Nuthouse Love

By Kenny Attaway

Nuthouse Love, the one and only spin off of Kenny Attaways novel Slum Beautiful, is a critical, up front; passionate oozing documented real life experiences of Rasheeda Sade Griffin and her three best friends Mesh, Bay and Nika plight to find true and meaningful love. But in their plight of finding true love the young girls then woman engages in physical, emotional, spiritual, financial and social abuse shared by themselves, other woman and the men they become in unisome with. Unluckily throughout the sails in the winds of love self worth they discover not only the harsh reality of hurt, pain and agonies of domestic abuse, but they slip and fall in the egg yolk of their imperfections and insecurities. Regardless of the unforgettable mishaps of her close friends, others involved in her life; including supporting confidants Monica, Mrs. Cent and college friends and herself, she continues her voyage to the point of no return. Nuthouse not only details the experiences, trials and tribulations of many of the woman, but the harsh realism of the black mans fears, misguidance social and emotional troubles and enigmas as he/their boyfriends take them through at first hand experience that theyd refer to as the nuthouse and nuthouse love. The nuthouse term becomes symbolic for not only the feelings emerged from type of men the woman date and become evolved with, but a nickname for an actual place several of the characters visit in the impatient facility for abused woman Love Lockdown. Rich in detail, filled with angelic landscapes of unforgettable real life realities and mournful endings-Nuthouse Love is a must read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 3, 2009
• ISBN: 9781449044558

Kenny Attaway

Kenny Attaway (G.E.R) is an American writer. Raised in West Philadelphia, began authoring novels, plays and mini movies in the pre-teens of his life. His works of art has touched the hearts and minds of countless fan/supporters. Since 2005, he has published a total of twelve-thirteen works of art. His subject matters/genres continue to give light on array of topics. He loves writing and ushering in new projects. Currently, he is penning three complete novels to be published soon.

Book preview

Contents

nuthouse love: index 1

nuthouse love: index 2

nuthouse love: index 3

nuthouse love: index 4

nuthouse love: index 5

nuthouse love: index 6

nuthouse love: index 7

nuthouse love: index 8

nuthouse love: index 9

nuthouse love: index 10

nuthouse love: index 11

nuthouse love: index 12

nuthouse love: index 13

nuthouse love: index 14

nuthouse love: index 15

nuthouse love//:

lovelock down:the movie.

For & dedicated

All of the abused woman of the world of all color and creed

(physically//

//Emotionally

Spiritually//

//financially.

Morally//

//socieally

I love all of you, but so does God

Hold your head// ms. beautiful

Hold your head// mrs. beautiful

And Again//

// mrs. beautiful

Hold your head.. and keep yR heart sturdy (no misspelled words, I like that way better)

And may Ms. Val, Mrs. Butch & Marge rest in peace (my heart didn’t forget you)

A Nuthouse thanks to: first and foremost I have to thank GOD for the love, guidance, strength, courage, artistic merit and want in wanting to create this incredible project. Despite the curse words and occasional blurs // I love it. To all the wonderful women of the world that shared some of their stories with me before Nutthouse Love came into play; I’d like to thank you for the information. To my big/// big/ brother CHAD: you’ve been my friend, support system and co defendant in all walks of life, with the kids, fashion, relationship quarrels, pains and family quills. I love you to death big brother and of course WE have much work to accomplish as a team. //To Lyric: thanks for the patience. To E. no words could express. Having you a part of this is everything and I listen to Anthony all the time// to mom and family; I am nothing without ALL of you. Despite the differences we are a family and I’ve learned so much from you all. // Terry I know I have be an ass, but you know how I get on these sheets and projects, but you’re my friend, fan, supporter and inspiration to this project. This could have not happened without you. At I HOP I will explain. Special thanks to Shi, it’s been 25 years and counting. You have supporter me in every way from hair to heart. You are more than a friend and barber…you my heart. I appreciate you for always cheering for me and supporting me. Big shout to Mike James: you’re a special kind of fellow and how you care for friends, make moves and care for your children is always amazing to me. Keep that integrity you were built with. To my friends Corey, Mark, Wiz, V, Mike, MEL Trevor J, Roy, Diesel, Carl (read contributors) , BK, Rome, Nookie, Neka, Mesh, Déjà, Nick Biscuit, Amy, Denise, Loki and Sweet T I am sorry for being the biggest ass, but I am grateful for your friendship and don’t ever thank I don’t love you… Cause I do// I swear. // To Shi: 25 years and growing. You’re more than a friend and barber, and though my mind is creative at times I still can’t find a damn word to express what you mean. A true friend to thee end you are. To Ron Jones your words and concern for me and mom motivates me a lot and I never forget those talks about PAPER. You’ve been 100% right, supportive and god sent. To my brat and of course I’m JD; Nick you mean a lot to me. You are always there for me in more ways than you may believe. I don’t listen to many people’s advice, but when we riding for that quick 5 minutes in the AM I cherish it. We nine years and growing.// To Tay (Cause that’s what I call you).. thank you for laughing at my jokes and pushing me through the project. And now that’s it’s done ..no more monsters; I am turning into one. LOL. To Shi.. We just linked through Chad, but you that dude; about your fashions, money, family and business. I respect you and welcome you to everything thing I am a part. // To the entire NET crew; thanks for giving me space to complete it when needed. Mr. B for the breakfast, V for shit talks, Mr. Smith for the push, Du for the cover push and Big Kev for being there for whenever I need him for anything (GOD SON).

//To the class of 94 BOK: every door, walk of life, line I write and breath I take I breath, walk, write and take you with me. //To Bay u really are a wonderful woman, person and supporter. That’s it// Trust! To my fans and supporters the REAL ones//. Thank you for understanding and supporting the works of art I muster and shoot out. Putting together and putting out work is sometimes overwhelming and I do question is it sometimes worth it, but the emails and fan support makes it all worthwhile. Thanks for understanding and knowing I am a product of god. I am god’s son and in being one of god’s most rowdy sons I may not speak in his direct tongue, but as the old saying goes GOD works in mysterious ways and connects in many ways and with this project and many others I hope to show that. Writing is everything and with Nuthouse I welcome another child into this world; meaning my works of art are my children. A few hours before writing this I received a call from a friend and out of the blue he asked Ken what’s your favorite book, movie or whatever you’ve written and I paused and laughed and replied there are no favorites, my children are all different, but special." Like any other family or line of children one maybe loved over the other, one maybe smarter or wittier than the other, but in the end they all are from the same bloodline and bring something unique in their own right. Inkquani is rowdy and carefree, Baby Hop is raw, sincere and flavorful, Slum is strong, vibrant, diligent and artistic, but now I welcome child number five in Nuthouse; the helpless romantic that will do anything for love; including giving up life. In closing thank you a zillion times (the fans) for supporting.

To the contributors of Nuthouse Love: Eric you are an amazing artist and I grateful to have the honor of having your skills grace the cover of the book and back. Thank god I have you on the next few projects.// To CC we didn’t connect as we usually do, but we connected and I am dearly thankfully for your friendship, talks and penmanship; you remain incredible and one of my most precious confidants in all ranges. I can talk/debate and share ideas with you on anything and that means the world to me. NO BS. //To Taylor thank you for the spellchecking and editing. You made my work readable and styled it with finess.// Little sister Tawana I know I am a pain in the ass and semmingly some kind of stone cold weirdo at times, but that kind of alienation is necessary. These sheets (writing) sometimes talks and needs me to speak to. So we together more than you think. LOL// Author-house it always a pleasure to work with you guys regardless of our fights and bickering.// James where’s the million you’d been promising for years. LOL. To the makers of Monster (the drink) there’s no way in HELL could I have even thought of completing this book without your tasty gut bucking powerful energy drink. It keeps me up for 5-6 hours straight and it taste that good// to the makers of peanut chews and Herr’s Chips I thank you for providing the energy, flavor and foods to keep my energy level and going// to my Chick-a- woman at Liberty Place the tea, smiles and harassment keeps my brains quacking and you are all some of the most beautiful woman god could ever make. To Mr. M. Berry (Shake) you are an incredible and wonderful person completely. You love what you do. You love your family, religion, culture, god and the presence and honor of a woman. The world needs more of you and the informal jewels you dropped are priceless.//

To C. Williams; since 2000 I could count on you for anything and it means a lot. You’re a honest, caring and dedicated man and when crafting this THING I thought of how you honor your mother, g mother, daughter and EX girl and though CARL really admires and respects woman the way a man suppose to. Every woman and man should be grateful you are a part of their life I know I am. //To C walker I am so glad you have embraced me and treated as if I was gold. Your "REAL handshakes and golden smiles means that much. Your love and integrity you own for your WIFE and family brings tears to my eyes. I hope I can be as half as good husband you are to my future wife. Seeing how you embrace, love, respect and want to be a part of your family’s life and continue to be a great man to your family was defiantly an inspiration to this project.// to NAS: your music is powerful, spicy and without the jewels of IIlmatic, It Was Written, I am, God Son and the slew of others my inspiration would be low. I someday wish to have a catalog as great and hold such prestige as yours. Your body of work is the best ever. I am motivated by your wits and the way your challenge yourself and others. To Kanye West. Lovelock Down (the facility) in the story was actually created in my mind years back, but you good minds think alike. Your music and aura in incredible and inspirational//To all the others including The Roots, E.Badu, Marvin G (RIP), Sade, DJ Quik, and R. Kelly, John Coultrane, Miles Davis, Outkast and MsShell NdegChello. To Meliki your name itself is inspirational, but let your wife know you are nothing like that character, you’re a good man and wonderful father and husband. To Desiree Burton (Mrs. B) and the family; seeing a proud black family that’s successful is everything and inspirational. Will is a good husband and is the blueprint for husbands and fathers. Thank you again Mrs. B for the talks, advice and time to time consultations, and of course holding the children down (home and school).

The BIG Walnut thank you (the biggest nut) outside of god, mom and Chad I have to give praise and due to my fans and supporters. Only you could name every book, page, year it was published and give back creative cristisim and mean it. thank you for ALWAYS picking up me work and giving this starving artist a chance at your life. It’s one thing to purchase a book, but its another it actually reading. That’s the best support. AND two big giant shout outs to NAS and LL Cool J; my favorites of all time. Being inspired by LL’s longevity and Nas’s untouchable catalog of music motivates me. Neither one of you get the credit you deserve, but true art is usually appreciated later; we know how it goes.

Nuthouse Love//:

Lovelock down: the movie credits

Written & produced// kenny attaway

Executive producers// authorhouse & kenny attaway

Director // kenny attaway for attaboy edutainment

Narrated by// Rasheed & Rah

Music// kenny tttaway, dJ double rr & preme

Make-up// lyric thompson

Illustrations (front and back)// eric henderson

Casting // Chad Fields & Kenny Attaway

Editors// tawana smith & Lyric Thompson

Stunts & Extras// ghetto english rocker for attaboy edutainment

In stereo (of the heart that is)

_________________________________________

life’s movie buttons

RW/ rewinding life

NS/ /Next Scene

Pause//PS

FF/Fast forward

Play//continuous .until you die

Erase// trying to forget

Email//:[e-mail]

_______.

Rated R//: for Rasheeda, Rah, real, raunchy, rebellion, rage, rowdy, regional , rewind if needed, rubies, ridicule, romantic, rude, Rah, racy, radiant, rough, rainstorms, relentless, rapture, reformist, radical, but REAL . Sometimes the truth can’t be edited//: Based on a true story (just ask yourself)

.___________________________________________

All poetry used in the movie were taken from Kenny Attaway’s Hot Nickels & Kool Pennies published 2008 by Author house &Kenny Attaway and Yanni Hancock’s Inkquani(2005) .

Forever 1, 2000-U

Dear black men, but all other men is you are reading or CARE//:

Great portions of our woman are suffering and moving backwards in part of our belittlement and misguidance. We all scream, yell and stomp we want, need and deserve a beautiful strong woman, but are forgetting how they are made and preserved. We, black men, are not only destroying ourselves, but families and strong black women in the process when we beat our woman down; the emotional jabs and hooks, kicks, call of bitches and other derogatory names, and psychologically hurt must STOP. I am not of angel clothe neither. I have lied, cheated and because some form of hurt mentally and emotionally (thank god never physically). And to every woman I have ever caused any grief I apologize a zillion times, and not just from the lips and heart, but from my show of actions. Our women are priceless to and for our struggles. They are the shoulders, chest and heart we cry on. From the days of slavery up until now they have aided us and given their all (you know it’s true, think of your mother to say the least) in all forms possible. Too often hospital beds, welfare offices, street corners, crack houses and single household homes are filled with black woman lost and crying out to us for help. But in jails, coffins, street corners and other woman’s homes and arms we rest in; while their screams fall on to death ears and clouded minds. Despite our leaving of the home to fumble in the streets and other sheets; some of our woman such as Afeni Shakur (2pac’s mom), Gloria James (Lebron’s mom), Gloria Carter (Jay-Z’s mom), Voletta Wallace (Biggie’s mother), Anne Jones (Nas’s mother) Chlora Lawrence (Martin Lawrence mom), Emma Jane (my mother), Laverne Townes, Vanika Long, Jean Hayes and many others have continued to raise strong black men and woman on their own.

We need to not only be more sympathetic, but empathetic; in taking time to understand what is PMS and respect it, how she hurts from some birth controls that she’s forced to take, how she hurts from your punches, curses and other forms emotional abuse, how she knows of many of your so-called secrets, but out of love and fear she keeps quiet. I must admit upon writing Nuthouse I too was a bit strong headed and lacked full understanding, compassions and empathy of a black woman’s plight and injustices they face in many relationships. My ignorance caused me to believe I would be able to write Nuthouse Love in three to four months, but Nuthouse not only became my hardest and most difficulties book to write, but the most respected. Thanks to the raising of a beautiful mother (go E. Jane) I grew up with an enriched love for all women, but with this book and future projects I aim to learn greater. Let’s face it; our woman need and deserves a break from our impulsive hearts and ears. Some choose to speak about it , others preach on to their girlfriends, pastors, while others tell close confidents; but at least they speak or have someone to speak to. Unfortunately many women don’t have anyone to speak to or things to turn to, but a dairy, a song, a broken heart or a man that doesn’t listen to their needs. Our women are strong, courageous, caring, battle-ready, hard-working, loving, compassionate, beautiful and attentive to our needs and wants, but what about what she deserves".

They are the child-bearers for the children, the fabric that glues us together and we need them as much as they need us. None of us are perfect. And often (not all the time) they struggle due to the pains, insecurities, irrationals and evil injections we inflict upon them. Let’s clean up some of this mess. God is watching and god’s memory is forever. Lastly, I challenge everyman who’s reading this to think of your mother, sister, favorite auntie, niece , or any woman friend and ask; how would I want this important woman to be treated. Nuthouse Love is far from an attack on us as black men, but a mere close-up of our woman’s emotions, feelings and burdens they carry and withstand day to day. It’s takes a lot nowadays to make us happy, but what about their happiness, time spent with our children, time spent looking good for us and the other priceless things they do for us all in the sake of love. Let’s open our hearts, minds, conscience and time in discussing their wants, needs, fears and cries. Not all of these issues can be addressed with a quick love/lust making moment or money, but with time, honesty and a tad bit of elegance.

This is not for all; some of our good men like Mr. C Gordon, Mr. T. Hayes, Mr. Stephon Burton, James Todd, Smith, Mike Berry (Mikeal), C.Williams, C. Nobles, Ronald, Jones, Greg Smith and the many ot’hers take care of home and for that we salute you and appreciate you. This is for the punchers, dead-beat daddies, the no-goods, lost, confused, cold and busy bodies like myself that neglect your feelings . Work is important, money is important, dreams and goals are important, but so is she. Take a day off and send flowers, candy, take her to dinner, bathe her feet in warm milk (bad feet too) and let her know how badly she is needed, admired and appreciated before it’s too late.

Written with Love/understanding.

PS. U R appreciated/one love and never forget god’s memory is forever.

kenny’s attaway’s

nuthouse love: index 1

the butterfly effect//

_______________

continuous play

Index 01 //: the butterfly effect

At times the world can be a cold, cruel, and dangerous place that kills and destroys everything including storms to harvests and people and their so called dreams- waking up the cold reality that loves some times loves no one. Everyone and thing needs some form of love and life to remain in existence. We all need love in some kind of form, rather than imagery or fictitious, rather a warm pipe or cold dick we all need it. Strangely, thanks to my loving and caring family, I fell in love and all its wonderful attributes at the age of two or three. Mom and dad always taught love was the most powerful element in the world. And as I child I felt love from my baby bottle, mixing on down to my hard but delicate spankings. And since the age of five (as I remember ), I became a hopeless romantic that would do anything for love including swimming in a pool of knives, and playing Russian roulette with cupids painfully agonizing bow and arrow, believing I could survive each sting or walking playing Russian roulette with the chamber of five filled with eight bullets. Yup I have watched Love Jones, Love & Basketball, and every other romantic movie a hundred times. I loaded my IPOD years back with songs from Anthony Hamilton, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder and even Cher’s Life after Love. In knowing how cold and dangerous the world could be and how cold the hugs of life could be, I believed that love was like the warmth I felt when dad would hug me when I scraped my knees after falling off my bike when I first learned how to ride. Although I was terrified to ride a bike for weeks after that nasty bloody cut, after thinking of the big rewarding hug dad would give after the hurt, I somehow gathered the strength to ride again, in hopes of receiving that big, giant, inviting hug that melted the pain away in an instant. My mom and dad were both compassionate and loving parents that taught love from every aspect and exuded it from every follicle. It was rumored that since the only pregnancy the two would ever encounter in us (my sister, brother and I), being triplets they were aiming to name us Love, Laverne and Lovell, but after my uncle Rasheed died of cancer on our day of birth they settled on Rah (my sister), Rasheed (my brother) and Rasheeda (me), thank god. Mom loved love, but dad respected love. Dad believed the only thing more important than love was who or what was protecting love?. Early on it was discovered life was a battlefield and since love is life and life is love; love is a battlefield as well.

Every Sunday, like clockwork, sometimes after reading the Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper, Dad would clean a different gun. Although I never knew the name of each gun other than the silly nicknames he had given them like Lucille Ball (the house gun), Peter the pistol (hunting rifle) and the rosy shooter (his work gun). Daddy was a Philadelphia detective and loved the idea and logic of uncovering mysteries and helping people to smile again after solving the murders of their loved ones. Dad believed that outside of God, Rosy the shit stopper was the protector of love for it not only protected his partner Mr. Fields and himself, but protected his family from hurt. Yup, every Sunday he’d clean and scrub every piece and element of Rosy and as he cleaned he would refer to her as his fifth favorite girl after mom, Rah, myself and grandma Isabelle. Oddly enough, no matter how many times he’d clean the gun on Sundays, I s believed that he was bathing my sister Rah (pronounced Ri), because he’d talk to Rosy as if she was a person instead of five-pounds of scrap metal. Come here baby, daddy loves you. The man toy was scrubbed and dried gently before being placed into its metal box with ruby red interior cloth made of cotton, leather, and suede. Mom hated that he cleaned the gun in front of us rather in the comfort of their bedroom or the garage, but daddy later explained he was secretly teaching us the importance of taking care of what takes care of you . We feed dogs, buy shit for our homes, why can’t we clean and take care of our shooters (gun). And as planned Rah, Rasheed, and I knew every element and make of gun there was to know before we completed eighth grade. But oddly enough they hated guns and I fell in love with the artistic merit and action of a pistol. Mom looked on puzzled when I’d laugh and chuckle at dad when he licked the chambers of the many guns he owned.

He rubbed his fingertips over the bullets, kiss the clips and swoon the gun handle while laughing at the excitement he and I shared in the love of guns. Guns protect the love, and guns are the love. But no matter what, mom never could come to grips with or share the same ideologies as dad. "Gun are dangerous Ne’ (short for Rene) and they end more lives than save. They break up families and cause many to lose their religion. Dad and I clicked and meshed more than the others, not only in our love for life and the unique shaped metal (gun), but in our never-give-up-hope and the protection of love theories.

As a child and even in adulthood, I breathed the sincerity, compassion and realism that no one or thing would ever hurt my family. And although my sister, brother and I were identical the outside, our inner love and likes of the world were completely opposite. Early on, mom always confused Rah and me at times, but dad always knew the difference. Later in life, prior to his death, I asked Dad how he knew the difference and he’d always say "a good detective is always on beat and your eyes ooze with life while your sister’s cross and blink a thousand blinks per second to protect her dreams and secrets. (She was far-sided). Mom would sometimes become so confused by the triplet crises that she would punish me for something Rah did and discipline Rah for something I did. At seven we promised to keep that bound and protect each other no matter what. That meant that if mom was ready to spank for something I’d done, and I wasn’t up for the beating, Rah would take it and vice versa. Rasheed, on the other hand, always sported a hustler hairstyle or baldy, bracelets and left the occasional pee on the toilets; which made him easy to peep out, but Rah and I were the interchangeable kids that only dad’s love could decipher. Grandma Isabelle (mom’s mom) would always make us wear different clothes when we would stay with her on weekends, mom and dad getaways, and the occasional weeks when dad was on special stakeouts etc. Grandma Isabelle had loads of money and was a caring grandmother to some degree due to her line of work in being a B/C class actress that made $500,000 per movie or more. My sister loved grandma more than I did at times because her ideologies and respect for life were far from mine. Being an actress forced her to believe life was a movie itself and that life was merely a stage. And of course the people in it were actors and actress. Whenever we had any questions, fears, or problems with life she’d stick us in front of the VCR and shove a tape in the player and make herself a cup of expensive tea ( no matter the weather). Rasheed loved grandma for her expensive gifts and teaching him how to draw and illustrate, while Rah loved Grandma Isabelle for her theory that life was a movie and like actors and actresses you could play any part you want, dress how you want and look how you want to look, which is why she later became a plastic surgeon. Like mom she believed in covering up any ugliness she felt rather it was wearing oversized sunglasses as teen, smothering her face with sheets as child and later becoming a plastic surgeon, but if life’s a movie …lets push rewind for now.

RW/

On April 1, 1973 Rene and Roberta Griffin gave birth to triplets Rasheed, Rah and Rasheeda. Growing up in a modest middle class district on a middle class income meant very little problems with financial issues, but a gang of emotional and love driven issues. Mom’s mother, Grandma Isabella, paid for four years of acting school with straight up cash due to the family’s make-up business in the 1950’s. Sadly, Grandpa Willie died before we were born, but grandma shared enough stories of his workmanship for us to form a description without trying. Our family business was sold in 1970 to a very rich Jewish family. The money generated from the sale of the business and grandma’s starring role in low budget films and supporting roles in bigger films, made us want for nothing. We ate with silver spoons and ate golden cakes for snacks. Dad wanted us to work for everything due to his workmanship and poor family. His mother and father both died in their late teens 18, 19 from simple cases of the Flu.. Dad was raised by his grandmother and had it very rough. He always said that growing up in Augusta Georgia in the 60’s were no joke for a black man, especially a poor black man. Dad not only had to collect water from a well, but he also had to share everything with his older and younger brothers. Dad believed we should work and be grateful for everything, but mom was the complete opposite. Grandma Isabelle made sure that mom and her twin sisters Jeanette and Joy and brother Chris, received anything their little hearts desired. Dad always believed that the reason mom and her siblings received whatever they wanted as a result of the guilt grandma felt for not being around and for not having Grandpa Willie in the home. But mom’s logic was simply that "black folks own that slave mentality that everything should be handwork or hard work, when it shouldn’t. White Americans and foreigners pass wealth off to their children every single day…why can’t we do that. Grandma and grandpa worked their fingers to the gristle and bone to ensure we had whatever we wanted because my kids will not and should not have to work as hard for nothing". Such conflicting and often confusing ideologies made us wonder why mom and dad gave each other a second glance, but it was simple: opposites attract. Dad loved mom’s up keep of her family and good looks and mom loved the fact that dad didn’t care for much, other than his jazz collection, girls (as he refereed to mom, Rah and I) his boy boy (Rasheed) protecting love and keeping the peace. Neither mom nor dad ever danced with infidelity (they both believed in staying faithful and keeping all ugly problems from the others in the family).

Outside of the occasional flare-ups on cleaning the guns in front of the children and dad’s late hours and weeks of stakeouts, their problems were worked out in privacy and discussed later among us. We loved when they played the game You Be the jury and judge.

Both mom and dad were great debaters, and after settling many issues in the bedroom they’d place Rah, Rasheed and me on the couch {our panel} and ask us our opinions. And although the two would come to various verdicts in the comfort of their bedroom, if our argument and point of view were thought-out and met with all forms of logic, they’d overturn various decisions. The debates and overturns made us not only more intelligent, shaping opinions, but most important it forced us to stick together and support each other and, like a jury, our decisions and final arguments all had to mesh as one. How unfortunate that we would lose sight of such beautiful ideologies as time progressed. No hung juries. Mom loved it because it reinforced that sense of togetherness and decision making as a team; while dad gloated that he was teaching us "good ole fashion detective work." Aside from the similar but different point of views of the two, we loved that mom and dad were from two different worlds, but met at the same moon in loving each other and the fact we benefited heavily from having to learn two point of views from the world. Mom battled for catholic and private school and won. Dad pushed working at libraries and completing chores although we could afford two maids and a butler. were our only work. Dad grossed over $250,000 a year while mom pulled in a little over $500,000 a year as a result of opening her own hair solon; which kept our chores to a minimum; for no one was ever home to dirty anything other than on the weekends. Ironically, none of us liked school, but mom and dad insisted that we earn straight A’s. Neither Catholic nor private school excited us and having many classes together made it worse. By the age of ten all three of us were searching for our own identity. Dad was the only person who treated us differently, but equal. He and I would watch cartoons and discuss debates on Sunday while he and Rasheed would bowl in father and son tournaments every other Friday if he wasn’t away. Rah and dad spent and Saturday morning discussing detective work; how many victims needed but couldn’t afford plastic surgery after many of the crimes suffered?, etc ; which placed the topping on her desires of becoming a plastic surgeon and one wanting to change and make things as she assumed they should be. And although Rasheed was a master at engineering and bowling, he only wanted to draw and become an illustrator and comic book writer, which mom and dad supported. Aside from enjoying the eye candy of picking apart guns and being a master level debater, I was stuck on what I wanted to be professionally, or what to study in college. In our household everyone had to go to college and receive a $50,000 check following graduate to buy a car, house or whatever you wanted. At one point in time I wanted to be a detective just like dad, but the sometimes month long stakeouts and seeing how mom missed him, made me drift away from that dream. By the age of 12, I was sick and tired of not knowing what I wanted to do. After all Rah was already reading several books per month on plastic surgery and learning how to cover head and face scars with hair thanks to working with mom at the salon Tuesdays thru Thursdays afterschool. Rasheed was already in private art school at ten and making his way to the top of the class. Mom boasted several of his works of art on the salon walls and allowed him to sell his works to all her snobbish uppity customers on customer appreciation night, which was held every three months.

Monday and Friday nights mom paid me cash to wash some of the lower paying customer’s hair and although I could professionally cut ,relax, and curl by age 12, I had no ambitions of becoming a hair stylist. Hair was partly boring and disgusting. Some of the stories those wannabe brunettes and black blondes would share about things being placed in their hairs/heads by lovers made me a little nauseous, but the tips were good. Dad really didn’t like me being around the ‘stuck up broads’ as he would say, but he wanted me to earn money early on. I hated the reality that I was stuck in the web of confusion, but silently prayed I’d find my dream /career path before I was Grandma Isabella’s age. After hearing dad talk of busting up an underground dog fight club and the pain and suffering the dogs and other animals went through, the thought of being an animal rescuer crossed my mind, but watching Grandma Isabella cry hysterically after finding her pet Chihuahua dead from a dog cold, pushed that thought over the edge into the bag of veterinarian. I always loved dogs and birds as long as I could remember and now it was a perfect fit. Yup! A veterinary. The common characteristics of animals to humans and humans to animals always amazed me. My career was almost set.

FF//.

A little before for high school things had changed a great deal in my home. Dad was now chief detective in charge, mom’s boutique, Isabella’s Hair Factory, had expanded by two floors. Grandma Isabella moved to Los Angeles, California in order to avoid having to fly due to her new few films and infomercials for life insurance for the elderly, which of course were all being filmed in LA. Rah and Rasheed were far ahead of their class mates, but mom and dad agreed not to have them skipped a few grades, so they could enjoy life as a young teen. Fare enough. My fascination with guns fizzled out a little, but my fascination for animals and Kayla had arrived (confused by the introduction of Kayla?). Thanks to doing exceptionally well in grades sixth thru ninth grade mom and dad allowed me to choose whatever school I wanted to attend and I choose public school. As long as I kept my grade at an A level or better (as dad would say) I could stay for two years. I Thought dad was the most hood or black of the rest of my family, even dad acted conceited sometimes like my neighbors, peers, and siblings. I longed to be around normal people with normal problems. Mom and dad’s combined income was now over a $1,000,000 a year; which made their biggest problem which bag should I wear or which Benz or Porsche should they drive. Being around the normal people brought about a since of life outside the flowers, birds and bees of Lower Merion (30 minutes outside of Philadelphia). And yes like most of the geeky’ boys and corny snobbish girls from Lower Merion at one point in time we all claimed Philly" when asked where you from

FF.

Fighting for my right for identity became a bit easier after breaking away from the three-tail monster of Siamese twins being penned at the hip. Mom and dad relished in the moment of having three strong independent children that loved, admired and looked identical, but for us, primarily Rah, the attention became claustrophobic and nerve wracking. No matter how many hairstyles we’d try to differentiate ourselves from each other, nothing worked. Our faces were oval shaped.. and for oval face chicks there are not many styles that look appealing other than hair covering both sides of the face. But nevertheless being admitted to Murrell Dobbins High School meant everything. At times I felt like an oddball having Gucci book bags and Ralph Lauren pencil and pens, but dad preached never be ashamed to wear and show the goods God blessed you with" Mom’s attitude was slightly different. Why the fuck she wannabe around all those dirty project kids confuses me. Mom believed that everyone from Philadelphia was born and raised in the projects and had no sense of direction or purpose other than to serve the rich and wealthy, but I begged to differ. Thanks to Mrs. Cynthia from North Philadelphia, 10th and Diamond, I found a certain solemn and real life edge. Mrs. Cynthia worked part time for mom. Every Sunday and Monday she’d drive 45 minutes into our township to clean and scrub mom’s salon, which was an astounding shop that grossed serious money and made the ugliest become pretty. Regardless of the expensive lavish stones and bricks and super rich customers, Mrs. Cynthia but call me Mrs. Cent, was the best thing other than mom to step foot into that shop. She was the perfect conversationalist for most of my girly problems I experienced growing up after the expansion of mom’s shop. Mom never had time and I was too ashamed to share any likings for boys with Dad. Mrs. Cent’s voice was deeper than dads, but the pretty southern accent and hood flair always made me feel comfortable. Like dad’s family, she was born in Georgia and often referred herself to the Georgia Pie that traded her sweets in for a greasy cheese steak (referring to Philadelphians love for cheese steaks).

RW//.

When Mrs. Cent and I first met it wasn’t exactly on the greatest of terms. I remember the night as if it was yesterday. Lil mama could you please get yah shitty like rat out of this boutique, I have other stuff to do, people to meet and places to go. A little upset I roared back It’s not a rat it’s a hamster. Rats and hamsters are the same shit little lady, nasty little rodents. why not a cat or dog?. She irked me something terrible and as much as I hated being treated like royalty at times, Mrs. Cent treated me as if I was a normal child. It didn’t matter how big, ,rich, or vain our family appeared to be, to her I was just another spoiled little girl that was going to respect her if I liked it or not. Why do you need a Gucci (as she would pronounce) to put books in. Dem little hood girls gon whip ya ass and take all that from you, you better be careful, you may not be ready for Philly girls, they don’t play." After a few arguments and small time shouts she and I became close. On a springy Sunday morning mom asked Mrs. Cent if she would babysit Rah, Rasheed and me while she attended a hair show ( to keep up with the latest trends).

Dad was on a special investigation of a hit man and a horrific murder in West Philly and couldn’t return home for a few days. Rah and Rasheed didn’t care much for Mrs. Cent because of her choices of foods, language and theories. Every other word was loud or a curse word. Rasheed locked himself in his room for hours, while Rah read books on every medical procedure that involved changing one’s face. She was the first to notice and keep track of Michael Jackson’s changing face, which she loved. But Mrs. Cent and I would talk about any and everything. I never knew how she and mom tolerated each other because they were complete opposites, but I’d later find out why mom kept her around for so long. But as it goes Mrs. Cent loved guns as well and on her drive back and to Philly or filth-a-del-phia (as she’d say), she kept her stainless steel black handle 357 Magnum cocked and ready to fire ‘dem fuckkers in Philly are wild people, and the men are worse. Men nowadays act like that lil’ ugly rat of yours. Huh?. She talked a lot and most of what she said never really made sense until I sat alone and dissected whatever was said or meant. But her theories on love and life made all the sense in the world when I sat alone. Her theory on rats being hamsters persuaded me to give away Frankie the hamster and get Calypso, my dog. If you ever plan to have a boyfriend or man, you need to get a dog and learn how they (men) act. They are very similar to men at times I think they are cousins." With a change in emotion and bitter tongue "Some men are dogs, because regardless of how you believed they’re trained, they will sit in places other than your own and will turn their backs on you for the strangest shit. They DO bite the hands that feed them Mrs. Cent was an amazing creature, but what was more amazing was the fact she cleaned the shop from top to bottom and even our giant six-bedroom house with one arm. When she became the sitter when mom and dad were away she would say you kids don’t have no soul, you clean like prissy like white kids, this home is not as clean as it looks or should be. Rah hated Mrs. Cent at times, referring to her as the big ugly wife of Mr. Clean aka Mrs. Clean, but I loved her. From the third glance into her eyes I knew she was some form of an angel or maybe she was just different. Never the less she made an instant impact on my life up until I watched her wither away because of a single gunshot. Mrs. Cent and I became closer when Grandma moved to California and when the rest of the family became more entrenched in their own lives. Mom wanted to become the biggest hairstylist on the East Coast or in the world, dad wanted the head spot of the detective homicide unit, Rasheed was destined to become the best illustrator/comic book writer, while Rah had graduated from reading books on cosmetic surgery to now cutting and reshaping faces of mannequins at whatever time she felt like; including 3am the morning. Rah you ain’t sleepy, that nose is bothering me. In a grumpy man reply she always say soooo with the 3am breath traveling to my bed at the speed of light. My lips remained sealed, but my mind would always say you little stinky breath bitch and roll over back to sleep.

And although our home had six bedrooms, mom and dad forced Rah and I share a bedroom until we where thirteen years old, to build character and belief in each other. They wanted us to grow to love each other and depend on each other as sisters. I didn’t mind her peanut butter sheets, snoring or blasting the New Kids on the Block tape/CD of right stuff, but I did mind waking up in the middle of the night to plastic dummies scattered throughout our room. It scared the hell out of me. Our room was the prettiest cemetery you’d ever see, but it freaked me out terribly at times. In rewinding life’s memories, I sadly remember at times talking to the mannequins more than Rah due to her cold acts and shoulders. While the others drenched themselves in the pool of life, I somehow became stuck in the off lands of what the hell was I suppose to do. Life for me became super boring. Rah and I were once inseparable. We’d dress alike, eat a like, talk a lot and bother Sheed a lot as one, but now other funny looking people (manikins) took up her time and space. Luckily I had Mrs. Cent and Calypso (my dog) or I wouldn’t have had anything to do, besides homework. Life in Lower Merion was pretty dull for an 11-12 year old. The trees, wind, and people all smelled like meatballs and strawberries. Mrs. Cent’s personality and strong language kept me on my toes, but her strong scent of bleach and perfume opened my nostrils more than anything. Yah mama don’t want me cleaning with bleach, but shit for 69 cent you can’t beat the price, and it cleans everything. Mrs. Cent’s biggest concern and theory was to always keep everything clear, clean and honest; which included your heart, mind, body and soul. With the exception of telling mom she no longer used bleach to clean Isabella’s Hair Factory, she lied about nothing and kept her dirty mouth filled with rich, deep and enriching truths. You need to find a hobby Mrs. Thing or you gon go crazy. What you wanna do with yah life, I know you don’t wanna have to clean boutiques with one arm like Mrs. Cent. Find yah self or you gon live off mommy and daddy’s money…that’s not promised. As time withdrew from existence and my patience for finding a hobby or early path to a career became cloudier when I’d look to the sky for answers. Snap the fuck out of it. Why don’t you become a veterinarian?

They make a lot of money and you love those lil nasty critters, and if you gon deal with men when you get older you better take the time to know pigs, dogs, snakes and lizards, because no good men behave no different, and don’t forget what I told you about the dogs"

Later that night I fell into a deep like and later deep sleep of the possible of being a vet. I loved animals, but never thought of earning money to take care of them. When I shared the idea with mom and dad they both loved it. When Calypso became sick with a stomachache and I cured it thanks conversing with our family vet . Rashseeda you know what to do, you told me remember. Give the dog small amounts of white meat diet such as boiled fish or chicken along with white rice. If the dog is suffering from diarrhea, allow it only water for 12 hours. Then feed it with a mild diet as described for vomiting. If the dog is refusing to eat, don’t leave it as it is. Try to feed it with some attractive foods such as ham, cat food, fresh chicken and gravy and pilchards. Serving the warm food or adding garlic is also a good option

Now thanks to the vet’s advice and the book on wild life given to me by Mrs. Cent, I was more than ready to visit animal kingdom. While Mrs. Cent and I became closer mom and dad became more distant, but so did Rah and I. She became irritated that I was copying her ideas in wanting to repair and reshape. I never fully understood how pursuing a life as a vet had anything to do with being a plastic surgeon, but I was too hurt to argue or bicker with my mirror (as I referred to Rah). We were only eleven at the time, and no matter how loud or senseless the arguments became mom and dad insisted that until we became teenagers, we had to sleep in the same room. Secretly I’d pray for the weekends when Mrs. Cent was around. Mom and dad were too busy to check into pet cemetery and the surgeon general’s office, as they oftentimes referred to our bedroom. Mom’s clientele now included super top-notch celebrities and dad’s hours and workload increased. No matter how busy mom kept Mrs. Cent, she always made time for me and the hundred questions that followed. Sweetie let me loose myself in this big bag of cool (marijuana) and I’d answer anything you need answering. Mom wasn’t aware of Mrs. Cent’s high noon’s, but after proving she smokes weed for her chronic pains from her accident (arms) I didn’t view it as bad, but understood. Whenever Mrs. Cent wasn’t around and school work was completed, I’d play pretend with my talking parrot Justice, Calypso, the cat Tiny and Larry the lizard. I loved all of the animals and pets, but Calypso remained my favorite. Calypso hated all the other animals and was very envious of the relationship I shared with others. He’d growl and bark at every one and every thing, including mom and dad at times. He only allowed Sheed and Mrs. Cent to pet him, but ironically neither cared much for Calypso. In one of Sheed’s more deranged comics/illustrations, Calypso was killed off by of all things a giant rat with wings. I loved Sheed’s comics, but at times he appeared as a loving introvert weirdo that cared for nothing but his comics and his spacey made up friends Ayala and Reyes; which he’d later trade in for real life dangerous mother-fuckers in Dan and Cringles. Although mom and dad’s money provided us with the best private schools, clothing, meals and outside assistance, without Mrs. Cent and the pets I would have seen a nuthouse very early. Our house was full of rooms of organized confusion that bothered me more than I’d speak on. Daddy’s little girl was miserable and beefing and arguing with Rah only made it worse. At times she’d frown at me as if I was the ugliest thing in the world or if I owed her a million dollars with no way of paying it back.

Secretly she somehow believed I was her competition. We battled for attention, fought for love, scuffed for mirror space and fought from room-to-room despite having a house the size of a castle. Mom and dad would sometimes sit us down for conflict resolution, but the sessions only lasted five minutes. Dad’s cell phone or pager or device would go off I have to take the call, while mom was in constant competition with herself to make Isabella’s Hair Factory & More (changed the name) even greater. The shampoo room that was once filled with three stations now housed six and there were a total of twelve stylists, two errand boys and a two secretaries. The shop was elaborate and breath- taking. The ceiling tiles were imported from France, the floors were custom marble and the waiting area was made of all glass and black onyx. Mom no longer wanted us to hang in the shop and do odd jobs on Saturdays because her clientele models and up and coming actress and gay actors wouldn’t actors wouldn’t allow it, but neither would mom. After the last of the renovations, Mrs. Cent schedule changed, but we didn’t mind. Mom wanted the shop cleaned everyday; which meant Mrs. Cent had to move in with us. Mom had to work extremely hard in convincing Mrs. Cent to move from North Philadelphia to Lower Merion. I don’t wanna live around these snobby ass folks who don’t give a fuck about nothing but cash. Cynthia don’t talk like that I can give you more money and free room and board. Besides Sade (my nickname) adores you. Mrs. Cent loved dad’s gun collection, was a fan of Sheed’s comic magic and grandma’s work in Hollywood. Grandma only received small roles and infomercial roles, but Mrs. Cent admired it. And when mom and dad couldn’t make the trip to California, Mrs. Cent gladly went aboard the plane with Rah , Sheeda and I to visit grandma. Of course grandma secretly resented Mrs. Cent’s sometimes un-lady like ways like cursing in public and referring to exotic tea as high class piss, but overall it was obvious she admired the strength, honesty, and resiliency that Mrs. Cent possessed, but more importantly the fact she boarded the plane with us. Rah even softened up her hardcore ways towards Mrs. Cent in finally noticing she wasn’t bad as she had perceived. While in Cali we shopped till we dropped, but Mrs. Cent turned down every offer, but dinner. I don’t want any of those uneasy things and gadgets. Love has a hefty price tag and if you don’t watch it loves’ gonna getcha and bite you in the ass. Don’t fall in love with any of that shit. What’s the purpose of a $1,500 bag wrapped in suicidal wrap. And do you need a purse with that many G’s on it. That G scrap stands for goofy, gone with the wind and giant ass. And I have news for you miss lady. You keep fucking around with bags like that; you gon need them for emotional baggage and relationship luggage(do u want this to stand out?). Huh I responded? " You heard me keep that bag to put your broken heart, misplaced idenity, sunglasses from abuse, but broken hearts always seem to hide in expensive bags anyway. Children are starving across the world and most people who buy things like that use those things as medicine. They are sick from someone, thing or cause. I’ve been there and done that. Allowing love to conquer me are part the blame of why I now have one arm, but I’m not bitter, I accept my life for what it is. Instead of worrying about fuci and Prada to make you prouder you need to focus on grandma, she don’t look so well and you three need to focus on loving each other, because you three are bonded spiritually for life. You think you three born looking identical to each to each other are some kind of accident. God works in mysterious ways and does some of the most unique things. You are in competition for the stupidest shit and covering your shit up with expensive toilette tissue won’t ever work. The flight back to Philadelphia was serene externally, but internally a storm was brewing through the ducts of my skin tissues. Besides wondering if mom and dad fed the pets Larry , Tiny and Calypso and if the veterinarian plan was going to work, Mrs. Cent’s words quietly crushed me. What did she mean by people who buy things like that use those things as medicine. They are sick from someone, thing or cause. I’ve been there and done that. Love is part the blame of why I now have one arm, but I’m not bitter, I accept my life for what it is. Instead of worrying about fucci and Prada to make you prouder you need to focus on grandma, she don’t look so well and you three need to focus on loving each other, because you three are bonded spiritually for life. You think you three born looking identical to each to each other is some kind of accident. God works in mysterious ways and does some of the most unique things. You are in competition for the stupidest shit and covering your shit up with fendi toilette tissue won’t ever work. And I wondered what she meant by love