Trinity Jones: The Queen of The Ghetto: A Fictional Poetic Memoir

By Tiffanya Richardson

In a world where everyone seems to be chasing a dream, we find our main character, Queen Trinity violently sprinting trying to escape her past. For Queen, her very existence has turned into a never-ending nightmare. Passionate and hopelessly creative, this lost poem from Oakland California finds comfort in expression through the art of written word. On the surface she appears to be a confident Queen despite a few wrong turns, but her story lies beneath the surface. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t seem to manifest the dreams that she often plagued by. Her faith in Jesus provides her with wings and guidelines she needs to fly, but will she have the courage to live boldly enough to stop dreaming, and actually take flight?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Release date: Aug 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781400324743

Tiffanya Richardson

Tiffanya Richardson is an Oakland Native, who has a love for the arts and her community. Her late father, named  her after Fania Davis. She credits her creativity and love for writing to him.  She received her bachelor’s in Social Work in 2014.  She is the organizer of L.I.T. A ministry group that stands for Leading Intentional Transformation.  She combined her love for people, community, and their stories, with her pain, faith, and process to tell the story of a Queen in an unlikely place.

Book preview

QUEEN

A name holds power. It’s descriptive and points to a legacy. Most of us aren’t taught that, though. We aren’t given names with meaning or power. We aren’t taught that our very beings are vessels of purpose. My mother named me Queen Trinity Jones. She was seventeen years old when she met my father who was twenty-one at the time. She was an honor-roll student, what you would call a square. My father was a popular drug dealer; they called him Twin because he had a twin brother he loved dearly, but was murdered by OPD after having a shootout with them after a petty robbery. They say they were polar opposites. My uncle was flashy, popular, and always had the latest fashions, while pops was more low-key. My parents met one day when my mother was walking home from high school. My dad and his friends were hanging on the corner when my dad stopped her. The rest, they say, is history. They were joined at the hip. You would never see one without the other. My dad ended up getting them a place once he found out Mom was pregnant with me. They tell me that they were so excited about their baby girl. My mother graduated and waddled across her high school stage to receive her diploma, graduating with honors. They say she was little in stature but strong in spirit. She was determined, and bold. They say my dad was so proud of her, he really loved her, and everyone knew it.

Their apartment was full of baby clothes and toys in preparation of my arrival. My mother’s parents were traditional and extremely religious. They weren’t so hot about pops, or the news of my arrival, but Mom always showed them respect and checked in. My dad’s mother and father were both out in the streets, My father’s brother was the only support system he really had. My dad was proud of his soon-to-be family; he had never had one. MeMau says my dad was a tall handsome man. Deep chocolate skin and waves deep like the ocean. He had an infectious smile with deep dimples, and he was always laughing and cracking jokes. They say I get my smile and dimples from him.

MeMau says even though she didn’t particularly care for pops, she thought it was cute to see him and Mom walking down the street, this big six-foot dude walking with this little five-foot girl, the two of them just smiling and gazing into each other’s eyes. Mom was chocolate brown, but not as deep a shade as pops. She had long curly hair; people always thought she was mixed with something. She blessed me or cursed me, should I say, with her curves, full breasts, large thighs and legs, slim waist, and an extended derriere. While Dad was friendly and welcoming, Mom was quieter, observant. MeMau says she had a strong discernment. Her name was Hadassah; MeMau named her after Queen Esther. My father’s name was Haran. Dad called me his little queen so much while I was in the womb that together they decided it would be my name: Queen.

My grandfather told me a story that my mother shared with him once. He said one day, she had just come from shopping in the city. My dad was busy hustling, so he sent her to get some nice things, so she would be occupied until he was through. On her way home, she saw a young girl who looked to be her age sitting at the bus stop. Mom told Grandpa that she couldn’t stop staring at the girl. She was sitting with her head down and appeared to be sleeping. Excuse me, you good? The girl raised her head and explained that she came to the BART station to sleep because she was homeless, and when she slept under the overpasses, the men messed with her and stole her things. She looked to be fifteen years old, but what caught my mother’s attention was how beautiful the young girl was. How did she end up here? Mom thought to herself while secretly wondering if she was moving too fast in her own young life. My mom asked her if she could pray for her, and when she asked the young girl her name, she told her it was Trinity.

When I finally came into the world, my parents showered me with nice things. I have pictures of them taking me to Disneyland at age two. I had every tennis shoe you could think of. When were younger we often equate love with stuff. The more stuff we have, the more loved we are. We tend to undervalue things like stories, making dinner together, these things have somehow lost their value. The stuff has replaced it. Movies, trips, clothes, and dinners are desires that never seem to be satisfied. By the time I was five, my parents began to mature. My father had traded in the streets for a construction business, and my mother was working as a tax preparer. A lot of their old friends were happy, but a few of them were upset they were making all these new changes. My dad bought us a house and every weekend it seemed like they were throwing a barbeque or a party for the old crew. People would come to our house and see all of our nice things and get jealous. My mom knew it; she would tell my dad all the time, but my dad was the people person, the life of the party. He didn’t want anyone to say that he had changed, or forgot where he came from. I’m gone always stay loyal to the streets; they made me, pops would often boast.

One night some guys broke into our new house. They kicked the door in and took all our TVs, stereos, they even took a secret stash my dad had hidden. MeMau says it was like they knew exactly where everything was. They stole his guns and his jewelry, and then they shot my parents. MeMau says I was in my room sleeping. They shot my dad eleven times. She says there had to have been an angel of protection with me because they didn’t even come into my room and I slept the whole night through. She said that morning she got a premonition. She kept calling the house phone and nobody would answer, which wasn’t like Mom. She came over that morning and used her spare key to open the door. She said she knew before she even turned the key. Said the Lord prepared her. When she walked in the house, she just knew. Clothes and dishes were everywhere, all that nice stuff destroyed. When she opened my parents’ bedroom door, she found my father lying over my mother. They had died in each other’s arms. She said I didn’t wake up until she screamed.

AMBITION AS A RIDER: IT’S ALL IN THE NAME

Queen, sharpened in iniquity. Born into trauma, given a gift by God to hold peace in perilous environments. Queen, birthed by ignorance with good intentions. Jealousy and greed forced me to become an orphan, and stole any chance I had at living a fairytale life. Stability and covering stolen along with my innocence. I am Queen Trinity Jones and God has gifted me with whole eyes. I have eyes that see the overlooked and the forgotten. Forgotten slaves of capitalism. Stoned out lovers of themselves and their selfies. Tricked by crafty words, they traded in their God-given birthright for their oppresors poison instead.

This I just need to feel good generation that is constantly hungry for their next fix. The morbid children who ride daily with death as their companion. These heavy hitters don’t fear death, ‘cause I mean, what is life anyway? These children who were put to sleep by the sounds of sirens, gunshots, and screams of crying mothers who find their seeds gunned down in the street. These were their lullabies. At times you can see the pain in their eyes. Eyes that dare anyone to challenge them with judgment. Most don’t even try. They go home and secretly judge at their comfortable coffee tables. They dare not make eye contact, leaving these children to their own devices, giving them a license to burn this city down at their whim. Left unwatered no hand extending hope. Expected to redo years of damage on their own. How can you pray for me when you barely recognize your reflection when you look in the mirror? These children’s rebellions are secretly what allow you to sleep at night. You say to yourself, I know I’m messed up, but at least I’m not as damaged as the no-names.

The roots to these scars go deep, but God’s love is deeper still. I trust His hand, His judgment, His call. The antidote to the worlds hate is God’s love, not in word but in physically visible action—or did you forget such a thing existed? Crack open a history book or two, or go find one of them old-school grandmothers—you know, the ones who raised seven children, and then raised their children’s children. The ones who could tell you about old-time remedies and cooking from scratch. The ones who dragged you to Sunday school and choir practice. Those grandfathers who would teach young boys how to tie a tie or give you lunch money, or just sit on the porch with you and talk about life. They would say stuff like, Back in my day…. They knew about hard work, discipline, and obedience. Love in action like Harriet Tubman freeing slaves, or Dr. King marching for civil rights. Love, faith in action birthed Maya Angelou, Sojourner Truth, Frederick Douglass, Jesus. I am Trinity Jones, and I am the Queen of the Forgotten. I have come to speak directly to the demons of these children and say … demand, just like brother Moses, that these spiritual Pharaohs let my people go.

A SERIES OF LOVES LOST

PART ONE: KENYA

Most nights I sit up and cry. Thinking … thinking, constantly in my thoughts. I can still remember the day I opened the door and allowed Kenya to implant himself there, just like I can remember the day his post was brutally ripped from my flesh, leaving me wounded, bleeding without warning. When I speak of it, the scar still burns from love lost, so most of the times I don’t speak. Thinking. The pain has become so familiar I’ve tricked my mind into believing I like it. Sick. To be in love with death, infatuated by it, almost. I remember hearing the screams in the background when his right hand called to inform me of our loss. I fell to the floor as the wind left my entire body. Lifeless. I didn’t even cry—I couldn’t. My body was in such shock as part of me literally departed from my body.

Life. A precious gift, priceless if you know how to apply it, to live it. Ironically I lost Kenya to death and gave birth to Kenya, giving his name new life. No, he was not Kenya’s child. I choose to uproot the seeds from my womb that God destined for us to share together. I was young then, and although the fascination of having a family was tempting, Kenya didn’t think we were ready, and I respected his decision. Never even questioned it. Imagine that, destroying your own future—self-sabotage. Some of the worst pain you will ever have is not from the hand of others but from the things you did to yourself. As a result, my sweet Kenya is the closest thing to me and yet the most distant. The most painful, and at the same time the most precious, the most pure. Love. My son named after my lost beloved. My child I birthed by a stranger, not literally, but in fact spiritually, which is actually even worse. I met his father a year after my love was at rest six feet underneath the earth.

Since I was a little girl, John Singleton’s Poetic Justice was always my favorite movie. I smile to myself thinking about it. I had no business trying to process such a mature film at that age, but it was something real about it, something true. I’d imagine it was my parents’ story, and Janet was my mother. I liked that. I mean I liked that Justice was different: she had a story, a reason she was who she was. I dug she was a poet; even though poetry wasn’t really cool, she wrote it anyway. She was strong, she was about her business, and she wasn’t afraid to be alone. Lucky was her love, but he wasn’t the whole story. It was like she became first—she went on her own journey. They just so happened to meet on the same plane—that was a real love story to me. It was true. I never knew back then that it would be my real-life story. It’s funny how God prepares us for things to come without us even knowing it. I always tell Kenya, Pay attention, Son, listen to what the spirit of the Lord is trying to tell you.

My grandparents adopted me after my parents’ murder. They loved me but we always struggled with the generational divide. They were well into their early sixties by the time they took me in. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am eternally grateful for them. If it wasn’t for their love and support, I’m sure I would be a completely different woman today. They instilled the fear of God in me, discipline, and provided a structured environment. However, a lot of connections about life were missing for me in my youth. To say I was sheltered is an under-statement. I wasn’t allowed to play in the front yard. I can remember school friends coming by the house on their bikes and asking if I could come out. No baby, she’s not going to be able to make it, my grandfather would explain. I can still remember the tears swelling up in my eyes and that lump building up in my throat. I watched them ride off, wondering what kind of adventures they would get