Read Street Chronicles Girls in the Game Online
Authors: Nikki Turner
Street Chronicles Girls in the Game
ALSO
BY
NIKKI TURNER
Forever a Hustler's Wife
Death Before Dishonor
Riding Dirty on 1-95
Street Chronicles:
Tales from da Hood
(editor and contributing author)
The Glamorous Life
Girls from da Hood
Girls from da Hood 2
A Project Chick
The Game:
Short Stories About the Life
(contributing author)
A Hustler's Wife
Got our name from a woman, got our game
from a woman. …
—
TUPAC SHAKUR
H
ave you ever heard the saying, “Beside every great man stands a great woman”? Well, the truth of it is behind every great man stands a great woman pushing him in the back to get him off his butt to make sure he handles his business.
When the game is referred to, it's usually the men who everyone automatically assumes are in control, running the show. Shot calling, hustling, balling, grinding, or pimping, it's the male icon that's glorified. But no one talks about his female counterpart, who more times than not, holds it all together for
her
man. For every Bishop Don “Magic” Juan, there is a Madame Marie LeVeau, and for every Clyde there is a Bonnie.
This collection of stories is not a celebration of the gangstress, pimpstress, bailer chick, boss bitch, or female hustler, but a depiction of a lifestyle, the description of the unsung, and their yet untold stories. Every fable told isn't a fairy tale because every life lived doesn't have a happy ending. This is the game, from a female's perspective, penned and endorsed by some of the hottest girl writers in the game. These stories present the reality of many who lived it, and some who didn't make it through. If you can't congratulate,
don't hate,
stay in your lane and, most important, acknowledge … the
Girls in the Game!
Some people may sit back, look down their noses, and judge the women in these stories from the safety and sanctity of their own world. They may call them whores, bitches, connivers, or sluts, but until they've faced their reality, they will never know
what they would do if they were in these women's pumps. Others may take a look inside these chronicles and see someone they know, someone they've met, or maybe even see themselves and realize they're not alone.
Whatever you get out of these pages, don't forget that it's a dirty game and
women are usually the best players.
I thank you from the bottom of my heart for picking up this book. It's always good to see one sister supporting another … and I am glad you chose me. But to you, my brothers, make no mistake about it: I love you like a fat bitch loves cake, but this one time I had to go all out for my sisters and get on some real Girl Power. I promise you, the next one's for you!
Much love,
Nikki Turner
BY FREE
N
ow just the title of this book alone can have your mind and thoughts all over the place, depending on who you are and where you come from. What is the game exactly? Is it like Monopoly or chess? Or both? Are you playing, or are you being played? Well, the game is what you make of it—or don't make of it. It's your choice completely.
Now being a girl in the game is as much acknowledging your power as it is being humble about it. Believe it or not, a girl can make or break a kingdom, hold up or tear down a house, make love or make war. You might ask how this is possible, when it's a man's world—or so they say.
But it's really not. Men can't have babies, so how could this be their world? Some male testosterone shmuck put that out there and it stuck. But what if they are right and it really is a man's world? Ladies, let's all just stop moving, breathing, speaking, reading, kissing, cooking, growing, treating, nurturing, and supporting and see what exactly will happen to the world.
A girl in the game must recognize early on that power is not about winning, or about cameras flashing, and that most of the time, once you get the power, you become the enemy and are looked at as having the strength of a man and will be treated like one. Watch out! Be careful what you wish for, and most of all be ready when you get it.
I read Assata Shakur's open letter to the United States. Google it ladies, and read it and weep. There's a part in her letter in which she describes a “marooned woman” as “the women of the tribe that were ‘supposedly’ disgraced by rape or deaths of their husbands and therefore they were pretty much ostracized from their own villages and left to fend for themselves.” The idea of a marooned woman struck me. We aren't the only ones who the government “helped” become independent of our husbands in order to further the division in the race. Marooned women are also girls in the game who are stuck in catch-22's, never able to straighten out.
A girl in the game must choose her suitor well. Pick a slouch and she will be looked at as one. Pick a king and she will be treated like a queen—but only if he is a true king. But if she's a true queen, she will know that she can reign alone.
A man once told me when I was in a bad situation that you could either be the rug or the person walking on it. The truth of his words was revealed to me time and time again. This was a pearl of wisdom I wish I had lived by, but it's never too late to start. Here are a few more jewels that I've learned in my life that I'd like to share with you:
Check your emotions
Keep your own stash of condoms
Choose your suitors wisely
Remain true to your dreams
Cut and let go when shit ain't right
Be ready for power and all that comes with it
Settle for nothing
Stand proud, because you're a Girl in the Game!
Free is a singer, writer, radio and television personality, and a true girl in the game. She lives in Los Angeles.
…
CHUNICHI
CROWNING
MISS BABY
MAMA
Definition of a “baby mama”
: That chick who will spite the current girlfriend or wife of the man she had a child with (aka baby daddy), and who will be connected to and able to get what she wants out of the baby daddy for life!
W
hoever thought a hood rat, guttersnipe young bitch like me would be rocking this nigga's world?
I thought as I watched Li'l Man walk to the bathroom ass-naked. I'd just given him some of the most amazing sex of his life. The one thing that he loved about me was that I was a young thang who hadn't been passed around like some of these old chickenheads cluckin’ around, so the punany was fresh. And unlike the old heads, I can be folded into any pretzel position his little heart desires.
Meeting Tyrone Simmons, known in the streets as Li'l Man,
was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a nothing-ass crumb snatcher like me. I know it sounds harsh, but it is what it is. According to many psychologists, the first step to progress is acknowledging your faults. That theory alone has done the most to bring me to where I am in life. To understand me, one must study my game: the sweet roll of the dice that it took to make Li'l Man fall for me. But first, let me tell you the history behind my so brilliantly played game.
Although Li'l Man was born and raised in Tidewater Park in Norfolk, Virginia, just as I had been, he was fortunate enough to have reached extreme heights. He was no longer living in the concrete walls that kept the bullets out and the roaches in the Park. “Park” is the name Norfolk city officials have so generously given the projects to create some sort of false image. They put up white picket fences, hoping to convey the idea of a park. Unfortunately, the projects are quite different from the parks where there are happy families spending sunny days in green grassy fields flying kites and having picnics.
In the projects there are dark brick blocks that cast an everlasting shadow. The green grass is replaced with dirt paths leading through alleyways used as quick getaways from the cops and as hideouts for hos and addicts. The smiling faces have been replaced with faces of praying grandmothers who look upon unhappy families, including a cracked-out daughter, a locked-up son, and an HIV-positive grandbaby.
One thing for sure: Just like the park, the projects are full of games. But the games of the projects aren't jump rope, or hopscotch, or ring-around-the-rosy It's more like a variation on hide-and-seek: nigga's in the cut waiting to move on the next nigga by surprise. Games of tag and dodgeball in the Park are niggas getting shot and dodging bullets. For the chicks, it's a game of chase: Everybody's after that nigga with a little bit of drug money or
chasing behind that deadbeat baby daddy. So people like me and Li'l Man have been programmed to be a product of this jungle that the outsiders label as a fun-filled “park.”
Generations of families living in the Park have bred a certain kind of man and woman. Conveniently, the Park has a single entrance and exit to keep
us
in and
them
out. We have our own stores and restaurants and even our own elementary schools. Until we reach our teenage years and go off to middle school, we're trapped in this box referred to as the Park.
Unaware of how the world operates outside our box, we've developed our own way of thinking according to how our world operates. Even though we're now out of the box, we operate as if we weren't, treating every situation as though we were still living in the Park. For some this outlook gets them locked up, but for others it gives them the strongest sense of survival. In Li'l Man's case, it did the latter.
He had taken his Park mentality and survival skills and developed a small drug ring, dominating the city of Norfolk. And just how did a twenty-seven-year-old dude like Li'l Man end up with a nineteen-year-old project chick like me? It's simple: Niggas always feel most comfortable with what they know, and the projects are what Li'l Man knows. A scheming bitch like me understands that. So when the opportunity knocked, I opened my legs and let him in, but not before I put a hole in the condom.
A
aaaauuuugggghhh!” I screamed nine months later as the paralyzing pains of childbirth shot through my body. “Just take deep breaths, honey. It will be okay,” the nurse calmly instructed. “Just breathe and push. Breathe and push.”
Although she meant well, I'd had it with this bitch and her instructions. Besides, nothing she suggested thus far had done a
damn thang to ease the pain, so I decided to ignore her, refusing to breathe and refusing to push. As a matter of fact, I refused to do anything, even open my damn legs, until Li'l Man got there.
“What time is it? Where is the phone? Give me the damn phone!” I demanded as I pushed the nurse away from me and attempted to climb out of the bed.
“Ms. Carter, you're going to have to calm down,” the doctor interjected. “Open your legs, and let's deliver this baby.” I could sense the frustration in the doctor's voice.
“I ain't got to do shit!” I retaliated, hoping he sensed the frustration in mine. “Do you know who the fuck I am? Do you know whose baby I'm having?” My yelling silenced everyone.
Obviously these people didn't know who they were fucking with. No one told Tiara Carter what to do, and definitely no one told Li'l Man's wifey what to do. I lifted what seemed like my 300-pound body out the bed and grabbed the phone. I couldn't wait to drop this baby and this baby fat and get back to my old self. My 120-pound hourglass frame had turned into a 160-pound blown-glass vase. My 7 Jeans and baby tees had been replaced by sweats and oversize T-shirts.