The Girl With 1000 Lovers

By Jazziblack Walker

To some, her family was the picture of  perfection, but to others, her home was a cesspool of dysfunction. Despite this, her family - a perfect vicade - provided an ample buffer from a mean world. But then, something happened that would tear her family apart and alter the course of her future.  

From the moment she was

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vantage Point Books
• Release date: Apr 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9780990870876

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Jazziblack Walker. Published in the United States by Vantage Point Books, an imprint of NubiTales LLC, Seattle, Washington. Visit our website at www.nubitales.com.

Vantage Point Books is an imprint of NubiTales, LLC. The Vantage Point Books cliffs are a trademark of Vantage Point Books.

Description: This is a gritty, matter-of-fact, straight to the point book on the tragedy of growing up in the streets.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, copied in whole or part in any medium (including into storage or retrieval systems) without the express written authorization of NubiTales, LLC. To request authorization, please contact NubiTales, LLC by email at [e-mail]. Please outline the proposed medium and use.

Library of Congress Catalog Control Number 2017900860

Paperback ISBN 978-0-9908708-6-9

EBook ISBN 978-0-9908708-7-6

Printed in the United States of America

First Paperback Edition. Special discounts are available for bulk and institutional purchases. For more information, please contact Bulk Orders at [e-mail].

Introduction

Jazziblack Jazzi Walker is a mother, daughter, and an inspiration. Jazzi grew up in Watts, Los Angeles, California a place notorious for crime, poverty, chronic illnesses like cancer and asthma, drug dealing, drug use and abuse, and unmet social service needs. The middle child of three, Jazzi always had a bit of a wild side to her. Nevertheless, her path was set. Her father was a working class man, her mother graduated from college, all the children were in private school, the family owned their home and placed a high value on academic achievement, and a vast network of friends and family provided spiritual and social support. But then, something went terribly wrong. Something happened that would alter Jazzi’s future and test the family’s unity.

This is Jazzi’s story. It is a gritty, first-hand account of life on the streets as a street prostitute… a hooker… a whore… a hoe... a daughter… a mother… a woman.

This book addresses topics that aren’t often discussed openly. Rape, sex trafficking, mental illness; these are subjects that go unnoticed or undiscussed, but are tackled here. As the reader, you are asked to consider these topics within your own individual or social experience and evaluate how a person with so much potential can end up ho’ing.

In writing this book, Jazzi conjured up memories from her past and tells her truth of growing up on the streets with gut-wrenching openness and honesty. Included are personal stories and perspectives from some of the most influential people in her life. These stories not only provide a glimpse into her life and the underbelly of sex trafficking culture, but also subtly explore social, racial, and ethnic inequities that plague disparate and desperate communities.

Jazzi undertook this project as an opportunity to engage in self-healing, and to bring to light the underlying issues affecting her current mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical health and well-being. As she told her story, Jazzi opened old wounds, peeling back layers of herself, and truthfully retold her story in her words from her perspective.

During this process, Jazzi would often say, … I used to be. According to Jazzi, she used to be smart, she used to be pretty, she used to be fun, and she used to be everything that one would consider as good qualities. This is evidence of the fact that Jazzi has lost sight of her true and authentic self. In comparing herself to her brother and sister, if her sister and brother are good, or smart, or capable, then Jazzi should know that she is just as good, or smart, or capable – if not even more so due to the resiliency and survival tactics that she has had to develop overtime.

Nevertheless, this book was the first step Jazzi took to regain herself. This exploration in self-discovery eventually evolved into a resource to help other young women who find themselves in similar positions having to choose between prostitution or an alternative. It is the writer’s hope that at least one other person contemplating entry into a career in prostitution will be dissuaded from such a life, and motivated to escape the grip of his or her sex-exploiter.

Engaging in this discussion was difficult. Feelings of regret, acceptance, destitution, anger, resentment, frustration all entered the conversation as well as a sense of hopelessness. But what became clear was this: Jazzi has lost an understanding of who she is… who she is inside.

As you flip through the pages, it is Jazzi’s hope that the answer to the following question is made clear: So, how did you get here?

This book is dedicated to the many women whose lives have become an agnosia – unable to recognize their true essence and authentic selves. Behold, all is not lost. Begin to delight in the return of your perception.

Tell the truth and shame the Devil

Section 1

Have you ever heard that story about the rose that grew from the concrete? That’s some crazy shit, huh? I mean, have you ever seen a rose grow outta concrete? That’s some uber-metaphysical, gastronomical, poetic-type shit. These words passed from my thoughts to my lips in a cloud of smoke, engulfing Tre Pop and I in a glorious white fog as we sat in a parked car in the driveway of CJ’s apartment complex. With the windows rolled all the way up, we rolled joint after joint and hotboxed until my eyes began to dry.

Gorgeous, you straight trippin’ right now mah nigga, Tre Pop said filling her lungs to maximum capacity. She held her breath long enough for the weed to find its way through every sector of her chest, exhaled, and handed me the joint.

I rolled it between my thumb and index finger. As I readied myself for another hit, I asked, But what if it did?

My eyes were nearly shut, but through the haze I could just make out Tre Pop’s face. She raised her brow, squinted her eyes and squinched her mouth. Irritation splashed across her face, and she rubbed the side of her face with her free hand and then slapped it back down hard on her thigh. She let out a sigh and answered back, Bitch, you fuckin’ up mah high right now, man. It’s too damn late and I’m too damn high to be talkin’ bullshit. Her agitation increased by the idea of having to think in the abstract, and I could tell that she was growing tired of this conversation. She tried to readjust the focus of our session to our current task, and told me, Stop babysittin’ and pass the blunt.

I took another hit and passed the joint. My bad mah nigga… I puffed and then blew out the smoke. Here… But I want you to think about this. If a rose just all of a sudden started growing outta the concrete it would be like some crazy shit. It’ll be on like the evening news or some shit. Watts would be all fulla tourists and shit.

Tre Pop took another hit and held her breath for as long as she could stand until she had no other choice than to release or choke on the smoke banging on her throat and pushing through her chest. Pacified by the sudden surge of feel-good-stuff surging through her bloodstream, the look of wonder played on her face as she contemplated what I had just said.

I began to think how amazing it would be to see something so delicate grow and thrive in such a harsh environment. All alone on a concrete island with the sun beating down on it and it constantly at odds with the wind, this rose would stand as a symbol of beauty and brilliance.

After her thoughts had fully formed, she smacked her lips together and responded, Naw… That’s some bullshit.

We shared a laugh littered with deep-seated throat coughs from having smoked way too much weed and primos. Tre Pop continued, First of all, that would be a busted ass rose. The edges would be all fucked up and shit. That mothafucka woulda had to grow some legs and arms and some shit to keep people from walking all over it. Shit, that rose would have to be a fuckin’ gangsta! Being from Watts and all, you feel me mah nigga? People wouldn’t even fuckin’ care that a rose is growing from the concrete. No one fuckin’ cares. Tre Pop passed the blunt and proudly announced, I’m fucked up.

I laughed and announced with the same pride and enthusiasm, I’m high as hell too mah nigga! I conceded my thoughts, letting go of the foolish idea of roses growing in places where they weren’t supposed to grow and admitted, Who am I kidding? Shit, roses don’t even grow in the dirt from where we from. How’n the fuck are they gone grow in the concrete?

Moments like these always make me remember why I love to smoke. It makes me feel so good and so free. I shared my feelings with Tre Pop and said, I wonder why people say this shit is bad? It can’t be no worse than the shit we breathe every day. Truth be told, the weed is probably protecting us and coating our lungs with all that good shit, cause I ain’t really had a asthma attack since I started smoking.

That’s real mah nigga. I hardly ever get sick and I smoke like every day. It’s jus’ mothafuckas tryna tell you how to live yo’ life. They don’t want you smokin’ cause they ain’t found a way to make money off it. As soon as they figure out how to make money off this shit that you can grow outta yo’ backyard they gone be promotin’ that shit like a mug. Man, this shit is the truth. And they want to keep you stupid. I say fuck ‘em. They ain’t gone keep me from da real.

I know, right. Cause when I smoke it makes me think on a deeper level. It make me think back to when I was a little girl. I would go to church every week, I listened to my parents, and I went to school and got good grades.

But that was such a long time ago, and I’m a different person now, I thought.

I sunk deep down into my seat and entered into reflective bliss. Thoughts of my past life swirled in my head and images of my former self played out like a movie. But that person is long gone and I am certainly a completely different person.

I looked over at Tre Pop whose face was just like a light-skinned cherub as she looked up through the moonroof and into the night sky. Where’s all the fuckin’ stars? Member when we was kids and you could see all the stars at night. Ain’t no more stars. Where all them mothafuckas go? she said and reclined back in her seat to welcome a higher high.

I continued the dialog with myself. I’m not the same person. Nobody even knows my real name. But it really don’t matter cause I got a couple a names now: Lady D, Gorgeous, hey sexy, aye bitch, hey hoe. I’m called a hoe because that’s what I am. I’m a hoe – tricks pay me for pussy or dome or whatever. So calling me a hoe don’t bother me. It used to, but it don’t now, because that’s what I am.

With a shakiness to her tone, Tre Pop contemplated aloud, Where the fuckin’ stars at mah nigga?

Chapter 1. Jazzi

With a name like Jazziblack I suppose I was destined to be crazy. I suppose I get it from my Momma. She used to tell the most off the wall stories, which were usually about how the government was invested in keeping Black and Brown people down, on drugs, or poor. There’s a lot a money in keeping po’ folks po’, she would say.

According to Momma, these trains would ride into the neighborhood, screech to a stop, and shoot open their container doors. This happened so often that eventually people started to get curious and worked up enough courage to check out what was inside. A self-appointed examiner, Momma said she walked up to a train that had stopped on the tracks and peeped her head inside. What she saw was mind blowing. Momma said that finely packaged stacks of cocaine lined the cars. Once word spread, people flocked from all around Watts for their share of the goods.

After the supply of cocaine and crack circulated throughout the community, the trains stopped coming, but the demand remained. Momma was sure that these trains, loaded with crack, was proof positive that the government created a market for drugs in Black communities.

A former Black Panther, she said that the Panther’s found out that the government poisoned the drinking water to keep Black women from having so many babies and that Planned Parenthood had a contract with the government to keep Black birth rates from outpacing Whites’ through abortion. These were the reasons why she thought that Panthers were a government target.

Momma also said that the government was responsible for the Watts riots in the sixties because they issued small business loans to Buddah-heads, as she called Asians, but intentionally didn’t grant Black people loans to start up Black businesses.

But like most people in Watts at the time, Momma and Dad fell victim to the crack epidemic. Although they were heavy into drugs, both my parents were high functioning. After graduating from college, Momma worked as a substitute teacher in some of the roughest and toughest schools in town. Locke, Jordan, Crenshaw, Centennial, and Dorsey were a few of the schools she subbed. Dad was a plumber. He had been dishonorably discharged from the military because, according to him, he couldn’t be tamed. After his short military career, Dad took up a trade as an apprentice under his dad.

In 1983, Momma found out that she was pregnant with my older sister, Aphrodyi, and quit using. When I was born in 1991, the doctors told Momma that I wasn’t thriving, and needed to stay in the hospital for God-knows how long for monitoring. Like most Black kids, they probably thought that I was a crack baby and wanted to get me into the system. But Momma took me home against the doctor’s orders and nursed me to wellness with her concoction of Similac and pot liquor. My brother, Michael Jr., came along two years later.

One night, when I was about eight years old, I woke up to the sound of someone shouting from the living room. Instinctively, we all got up from our beds and made our way, single file, from the oldest to the youngest, to the living room. We saw Dad as we walked into the living room. He sat in the brown recliner that sat right up against the wall in front of the television. His fingers were pointed and clenched the arms of the recliner. His eyes were red, intense, and focused on my brother’s white, spring-actioned rocking horse.

He growled, You demon! You devil! I rebuke you!

BJ stepped forward from behind me and said, Dad? Are you ok?

Dad looked caught off guard when he finally noticed us standing in front of him right behind the horse as BJ climbed aboard and gleefully rode his horsey. In the most even, calm, and stoic tone he said, Children. Where there is a hole in the hedge, the serpent will strike.

From out of nowhere, Momma zipped past us towards him. Smelling of garlic and grease from the fried chicken, collard greens, and mashed potatoes from that night’s dinner, she balled up her fists and hit