail.
And if I hafta dodge the Occasional Coffee Cup flung at my head well...
It’s Worth the Price a Admission.
By the way...
One more thing I forgot to tell you:
PRO BG
By the time I was three I was madly in love with Obie. Anyway, life has a way of changing things. Clearly his cheese has slipped off his cracker. The-dream-lives-on. Buy the book here OR on Amazon.
Really.
Every time I got mad or in trouble I was calling Obie to run away to Mexico.
That was our thing.
My folks thought this was a "major joke;" I didn’t care.
Obie was cute and funny and never treated me like a baby.
When I grew up I just knew he was going to be mine.
Who does that?
You figure.
But when I was three, there was Obie helping me decide what to pack.
When I was five and needed my mother in the worst way,
Obie took me on a forbidden train ride to Brooklyn to see her.
And when that ungodly bitch slammed the door in my face,
Obie took my broken-spirited ass to his mother.
And saved me.
Obie was my big brother in school, my protector in the streets.
Once Obie and JR were "world famous," I started to not see so much of him.
What I saw of Obie, I liked, though.
My GOD he was fine.
Over six feet tall, body to die for, and man could he dance.
I got all tingly and gushy just watching him.
I knew I was too young for Obie to notice me, you know, as a girl, but I could dream,
couldn’t I?
I was a great big eleven but
eleven-is-still-eleven; seventeen is practically a-grown-ass-man.
Yet Obie was still my best-friend-ever.
He liked to carry me on his back, he still carries me on his back.
We call it riding-the-Obie-train.
You might think I’m way-too-big for that crap but what girl can say no to
all that man between her legs, know what I mean, Vern?
Besides, if he likes it, I love it.
The older I got the more I realized that Obie was a ‘ho,’ a real King Slutamongus.
That’s when the dream died.
I have never seen anyone fuck as much as Obie.
Who fucks two and three girls at a time, anyway?
Who does that anymore?
Obie’s a good friend; nobody can party like Obie; this is not great-husband-material.
What girl wants to go out; bump into five girls your man fucked just last week?
I’ll pass.
Take a number?
Nigga please.
Yet here this fool comes talking about:
"You gon’ marry me and have my baby."
Out of the clear blue sky.
You think he could have asked me first?
You figure.
"Obie," I say, not even looking up, "that’s a crappy proposal."
"Who said I was proposin?
A proposal means I’m askin you to please-marry-me.
That’s too much like beggin, so I ain’t askin you, I’m tellin you.
You gonna marry me
and have my baby."
This is a good time for me to tell you.
Obie and I have this love/hate relationship.
Sometimes I just love to hate him.
He can be the most arrogant-ass, insufferably cocky son-of-a bitch on the planet.
Like I’m going to marry him because he says so.
Nigga please.
"Coje lo suave, O. You need to chill; you’re too intense," I reply.
"As If. Don’t you know it is useless to resist me?
You gonna marry-me and have-my-baby. Watch and see."
I merely laugh and say:
"Not in a million years…"
However…
1OB
My real name is Oscar; Oscar Bryan. The year before we was born my dad was abused by his brother, damn near died. One thing I can’t stand is when people talk about my momma. Every so often my momma would look at me and say: Sometimes my ma would get tired a Runnin Like Hell I hated the shit outta that Old Bat.
Sounds like Oscar Mayer right?
Well Don’t Try That At Home Folks.
I urge you.
Might be Bad For Your Health, you feel me?
My ma used to call me OB but that became Obie when I moved in with my Dad.
I was born January 2, 1971.
My brother’s real name is Shawn: Shawn Francis.
Shawn is a junior; that’s why he useta be called JR.
We call him Hood now.
He was born two days later on January 4th to a different mother who lived
a few blocks away.
You can tell our dad Shawn was tres busy that month, right?
We are the Byproducts a our parents Wrecked Childhoods;
they youth wasted on Drugs Alcohol and Way Too Much Fuckin.
Guess you could say I’m My Daddy’s Chile.
The last name on my birth certificate was Price and on Hood’s was St. Juste,
but together we became World Famous Davis.
Davis is our Daddy’s Last Name.
Hood took the last name Davis way before I did.
When my momma Bounced
all she left me was her red headband and the last name Price.
I still got them.
They my momma’s Legacy and they Precious to me.
Outta Honor and Respect for my dad Shawn and all he done for me
I took the last name Davis too, becomin Oscar Price Davis.
The City placed him in foster care where he numbed his pain with vodka dope and fast girls.
Shawn was only thirteen when we was born, and already doin a stint in rehab.
Hood’s momma was Veronique St. Juste, a Creole girl everybody called Tugie.
Tugie was only eleven when Hood was born but she was a Professional Party Girl.
Because a his momma’s age Hood went straight into the same foster care home
our father had recently vacated.
My momma kept me.
Her name was Suzanne.
Suze was fifteen and a Only Child.
Her father abandoned her pregnant mother only months after they shotgun weddin.
Consequently my grandma was Quite A Prize:
Angry Bitter & Uncarin, a woman who Never Missed a Op to remind Suze that
gettin pregnant with Suze had Fucked Up Her Life.
As If, right?
Suze was a Dreamer; her Big Dream was To Escape This Hell that she lived in.
Like Tugie, Suze thought she’d find True Love on the end a Some Dude’s Dick.
The only thing Suze found was she was pregnant
And didn’t have a clue who the father was.
At least she knew he was Black cause Suze did not date White Boys.
Suze found somethin else too. She found her Escape--at the end of a needle.
My momma was a junkie.
That’s how I ended up with my father.
My appearance helped Suze pinpoint who my dad was.
I was Quite the White Baby.
Ain’t Nothin Changed But The Date On The Calendar.
Besides my Lily White Skin I also looked Dead On Tugie’s kid.
The older me and JR got the more alike we looked so with all the votes cast
Shawn Francis Davis Sr. was elected Father a The Price Boy too.
At least twenty niggas in the neighborhood heaved a Collective Sigh a Relief
and not a damn one a them coulda been as happy bout that then as I am now.
I was dropped out the sky into Shawn’s lap and I was a Difficult Child.
Shit like that don’t Sit Too Well with Most Cats but Shawn always treated me right.
Always.
Don’t Get It Twisted:
Suze was a Junkie and a Whore and we lived in the streets.
This much is True.
I was born a junkie, addicted to heroin. True That also.
But that don’t mean she was a Bad Mother Per Se.
Suze Loved Me To Death and I Loved Her Right Back.
Suze could a gave me up, left me with my Grandma and Gone On About Her Biz
but she didn’t.
Suze kept us together.
Suze taught me How To Beg and How To Steal so’s I could eat.
By the time I was five I was ringin cash registers like a Pro.
Suze taught me how to spot BCW, Undercover Cops & How To Run Like Hell.
And she taught me The Plan.
Cause Everybody Gots To Have A Plan.
There was a different Plan for every new spot yet The Plan was always the same:
Learn the Escape Route and where to meet up in case we had to Run Like Hell.
Never underestimate how important a concept Run Like Hell was.
It was a Real Lifesaver.
At night Suze always made sure I got the softest spot to lay in.
When she went into a nod Suze would throw her legs over me to keep me from Wanderin.
"OB you gettin so dirty."
That’s when Suze would Swallow Her Pride and approach some
neighborhood Black Lady with a lotta kids and beg her to watch me
For A Little While.
And maybe let me take a bath while Suze washed my clothes.
She always let it be known that my father was a Black Man.
Laugh If You Wanna, but that was a Really Big Deal to her.
Then she would take her Fix money and go to the laundry mat.
Since A Little While in Junkie Time could stretch on Interminably
often I would get a Meal Or Two out the deal and sometimes
a Decent Place To Sleep.
I knew my ma was gon get Sick and Need A Fix but the Lady didn’t know that.
Besides, some a them was only a Shot Or Two or a Bottle A Liquor away from the
streets they damn self, you feel me? My Momma would show up Sometime Later,
very very much So Apologetic tryna Explain Herself & All.
The Black Lady would rub her on the shoulder knowinly and hand me over.
Til the next time.
and we’d end up back at Grandma’s.
My Grandma HATED my Black ass.
I think she was embarrassed.
Bein Mixed was Under Usual back then.
My ma encouraged me to play with the Black kids and Grandma hated that too.
She never stopped tellin me
No One Would Know I Was Black If I Kept My Mouth Shut.
So What?!?
I mean:
Who does that?!?
My momma didn’t have a problem with my race and neither did I.
The times my ma would Evaporate and leave me with Grandma for weeks at a time
were The Worst, man.
Horrifyin.
Grandma would cook for herself and Forget to feed me.
She wouldn’t bathe me or wash my clothes.
Grandma never woke me up in the mornin or called me in for bedtime.
All this I did for myself, to the best a my abilities.
Life On The Streets had made me Self Sufficient but still…
I mean Damn.
I was a kid.
Since I was consistently the Last Ass Chile out on the block at night and I was
only four the neighbors took my Grandma to task but Grandma would shout:
"He’s not my kid. Find his mother."
and slam the door in they faces.
1BG
You know how some people always knew just what they wanted out of life? My father sleeps around a lot, always has.
Well, I always wanted my mother.
I’ve been known as Princess since I was five years old.
My true-legal-name, the one that’s on my birth certificate, is Baby Girl.
I was born Baby Girl Walker, and not the:
someone-gazed-lovingly-at-me-and-named-me Baby Girl, but that:
your-stupid-ass-mother-never-got-around-to-naming-you "place holder"
hospitals bestow upon unnamed infants.
Let’s you know what my mother thought of me, doesn’t it.
The one girl he fell for fell for his brother’s pretty-white-skin instead.
Sally Walker didn’t know she was pregnant when she took up with my Uncle Shawn
and would have quietly aborted me if Shawn hadn’t found out.
Stuck with me, Sally’s solution was to allow me to starve to death.
Simply put: the bitch wouldn’t feed me.
Poor JR, fresh out of foster care, assumed the burden of keeping me alive.
JR boiled my bottles; made my formula; fed me, washed me, changed my diapers.
The whole time he was at school anxiety gnawed away at JR.
At three o’clock he raced to the house fast as his not-so-little legs would carry him.
My condition was always the same:
shitty, crying weakly, untouched since JR had left that morning.
By the end of the second month Uncle Shawn realized something was seriously wrong.
Young became a single father at seventeen, struggling with pre-med classes,
a full time job at Harlem Hospital and his Baby Girl.
All I know is what I heard:
we lived in a rat infested rooming house back then, the only place Young could afford.
It didn’t stop him from painstakingly nursing my malnourished behind back to health.
When it came time to amend the birth certificate Young let my name stand.
Unlike my mother he had gazed lovingly into my face,
Pronouncing me his "Baby Girl."
Life improved for us ten thousand percent when Young went back to live with Uncle BB, Young loved me in an undemonstrative way. I was unloved and unwanted by the woman who had given-me-life.
who’s not really my uncle.
BB is my father’s lover. Uncle Tommy is Uncle BB’s other lover.
We all lived together in a penthouse on Park Avenue.
We always had plenty of money; back then Uncle BB was some Senator’s "sex toy."
The Senator paid our bills, kept Uncle BB up to his Armani-clad neck in gold jewelry, Mercedes-Benz’s.
Uncle BB made plenty of money on the side selling weed
(later on cocaine) down on Wall Street; throwing breathtakingly opulent sex-parties
for rich-and-influential "older White gentlemen."
That’s how he came to be known as The Fabulous BB Johnson.
Uncle Tommy was a big-time Harlem drug lord. His driver’s license read Thomas Lee;
his street name was Harlem Black, aka Hell Up In Harlem.
Ruthless, cut-throat, cold blooded, openly gay but no punk, word on the street was
Hell Up In Harlem, along with his crazy yaller lover,
would frame you where you sat over a fag joke.
"You ever notice how a 9mm pistol will bring all the fag jokes to a end quick-fast?"
was Uncle Tommy’s favorite line. Followed by:
"Bend over. I wanna see what’ll fit in your ass better: my dick or my gun."
Capped off by bloodshed.
These were not men to be played with.
My Dad?
My Dad was Young.
Or Baby; take your pick, he was called both interchangeably.
Ten years younger than Uncle BB, six years younger than Uncle Tommy, he was
their "baby;" they doted on him.
It’s never been absolutely clear how my "straight" father ended up with two gay men.
All I know is what I heard: my father was running from the same horrendous
home situation that landed my Uncle Shawn in foster care.
He met Uncle BB in a bar one night, went home with him;
the rest, as they say, is history.
You figure.
The Senator grew weary of Uncle BB around the same time Hell Up In Harlem
grew weary of the drug trade. Together he and Ol’ Mr. Fabulous opened up
BB Johnson’s, a men’s clothing store specializing in designer suits.
With a built in customer base; Uncle BB‘s fluency in French, German, Italian; they
made their first million in less than two years; went out, bought matching Mercedes.
Uncle BB’s license plate said FAG, Uncle Tommy’s said HOMO.
Uncle Tommy hates kids and women, basically fussed at me all the time.
Uncle BB, who fell in love with me the minute he saw me, was warm, affectionate;
but certainly no mother substitute. What I needed was a woman’s touch.
Envy and hatred consumed me, fed every morning by
the sight of mothers dropping their children off at my preschool; revitalized each
evening as every child in my class rushed headfirst into a mother’s open arms:
except me.
Oh I had a mother.
Knew where she lived even:
Right in Brooklyn with Obie and JR and my Uncle Shawn.
Understood that as an infant I had been unwanted.
But was I still?
Inquiring Minds wanted to know.
Uncle BB hated my mother’s guts; my father would not discuss her.
You know how much help Uncle Tommy was, right?
Cold and empty inside I yearned ceaselessly to talk to my mother;
talk about my mother.
My yearning transformed me into a bitter and angry child.
Outrageous temper tantrums became such the norm that Uncle BB had to pay extra
to hire another classroom assistant in pre-school. At home they had to hire Obie.
Contrary to whatever it is G.I. Joe says: knowing is not half-the-battle.
Uncle BB didn’t have a clue what to do with his wild ass son or my screaming ass.
Enter Obie.
He kept us both entertained and in check at the same time.
On the down side Obie was semi-spacey; he lost Squared so many times
the police threatened to call BCW (and you know how Obie felt about them).
Young would berate Uncle BB about his choice in babysitters.
To say Young didn’t like Obie would probably go down in the
Understatement Hall of Fame.
My father hated Obie with an intensity nobody really understood.
Obie literally sparkled with personality, his thousand-watt smile lit up
every room he was in; every person he came in contact with.
EXCEPT Young and Sally.
Maybe all that sparkle-and-shine rubbed my daddy the wrong way.
You figure.
Anyway…
Obie stayed the babysitter: whatever Uncle BB says, goes.
Oh, the secrets this nigga had.
Eight months after I was born Tugie had another boy with Uncle Shawn,
who was still married to my mother.
This created mass tension between Uncle BB and my daddy.
Uncle BB didn’t much care who my daddy fucked
but he wasn’t down with that falling-in-love shit.
Every Tuesday JR’s momma Tugie had class until ten p.m.,
so Big Momma watched Rocky for her all night.
Since Sally barred Uncle Shawn from seeing either of them,
every Tuesday he would creep on over to Tugie’s for some-of-that-there
"good loving."
BUT,
while Uncle Shawn was rockin-Tugie’s-boat Young was at his house banging Sally.
Hel-lo!
"Lifestyles of the Young and Shameless."
Anyway…Young left around four or five so Obie figured that would be a good time
to ride the train on over there and surprise my momma.
SURPRISE.
Since we were so, so very not supposed to on the train in the first place,
Obie had to make double sure nothing happened to us. He held on to my hand
extra tightly while simultaneously maintaining a death grip on Squared’s.
God forbid the-deaf-kid got lost in the madness that is a NYC subway station
at the height of rush hour.
All the way there my stomach is doing these crazy flip-flops.
I just knew I was going to puke up my guts.
During the trudge from the train station, all the way up the stairs to Obie’s
third floor brownstone apartment, my heart pounds like a jackhammer.
I tremble with anticipation; my legs feel all weak-and-rubbery.
Even though the door was unlocked Obie knocks anyway:
A) Young might still be there "getting busy" with Sally.
B) I really wasn’t supposed to be there; it would be impolite to just walk-on-in.
We hear Sally’s slippered footsteps shuffle towards the door;
her harsh voice demand:
"What the fuck you knockin for and why you ain’t at work?"
O-kaaaay then…
She does not sound really nice from here.
I begin to think that maybe I made a mistake here.
Know what I’m sayin?
Icy trepidation replaces my eager anticipation;
The door opens inward; there she is.
I stand there with my mouth hanging open.
Sally was so thin and frail looking.
Dark like my father and me, her skin tone was ashy, lifeless.
Her hair, eyebrows were gone: lost to chemo; she had very pretty eyes though.
These widen in surprise; just as quickly narrow in anger,
distorting Sally’s features into the ugliest face I have ever seen.
In all fairness Obie tried to warn me my mom was sick-with-cancer; looked pre-ty shit-ty;
my five-year-old mind couldn’t wrap itself around that concept.
"Surprise," Obie said when the door first opened. "Look what I brought you."
That, of course, is when Sally made the-only-ugly-face.
Opening her mouth Sally lets loose a monsoon of hatefully venomous words directed
at Obie, the likes of which I’d never heard before.
"Who in the FUCK told you to bring her here?" was how it began.
I can’t even tell you the rest; I was too shook up. All I know is it ended with:
"Don’t EVER bring that bitch ‘round here again, you hear me, boy?
Wait ‘til I tell yo’ daddy."
Sally slammed the door in our faces leaving us aghast, silent in the hallway.
Except for Squared that is, whose deaf ass didn’t know what the fuck just happened
and didn’t-much-care.
He was busy making sounds in a weird, hollow voice that was supposed to be singing.
As for me, I was devastated, man.
It wasn’t supposed to go like that.
In my fantasy I pictured a mother who hugged me, cried-for-joy at my arrival,
invited me in for milk-and-cookies.
Sally was supposed to be secretly pining away for me,
delighted that Obie would bring her such a thoughtful present.
We would discover we had much in common;
together plan our weekly secret rendezvous before I left.
Why I was so, so very wrong, though?
You figure.
‘Cause "survey says:"
