A Deeper Love Inside by Sister Souljah Page A

a long black dress entered the chapel. I tried not to stare at him. I didn’t like to judge people by color, but his skin was scary looking. He was human with skin the color and texture of a mouse or rat.
    “Get up Santiaga, it’s Father John,” Lil’ Man said in a commanding whisper.
    “He’s not my father,” I mumbled, but I got up anyway, not for him but for number 5 of the Diamond Needles.
    He was saying some shit. Girls was closing their eyes, not me. I was looking at all of them. Two girls on the bench next to me were touching each other up. When I saw her hand rubbing the other girl’s breast through the jumper cloth, I felt something. I don’t know what.
    Testify and witness were two words I didn’t like. I was hearing them both today even though I was in the chapel and not the courtroom where I had heard those two words the most.
    Angel, aka Lil’ Man, was in the front of the room now, talking about Jesus, revenge, and forgiveness. The whole thing sounded like some confusing bullshit to me. The stuff in the room looked confusing, too. Some statues were cemented and stuck to the walls. Others were nailed into the counters just in case one of us violent girls broke fool and grabbed one of the statues and used it to knock somebody the fuck out.
    I looked at Angel. She’s very light-skinned, like my poppa. Her hair was cut into a Caesar, like a dude. Not a short, pretty, girl style, like Lina or Rose Marie. As I looked at her straight on, I noticed stuff that I didn’t see when we were sitting or standing side by side. She was petite, but her personality made her seem tall and strong. Now I could see she was small. She was small and rough. She was using her hands to explain something up there but the same as like how Brooklyn dudes talk with their hands to one another while working the corner. Her face looked like it used to look pretty and maybe it still did, but she held her mouth like a boy and her eyes were not like girl-feeling eyes. Even her fingers were mannish. She didn’t put her hands on her hips or twist her little body like we girls did. Her stance was solid and determined. Her legs locked and even, not relaxed or bent or capable of flowing into a hot-ass dance step.
    “‘Porsche,’ that’s a badass name,” Lil’ Man said to me afterwards.
    “Thanks,” I replied, handing her my tribute candy packet.
    “It’s not Porscha or Portia or nothing like that?” she asked me.
    “Nope, it’s ‘Porsche,’ the name of the luxury vehicle.”
    Lil’ Man smiled. “Hell yeah! Did your moms push a Porsche?” she asked me, as though she was imagining.
    “No, my father pushed it. Momma rode beside him and made it look even sweeter than it already was.” I laughed a little now; I was remembering. “I heard you like cars. What did your pops push?” I asked Lil’ Man, knowing that all of the Diamond Needles come from families that had money, land, and power.
    Her eyebrows connected. Her jaw dropped. Her half smile evaporated.
    “My pops is pushing up daisies and dirt. He’s six feet under, where I put him.”
    Angel, aka Lil’ Man, wasn’t born because of love. Her mother was violently raped by a stranger. Lil’ Man was the result.

Chapter 11
    Art class only occurred once a week. The good classes and things are always rationed out to make sure we mostly feel bad. Art class was the only thing I favored that they provided, that I didn’t have to think of and do for myself. The teacher was so-so. But, there was a volunteer helper, a university student, who brought some feeling to life. She would say what none of the guards, teachers, staff, and especially not the warden would say. She kept smiling and saying, “Express yourself! Unlock your thoughts and emotions. If you’re unhappy or angry, excited or sad, let me see a reflection of you in your art work.”
    Before, most of us girls used to sit there in art class and do nothing, or scribble or rip shit apart. Sometimes we would get so