right now, I would be light skinned, thereby treated right and loved by boyz. Light even more important than being skinny; you see them light-skinned girls that's big an' fat, they got boyfriends. Boyz overlook a lot to be wif a white girl or yellow girl, especially if it's a boy that's dark skin wif big lips or nose, he will go APE over yellow girl. So that's my first fantasy, is get light.
Then I get hair. Swing job, you know like I do with my extensions, but this time it be my own hair, permanently.
Then, this part is hard to say, because so much of my heart is love for Abdul. But I be a girl or woman—yeah girl, 'cause I would still be a girl now if I hadn't had no kids. I would be a virgin like Michael Jackson, like Madonna. I would be a different Precious Jones. My bress not be big, my bra be little 'n pink like fashion girl. My body be like Whitney. I would be thighs not big etc etc.
I would be tight pussy girl no stretch marks and torn pussy from babies's head bust me open.
That HURT. Hours hours push push push! Then he out, beautiful. Jus' a beautiful baby. But I'm not. I'm eighteen years old. One time boy come to Advancement House to see girlfriend, he think I'm somebody's mother. That bother me.
So there if I have a fantasy it be how I look. Ms Rain say I am beautiful like I am. Where? How?
To who? To not have no kids mean I woulda had a different life. Counselor ask me one time is it the kids or is it I get raped to have 'em. Bofe;
'cause even if I not raped, who want a baby at twelve! Thas how old I was when I had Little Mongo.
What is a normal life? A life where you not
'shamed of your mother. Where your friends come over after school and watch TV and do homework. Where your mother is normal looking and don't hit you over the head wif iron skillet. I would wish for in my fantasy a second chance.
Since my first chance go to Mama and Daddy.
Ms Rain always saying write remember write remember. Counselor say talk about it, talk about it— the PAST. What about NOW At least wif school I am gettin' ready for my future (which to me is right now).
I don't know why I don't like counselor but Ms Rain say TALK, it gonna make things better whether I like her or not. But you know she jus'
another social worker scratching on a pad. I know she writing reports on me. Reports go in file. File say what I could get, where I could go—
if I could get cut off, kicked out Advancement House. Make me feel like Mama.
Me and Ms Weiss in counsel room. She as' me what's my earliest memory of Mama.
Huh?
"What's your earliest memory of your mother?"
Last week it was Daddy Daddy. She on a
"Mama" kick this week. I don't say nuffin'.
"Precious?"
I can't move, speak. It's like second grade again, paralyzed. Tired of this honky askin' me questions. And I do need someone to talk, but not this hoe. But the room here is nice, you know, big sunshine window, dark green leather furniture, pictures on wall. I'm on big green couch. She behind desk in swivel chair. On the side of her is file cabinets.
"Can I get you anything?"
"Soda." I don't say water. I could go get that myself. She know I ain' got no money. Only way I'm gonna get soda is if she buy me one.
Machine down in laundry room. Advancement House rules—staff do not give clients money (let's face it some of these bitches who act so s'perior 'n shit usta be crack addicts).
"What kind?"
"Cherry Coke."
Soon as she close door behind her I'm up.
Moving fast quiet. But inside slow torture walk like I'm walking through glue. Nervous, I can smell my sweat stinking. If she was to walk in on me now I turn around and slap her cracker ass down. Problem not crack but the CRACKER!
Farrakhan say. Big beige file cabinet behind her desk. A-J one drawer, K-Z on next drawer. Jones, Jones (it's a very common name); no P Jones, oh thas right, they late! Got me under Claireece Jones. Yup, here it is, jones, claireece p. 'n underneef my name, social security number, 015-11-9153.I fly
Then I get hair. Swing job, you know like I do with my extensions, but this time it be my own hair, permanently.
Then, this part is hard to say, because so much of my heart is love for Abdul. But I be a girl or woman—yeah girl, 'cause I would still be a girl now if I hadn't had no kids. I would be a virgin like Michael Jackson, like Madonna. I would be a different Precious Jones. My bress not be big, my bra be little 'n pink like fashion girl. My body be like Whitney. I would be thighs not big etc etc.
I would be tight pussy girl no stretch marks and torn pussy from babies's head bust me open.
That HURT. Hours hours push push push! Then he out, beautiful. Jus' a beautiful baby. But I'm not. I'm eighteen years old. One time boy come to Advancement House to see girlfriend, he think I'm somebody's mother. That bother me.
So there if I have a fantasy it be how I look. Ms Rain say I am beautiful like I am. Where? How?
To who? To not have no kids mean I woulda had a different life. Counselor ask me one time is it the kids or is it I get raped to have 'em. Bofe;
'cause even if I not raped, who want a baby at twelve! Thas how old I was when I had Little Mongo.
What is a normal life? A life where you not
'shamed of your mother. Where your friends come over after school and watch TV and do homework. Where your mother is normal looking and don't hit you over the head wif iron skillet. I would wish for in my fantasy a second chance.
Since my first chance go to Mama and Daddy.
Ms Rain always saying write remember write remember. Counselor say talk about it, talk about it— the PAST. What about NOW At least wif school I am gettin' ready for my future (which to me is right now).
I don't know why I don't like counselor but Ms Rain say TALK, it gonna make things better whether I like her or not. But you know she jus'
another social worker scratching on a pad. I know she writing reports on me. Reports go in file. File say what I could get, where I could go—
if I could get cut off, kicked out Advancement House. Make me feel like Mama.
Me and Ms Weiss in counsel room. She as' me what's my earliest memory of Mama.
Huh?
"What's your earliest memory of your mother?"
Last week it was Daddy Daddy. She on a
"Mama" kick this week. I don't say nuffin'.
"Precious?"
I can't move, speak. It's like second grade again, paralyzed. Tired of this honky askin' me questions. And I do need someone to talk, but not this hoe. But the room here is nice, you know, big sunshine window, dark green leather furniture, pictures on wall. I'm on big green couch. She behind desk in swivel chair. On the side of her is file cabinets.
"Can I get you anything?"
"Soda." I don't say water. I could go get that myself. She know I ain' got no money. Only way I'm gonna get soda is if she buy me one.
Machine down in laundry room. Advancement House rules—staff do not give clients money (let's face it some of these bitches who act so s'perior 'n shit usta be crack addicts).
"What kind?"
"Cherry Coke."
Soon as she close door behind her I'm up.
Moving fast quiet. But inside slow torture walk like I'm walking through glue. Nervous, I can smell my sweat stinking. If she was to walk in on me now I turn around and slap her cracker ass down. Problem not crack but the CRACKER!
Farrakhan say. Big beige file cabinet behind her desk. A-J one drawer, K-Z on next drawer. Jones, Jones (it's a very common name); no P Jones, oh thas right, they late! Got me under Claireece Jones. Yup, here it is, jones, claireece p. 'n underneef my name, social security number, 015-11-9153.I fly
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