Dirty Dealing(Book 1 Baptiste Family Trilogy)By: Jade King
I was the spitting image of my mother. I had the same beauty mark had on the left side of her lip. I had sneaky eyes that turned into seductive eyes as I got older. I had plump lips that always made me look like I was pouting, and a smile that rarely graced them.
My skin was the color of coffee that had a hint of cream in it but was sweet enough not to add sugar. Throughout the years after I had been molested at an early age so much, I began to develop faster than most my age. I had titties and a round ass that sat up on my back before I even hit Middle school. I was not into Barbie dolls or lace. I was more into watching the dealer's run dope, and the prostitutes hop in and out of cars. I was simple minded, because I was thinking they were princesses valued and privileged like the Disney characters.
To anyone else the whores on the corner were bitches that swarmed to men like vultures for money and drugs. That may have been true, but I wanted to be them. I needed to be them. I had my reasons. For one, my mother was a filthy whore. She was washed up, and could never afford the things a high-priced prostitute could. Second dealers avoided my mother, but flocked to the money makers. I craved that same attention and recognition. The dealers would give out cat calls as the whores swaggered in six inch stilettos. They would dip down in the alley give a quick rim job and get a rock for the night.
When you are a little girl in the 9th ward you take what you know and turn it into a fairytale because the shit on the TV just ain't your truth. Ain't no prince coming riding up on no damn horse to wake your ass up if you fall asleep. Usually, if a bitch falls asleep around here it’s from shooting up too much and ain't nobody coming but the wagon to pick up a dead body. There were no wishes that could get you the man you wanted because if you wanted him half the hood had already had him.
We didn’t have a steady place to stay so my mother moved me from crack house to whore house, to the Magnolia Projects where I came into my own. My mother didn't have any friends or family so I traveled with her. Life was no fairytale foe me. I would sleep under clothes or on dirty mattresses in corners. No one gave a damn that I was there watching every hit of crack, and every trick turned.
They treated me like a stray dog, and as time progressed I began to believe I was just as worthless as they made me out to be. I ate what I could find even if that meant going in the trash and digging out things that were spoiled or rotten. My mother stayed so high she didn’t even know where I was half the time. When she wasn't high she was out her head and slept all day. She didn't care where I was all she wanted was a rock and her welfare on time each month for having to look at me.
My mother was once the spoiled rich daughter of a wealthy French banker and an African midwife. She met my father while she was in law school during a protest downtime for some brother who had gotten shot by police. Even though they were on opposite sides of the debate they found a way to each other. You know the story smart girl, well-educated thug always waging war on the “man.” My mother found my father’s militant ways intriguing and she and my father fell in love. Nine months later after their short lived love affair was over my mother found out that she was pregnant with me. My mother’s family would not be embarrassed by some little nappy head pick-a-ninny for a grandchild, so they removed my mother from all of the Wills, packed her shit and dropped her off in the hood to be with her black king.
Unfortunately, my father didn’t want her either. I mean after all he had already gotten what he wanted from her. He was a militant and through all the talk he did about the “white devil.” My father was ahead of his time he was on that black lives matters way back then. Too bad for him as a result of his acts of lust and passion for a pretty face and sexy body which happened to be of the race whom he considered the oppressor he was now stuck with an inbred baby mama and mutt kid.
Things took a turn for the worse and my father introduced my mother to the street life. He gave her the first joint and introduced her to the party life down on Bourbon Street. That's where she got her first hit of crack and that's where she lost herself. You see crack and cocaine are different. Crack is cheap, cocaine is pure and a better quality. My mother was a rock head, a crackhead and she smoked like it was a religion. My father was never at home, he was always somewhere protesting, or fucking someone else's wife. He had a reputation in the hood. He was said to have fathered about five other kids but I never met them. My daddy was a rolling stone and my momma was a rock head. Me? I was a product of the streets. Just another crack baby with no guidance and no light.
My father didn’t want his brothers to know that he had gotten some poor little rich half French slut knocked up. He would be a disgrace. It was a tragic love story, and the ending was even more tragic. Now that I look at it I had gotten my selfish ways from my father. He didn't give a damn who he hurt, he just knew he had a dick and how to use it.
When my mother went into labor, she went into labor in the floor of our third story apartment building. I had heard the story so many times it was starting to get old.
She wanted to just get rid of me and just start all over, so she went to the kitchen drenched in blood, and cut the umbilical cord. She found some plastic bags, and as she began to wrap me up, she looked in my eyes. I looked like him, I had his eyes. The man that she had given it all up for and the only reason why he probably still kept her around was because she was carrying his child.