The Coldest Winter Ever

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Overview

The stunning national bestseller now features an illuminating discussion with Sister Souljah — her secret thoughts on creating the story that has sold more than one million copies worldwide and introduced readers everywhere to the real ghetto experience. Here are answers to the questions fans everywhere have been asking; the meanings and inspirations behind such memorable characters as Winter, Midnight, and Santiaga; and insights into why and how Souljah conceived of one of the ...

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Overview

The stunning national bestseller now features an illuminating discussion with Sister Souljah — her secret thoughts on creating the story that has sold more than one million copies worldwide and introduced readers everywhere to the real ghetto experience. Here are answers to the questions fans everywhere have been asking; the meanings and inspirations behind such memorable characters as Winter, Midnight, and Santiaga; and insights into why and how Souljah conceived of one of the most powerful novels of our time.

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Editorial Reviews

Sean Elder

In the summer of 1992, presidential candidate Bill Clinton bashed New York community activist Sister Souljah for her statement "If black people kill black people every day, why not have a week and kill white people?" Clinton was trying to prove to white Democrats that he wasn't beholden to the Rev. Jesse Jackson and his crew with whom Souljah was affiliated. Souljah, who threw it right back at him, saying she'd be damned if she was going to be his Willie Horton, went on to recording and publishing contracts.

Her debut novel, The Coldest Winter Ever, is the streetwise, life-of-crime saga of Winter Santiaga, the teenage daughter of a Brooklyn drug kingpin and a girl much like those Souljah says she meets all the time in her work with the African Youth Survival Camp for homeless children and Daddy's House Social Programs funded by Sean "Puffy" Combs. Winter is precocious, babacious and as tough as a hollow-point bullet. She walks through the story with one hand on er hip, tossing off withering observations on men and money, and her voice is the book's greatest strength.

The first part plays like a protracted rap video: Everything is fly and phat, Winter's father spares his wife and daughters no luxury, and nothing is generic. Versace, Courvoisier, Chanel, Moet -- there are enough brand names to make Bret Easton Ellis proud. Even her twin sisters are named Mercedes and Lexus. But then the whip comes down in the form of young and hungry competitors and RICO-empowered federal agents. Winter's father goes to jail, and her survival becomes the story. Then Sister Souljah herself turns up.

Winter's reaction the first time she hears Souljah speak is typical: "How is this bitch supposed to help the community when she don't know how to rock her shit? I checked her arm, no Rolex, not even a Timex, nothing. No weight on her neck, nothing. Her hairdo was phat but that don't mean nothing when you don't know how to accessorize." Before long, though, she's seeking refuge in the activist's house, where she comments with typical disdain on her host's art "African titties everywhere and wooden mask carvings" and appearance "She was a typical uptown girl: big ass, wide hips and, nope, not a flat belly". But she remains deaf to the Sister's message of uplift. What Souljah does have going for her is men, and the injustice of it all is too much for Winter. Here some back-to-Africa, celibate, fat not phat sister act is getting all the action while Winter needs to steal to get by.

I'm relieved to report that Souljah does not perform any superhuman feats of rescue, and Winter's tale has moments of page-turning suspense. But most of the characters are one dimensional, and the occasional bits of speechifying, while impassioned, complement this crime novel about as well as spinach goes with cherry pie. What aberration of ego caused Sister Souljah to place herself in the center of her own novel? When her character confronts a hospital ward of female AIDS patients, she delivers a message about the importance of women in community. The scene is tender and more real than 90 percent of the book, but it's Winter -- a deadpan narrator in the Huck Finn mode -- who looks at the death-bed audience and has the last word: "They were in need of hygiene and a fashion rescue mission." As cruel as that line is, it's funny. And even in the best-intentioned work, wit plays better than wisdom. -- Salon

New Yorker
Winter is nasty, spoiled, and almost unbelievably libidinous, and it's ample evidence of the author's talent that she is also deeply sympathetic.
Black Issues Book Review
Souljah adds a new voice to the most marginalized of the marginalized.
Source
Sometimes the stuggle has to be repackaged to get a point across. Sister Souljah, one of hip-hop's perennial forces and a self-described "raptivist," does this with her first novel....The Coldest Winter Ever is a platform for this resourceful young activist to spread messages that are clear, concise, and true to the game.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Hip-hop star, political activist and now writer, Sister Souljah exhibits a raw and true voice (though her prose is rough and unsophisticated) in this cautionary tale protesting drugs and violence among young African-Americans in the inner city. Winter Santiaga, the 17-year-old daughter of big-time drug dealer Ricky Santiaga, is spoiled and pampered, intoxicated by the power of her name and her sexuality. Riding high on the trade, Santiaga moves the family out of the Brooklyn projects to a mansion on Long Island where things start to disintegrate. Winter's mother is shot in the face by competing drug dealers, the FBI arrest Santiaga and confiscate the family's possessions. Then, while visiting her father at Rikers Island, Winter discovers her father has a 22-year-old mistress and a baby boy. For the first time, Winter feels anger toward her father and pity for her fallen mother. Being the ruthless hood rat that she is, however, Winter leaves her weakened relatives behind and sets off to regain her stature and reinstate her father. Attracted to power, intolerant of those without it, ill-equipped to deal on her own and predisposed to make all the wrong moves, she deceives and steals from those who help her and yet, somehow, she remains a sympathetic character. Winter's obsession with money, possessions and appearances, her involvement in the drug trade and the parade of men she uses lead her down the wrong path. Sister Souljah herself appears as a "fictional" character who voices her belief that Winter's vices are shared by many, and that greed, drugs and violence devalue the lives of urban youth. Souljah peppers her raunchy and potentially offensive prose with epithets and street lingo, investing her narrative with honesty albeit often at the expense of disciplined writing. But this is a realistic coming-of-age story of debauchery with a grave moral.
Essence

"Sister Souljah has taken her talents from the stage to the page."

The New Yorker

"Winter is nasty, spoiled, and almost unbelievably libidinous, and it's ample evidence of the author's talent that she is also deeply sympathetic."

Publishers Weekly

"Intriguing....Souljah exhibits a raw and true voice."

Salon.com

"Winter is precious, babacious, and as tough as a hollow-point bullet."

The Source

"[Souljah] spread[s] messages that are clear, concise, and true to the game."

Library Journal
The trials and tribulations of young Winter Santiaga are described in gritty detail in this coming-of-age novel, the first by the phenomenally popular rap star who frequently lectures on the themes of this novel: overcoming teenage pregnancy, fatherless households, and drug use in African American communities. As the oldest daughter of a successful drug dealer, Winter lacks for nothing. But after her father moves the family from the projects to a mansion on Long Island, Winters life begins to come apart. Her beautiful mother is shot, her father is sent to prison, and the familys possessions are seized by the government. Winter and her three sisters, Mercedes, Lexus, and Porsche, become wards of the state. Finally, arrested and convicted of transporting drugs in a boyfriends car, Winter receives a 15-year jail term. Sister Souljah herself appears as a character, urging Winter and other young black women to stand up to the men in their lives, abstain from drugs, and practice safe sex. Although the novels writing is amateurish, the message is sincere. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 12/98.]Nancy Pearl, Washington Ctr. for the Book, Seattle
Marth
Hip-hop sage and activist Sister Souljah has taken her talents from the stage to the page in her first novel, The Coldest Winter Ever. This tale-of Winter Santiaga, daughter of a Brooklyn drug lord who starts out living high and ends up living low-is Sister Souljah's first foray into fiction. And she herself appears as a character-something unusual for an author.
Essence
Kirkus Reviews
Debut novel by hip-hop rap artist Sister Souljah, whose No Disrespect (1994), which mixes sexual history with political diatribe, is popular in schools country-wide. In its way, this is a tour de force of black English and underworld slang, as finely tuned to its heroine's voice as Alice Walker's The Color Purple. The subject matter, though, has a certain flashiness, like a black Godfather family saga, and the heroine's eventual fall develops only glancingly from her character. Born to a 14-year-old mother during one of New York's worst snowstorms, Winter Santiaga is the teenaged daughter of Ricky Santiaga, Brooklyn's top drug dealer, who lives like an Arab prince and treats his wife and four daughters like a queen and her princesses. Winter lost her virginity at 12 and now focuses unwaveringly on varieties of adolescent self-indulgence: sex and sugar-daddies, clothes, and getting her own way. She uses school only as a stepping-stone for getting out of the house-after all, nobody's paying her to go there. But if there's no money in it, why go? Meanwhile, Daddy decides it's time to move out of Brooklyn to truly fancy digs on Long Island, though this places him in the discomfiting position of not being absolutely hands-on with his dealers; and sure enough the rise of some young Turks leads to his arrest. Then he does something really stupid: he murders his wife's two weak brothers in jail with him on Riker's Island and gets two consecutive life sentences. Winter's then on her own, especially with Bullet, who may have replaced her dad as top hood, though when she selfishly fails to help her pregnant buddy Simone, there's worse-much worse-to come. Thinnessaside: riveting stuff, with language so frank it curls your hair.
From the Publisher
"Sister Souljah has taken her talents from the stage to the page."
Essence

"The #1 author of the hip-hop generation."
— Sean "P. Diddy" Combs

"Winter is nasty, spoiled, and almost unbelievably libidinous, and it's ample evidence of the author's talent that she is also deeply sympathetic."
The New Yorker

"Winter is precious, babacious, and as tough as a hollow-point bullet."
Salon.com

"[Souljah] spread[s] messages that are clear, concise, and true to the game."
The Source

"Intriguing....Souljah exhibits a raw and true voice."
Publishers Weekly

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781416521693
  • Publisher: Pocket Star
  • Publication date: 2/28/2006
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 544
  • Sales rank: 490
  • Product dimensions: 4.20 (w) x 6.75 (h) x 1.40 (d)

Meet the Author

Sister Souljah

Sister Souljah is best known for her work as a political activist and educator of underclass urban youth. A graduate of Rutgers University, she is a beloved personality in her own community. She lives in New Jersey City with her husband and son.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One
I never liked Sister Souljah, straight up. She the type of female I'd like to cut in the face with my razor. Before I get heated just talking about her, let me make it clear who I am and where I stand. Don't go jumping to any conclusions either. All of y'all are too quick to jump to her defense without knowing what somebody up close and personal thinks. When it comes right down to it, those are the ones who really count, the people who was there, who seen it all. Hell, you can't smell nobody's breath through a camera. You almost can't even see their pimples. So you know that TV shit ain't real. Don't run ahead of me. Let me take my time and tell my story.
Brooklyn-born I don't have no sob stories for you about rats and roaches and pissy-pew hallways. I came busting out of my momma's big coochie on January 28, 1977 during one of New York's worst snowstorms. So my mother named me Winter. My father, Ricky Santiaga, was so proud of his new baby girl that he had a limo waiting to pick my moms up from the hospital. The same night I got home my pops gave me a diamond ring set in 24-karat gold. My moms said that my fingers were too small and soft to even hold a ring in place, but he insisted that he had a guy who would have it adjusted just right. It was important for me to know I deserved the best, no slum jewelry, cheap shoes, or knock-off designer stuff, only the real thing.
We lived in the projects but we were cool with that. We weren't wanting for a damn thing. I had three aunts, four uncles, and a whole slew of cousins. As far as we were concerned it was live for all of us to be chilling in the same building, or at least the next building over. We never had to worry about getting into fights because around our way we had reputation. Plus it was plain and simple common sense. If you put your hands on anybody in the family you would get jumped by the next oldest person in our family, and so on and so on. Sooner than later we didn't even have to say a word. Everybody understood that our family had the neighborhood locked down, it wasn't worth the trouble.
Our apartment in the projects was dipped. We had royal red carpets on the floors, top-of-the-line furniture, a fully loaded entertainment center, equipment, and all that good stuff. I loved my pops with a passion. He was the smoothest nigga in the world. When he came into a room he made a difference. His cologne came around the corner introducing him before you could even see him. He spoke softly, with deep seriousness. He was light-skinned, tall, with curly black hair and a fine thin mustache to match. He was medium build, definitely in shape. The thing that stood out about him was his style. His clothes were crisp-expensive. He never wore the same shirt twice. He could do it like that 'cause he was smart. He never used the drugs he sold. He collected his money on time and made examples of any fool who tried to cheat him. He had a saying: One copper penny, one finger.
All the ladies loved him but he wasn't what I would call a ladies' man. He never had no girlfriend, at least no female ever called the house trying to front on my moms. I can't recall any incidents involving other women, accusations or any uncomfortableness. He was a family man. Everybody in the whole world knew my moms was his wife, his one and only, his soft spot even. Moms and Pops had been young lovers and, unlike a whole lot of niggas, they stayed together. She was fourteen when she had me. Folks said she looked great during pregnancy and would switch her ass around the neighborhood flowing easy, like water. She would wear her fine Italian leather stiletto heels even in her seventh month. Moms had everything by the way of clothes and anything else you could think of. Her mahogany skin was smooth as a Hershey's chocolate bar. When she went anywhere she was well coordinated. If she had on a zebra skin hat, she'd sport the zebra skin pants and would have a zebra skin pattern on all ten nails. She'd even have the Victoria's Secret zebra pattern panties and camisole. What separated her from every other woman any of us knew was she just had so much class. While the others were putting their imitation leather and zebra skins on layaway, piece by piece, Momma wouldn't be caught dead without her shit perfectly arranged. By the time hoes sported their outfits all their shit was played out, straight out of style. When it came to shopping Momma had no mercy and that's the way Santiaga liked it. His woman was supposed to be the showstopper. Momma didn't work 'cause beauty, she said, was a full-time occupation that left no room for anything else. She'd sit at her vanity table for three hours making sure she positioned each extra long lash on just right. She'd argue with anyone who said she wasn't born with those lashes that framed her big, wide brown eyes that were gorgeous with or without falsies. She made it clear to me that beautiful women are supposed to be taken care of. She would whisper in my ear, "I'm just a bad bitch!"
Now a bad bitch is a woman who handles her business without making it seem like business. Only dumb girls let love get them delirious to the point where they let things that really count go undone. For example, you see a good-looking nigga walking down the avenue, you get excited. You get wet just thinking about him. You step to him, size him up, and you think, Looks good. You slide you eyes down to his zipper, check for the print. Inside you scream, Yes, it's all there! But then you realize he's not wearing a watch, ain't carrying no car keys, no jewels, and he's sporting last month's sneakers. He's broke as hell. A bad bitch realizes that she has two options: (1) She can take him home and get her groove on just to enjoy the sex and don't get emotionally involved because he can't afford her; or (2) She can walk away and leave his broke ass standing right there. Having a relationship is out. Getting emotionally involved is out. Taking him seriously is out. If a bad bitch is extra slick she can keep this guy on the side for the good sex. He thenbecomes a commercial to the money man who is the main program. The money man is the guy who knows how to provide, knows how to bring home the goodness and bless his woman with everything she wants. Now the money man might not be ringing any bells sexually, but if he has ends — if his pockets are heavy — a bad bitch will moan like this nigga is the original Casanova. When he's sexing her, she'll shake, pant, and cry out like he's creating orgasms as strong as ocean waves. Now Moms must have been a bad bitch because she had it both ways. She had the money man with the good looks, loyalty, and I know Pops was laying it down in the bedroom.
Moms got her hair done once every three days. The shop we went to, 'cause she always took me, was for the high rollers' girls. These were the few women in the neighborhood who are able to hook the big money fish. They all went to this shop to get their hair done, nails did, and, more importantly, to show off and update on shit going on. Earline's was where we could get our hair done while we collected information on the side.
By the time I was seven I understood the rules perfectly. Keep the family's business quiet. Most things were better left unsaid. Even though this was the high rollers' hair shop, we were clear that motherfuckers were jealous of us. My Pops's operation was steadily building. As a young guy he started off as a lookout but was so sharp that now he has organized his own thing. He has his own workers and whatnot. People knew he was headed to being the next Big Willie by his style. He was respected for his product, which was never watered down, always a fair cut for your money. So me and my moms would catch those jealous glances, but we threw those shits right back. Our attitude toward other females was: "Hey, your man works for my Pops, now bow down to the family who puts food on the table for you and yours."
Santiaga was the number one businessman in our area by the time I was thirteen, running thangs. Although he taught me never to sweat the small stuff, it seemed like every move he made he thought about carefully. I would hear his key unlocking the first door into our apartment. Then the men he was with, his workers, they would stand in the limited space between the first door and the heavy metal second door that actually led into our place, and talk. After they handled their matters you would hear the first door open, then slam again. Pops would lock it and then unlock the second door to come inside. Whatever pressure he felt, whatever weight or business he had was left in between those two doors because when he came inside he brought his sexy smile, excited eyes, and power along with him.
He would show us all love. He would have whatever any of us had asked him for in his pocket no matter how small the request, down to a Snickers bar. If any of us had a problem of any kind, we could ask him and he'd make the answer so simple that I'd wonder how I couldn't of figured it out myself.
If something was on his mind, he'd go in the back to a private room he had Woody the carpenter build and pull out his chess board. Funny thing was, he wouldn't play with anybody, just against himself. When I'd ask him why, he'd say, "That's how I stay on top baby. I look at life from every position. I play from every side. You gotta know what each man on the board is thinking down to the littlest motherfucker like the pawn."
Now Daddy would explain that other players are quick to sacrifice or ignore the pawn, but he was too smart for that. "The pawns are my soldiers," he would say. "If I surround myself with strong soldiers, give them all a stake in the game, then they keep the hood strong and tight." He would look into my eyes as if to ask do I understand. I didn't want him to know that I dig him so much that I'd listen to him for as long as he wanted to talk, but I didn't give a fuck about a game of chess. He would break down how around our way there were always some young kids tryna "spread their wings" and test his operation. He said they mostly stupid though 'cause no smart guy is gonna try to kick in the door of the big man unless he got an extra tight, professional, strong, and ruthless crew. But every now and then some dumb-ass young kid who had seen too many Scarface-type movies will try to overtake what can only kill him. "He loses," Santiaga said, knocking the black king over on the chess board. "He loses because he never understood the game."
The up-and-coming dealers on the block was Santiaga's number two problem. I was his number one. He loved me like crazy but was getting nervous about the way men, young and old, was checking for me. It was amazing how in one year, from age twelve to thirteen, my titties sprouted. I even had the ass to match. I don't know who was more excited, the men or me. I was walking around poking my stuff out in any direction that looked good to me. But anybody who stated my way for more than a few seconds was in danger of catching a critical beat down. Pops had already made an example of at least two niggas around my way. Santiaga sliced this one dude from his left ear to his right ear. We call that kind of cut a "hospital run." But this guy never got to go to the hospital. Santiaga let his blood gush out until Doc got to our apartment. Now Doc ain't really no doctor, he just had some medical training in the army. Santiaga calls him when he don't need the police and hospital buttin' around in his business. Well when Doc got finished with dude his cut just bubbled up all the way across his face. Everybody in the neighborhood started calling him Bubbles for that ugly scar. Bubbles crime was looking at me with lust in his eyes while he was supposed to be installing the safe in our apartment. Now Bubbles was a walking billboard that no one is allowed to fuck with Santiaga's daughter. After that we got the second metal door installed in our apartment and none of Daddy's "workers" were ever allowed past that door again.
Now Moms thought Santiaga's ways was overboard. She told him she was just gonna get me some birth control pills and let me go, 'cause "When a woman wants to get fucked, she gets fucked. She gets fucked whether it's in a car or a closet."
Suggestions like this just got Santiaga more crazy. He made it clear to Moms, "Winter is not a woman yet. None of these lowlifes are gonna make a trick outta my flesh and blood." Pops would pull me to the side, grab my shoulders with his strong hands and firm grip, stare into my eyes, and tell me slowly, "Only a hard-working man, a sharp thinker who doesn't hesitate to do what he gotta do, to get you what you need to have, deserves you."
He repeated that lesson often. I would think to myself, Hmm, only Poppa fits that description. Now I loved Poppa but I hated the way he cock-blocked. Every teenage girl wants to cut loose and get close to the fire, but I was like a pot of boiling milk with the lid on. You know that's ready to explode and slide down the side of the pan.
So my peeps kept me busy by giving me things to do all the time. I had to watch my baby sisters Mercedes and Lexus, the twins. They was a real pain in the ass at eight months old. Then I had to look out for my other little sister Porsche, who was four. She wasn't half bad since she didn't shit all over all the time. Sometimes the three of them kids together got on my nerves so bad they almost made me want to go to school. But my policy was to go to school just enough so the authorities wouldn't kick me out. If I had a new outfit to show off or some new jewels I knew I'd get sweated for, fine, but I wasn't gonna report to school everyday like it was some type of job when they weren't even paying me for it. School was like a hustle. Teachers wanted me to come to school so they could get paid to control me. What do I get out of the deal? Enough said, I just wasn't having it.
As busy as they kept me, there was Midnight. I guess he got that name because midnight was about the only thing blacker than him. He was one of my father's workers. He was real serious like my father. He always looked like he was thinking deep thoughts and had a lot on his mind. I figured maybe he had a plan to take over the world. I liked that because he would need to own the world to win me. He never smiled. He didn't joke around like other niggas in our age group. He did his pickups and deliveries like clock work. My father once referred him as a strong young lieutenant. Santiaga liked him because he said he never tried to test or flex. He knew Santiaga was the boss and he was comfortable and cool with that. Midnight never attempted to skim, pay late, or run games, like some guys did when they first started out.
I liked Midnight for other reasons too. In the summertime he wore white when he played basketball. His mother, or whoever washed his clothes, must have been more handy than them happy homemakers on the TV commercials 'cause his shit was crisp. But what really got me was that black skin. It was smooth and perfect. It laid on top of his bone structure tight like Saran Wrap. His arms were cut. I could tell he lifted weights. But he wasn't all big and swollen like those little-dick assholes in the magazines. He was tall, yet medium-sized, and perfect. His muscles were defined, his veins stuck out, emphasizing his strengths. His neck was slim and strong. He would come to the park only on Sundays. I know because I was clocking him like that. He would be wearing a new sweat suit everytime. He held his money in a gold money clip. He would take the money clip, with the money neatly stacked, out of his sweatpants pocket. He'd take off his pants, stripping down to the basketball shorts he had on underneath. His powerful legs were as cut as his upper body. For this I gave him mad respect. I can't tell you how many guys I've seen with strong upper bodies and legs like a chicken. He would put that money clip on the inside of his basketball shorts and play ball. My eyes would move in and out of his structure. I couldn't wait to put my lips against his skin and maybe even suck his collarbone or something. To make the package complete, Midnight's kicks were always new and clean.
Now Midnight never paid me no mind. I wasn't worried about it though, 'cause one thing I learned from my mother is a bad bitch get what she wants if she works her shit right. Pops also taught me something useful about patience. He said sometimes a victory is sweeter when it takes a long time to carry out the plan, and you catch the person completely off guard. What I was up against was the fact that Midnight worked for my pops. So, even if he had ever considered me, he probably ruled me out. He was five years older than me. So, he might have also considered me jailbait. The worst thing about it was that I couldn't tell either way. You know how they say a person's face is a dead giveaway? Well Midnight was the opposite. His face seems serious all the time. His reactions just didn't show up. Even when he plays ball, he didn't talk trash like the other niggas. He didn't even react when they try to mess with him. He just seemed focused on the basmade his moves, scored his jumpers, and didn't even smile when won. At first, to get his attention I did the regular things like rocking my skirts extra mini, shortening my already short shorts, sporting halter tops and cute little metallic bras. As I got sexier, he went from looking at me almost never to never looking at me at all. While in his presence, or at least when I was in the same park he was in watching him play ball, I would try to get his attention by acting mad. I'd suck my teeth, roll my eyes at him, still nothing. So I decided to make him a long-shot project.
Meanwhile I had my own fun stuff going on. I would let niggas take me to the movies, or should I say I went to the movies with my girlfriends and met niggas there, not wanting to ruffle Santiaga's feathers, by bringing a "worthless nigga" home. Sometimes we would just chill at my girl Natalie's apartment. Her moms was never home so we had free run of the place.
Getting my first sugar daddy was no problem. His name was Sterling. I met him in lower Manhattan at a grocery market when I ran in to get some Chap Stick on a fickle autumn morning. I guess my style just overwhelmed him 'cause instead of reaching into the cash register and giving me my damn change his eyes were sliding in between my breasts like he wished he could be one of my gold chains. I recognized him immediately as a sucker, somebody I could take for all he had. All his thoughts showed on his face. It was clear that I had his full attention as I gave him a blast of ghetto attitude. I put my hands on hips, saying, "My money or your life?" He looked startled, stopped staring and counted out my change. I laughed.
"Do you need your receipt?" he asked with his enthusiastic corny ass trying to prolong the conversation.
"If that's all you have to offer," I said with a serious look sprinkled with sexiness. He gave me my money, and cleared his throat, turned from the register with his cheap white dress shirt and two-dollar tie, and followed me as I walked toward the door. I guess he had it like that. He could walk away from the register because he was the store manager.
"So what's your name?" he asked, looking like he thought he could actually make some progress with me.
"Winter," I said, rolling my eyes with disinterest.
"You live around here?"
"Brooklyn baby!! No doubt."
The rest is history. He got paid every two weeks and so did I. He worked at the store and I worked on him. I had him buying me shit he couldn't afford. We ate at places he never knew existed. Whatever little money he took home in pay, I took my 25 percent like I was his freakin' agent or something. It worked out smooth, him living in Manhattan out of Santiaga's eyesight. Besides, the little piece of cash he provided meant a new outfit, an extra gold bangle to my collection, whatever — like mom says, you can never have too much.

Santiaga shook up what was supposed to be my sweet sixteenth with shocking news. We were all around the table. My chocolate Baskin-Robbins ice-cream cake was bombarded with small nuts and sixteen carefully placed maraschino cherries. Daddy handed me a long slim box, the kind I like because it almost always means jewelry. I tore off the gold wrapping paper and smiled wildly as I lifted my new diamond tennis bracelet off of the clean white cotton. My mother's mouth hung open as she inspected my diamonds from across the table. Even though she knew better, she was confirming that they were white, clear, and sparkled like diamonds, not cubic zirconias.
As I put the bracelet on, Santiaga handed me a birthday card. This was unusual because we weren't big on cards and poetry and shit like that in my family. As I fumbled with the catch on my bracelet, my mom opened the card, suspecting I guess that there must be some birthday money in it or something. She probably figured that if I got cash in addition to this bracelet Santiaga had gone overboard again, and would need a talking to later on. As she opened the card two Polaroid snapshots fell out and onto the table. She picked it up, twisted up her face with curiosity and said, "Baby, what is this?"
"It's our new house in Long Island," Daddy said coolly with pride and confidence, "I wanted to surprise everybody and I figured today was as good as any day. We're moving! First class baby! Only the best, top shelf for the ladies in my life." I was feeling crazy. The gold candles on my cake melted away and so did my dreams under the pressure of the flickering fire.
All I knew was the projects. It was where my friends, family, and all my great adventures were. I knew these streets like I knew the curves of my own body. I was like the princess of these alleyways, back staircases, and whatnot. What was the point of moving? Santiaga always said you gotta live where business is to avoid a hostile takeover. He said that a man gotta carry a powerful presence in his neighborhood so the small-timers didn't start itching with takeover fever. Now it was like we was cutting out. So I did something that I normally would not do. I questioned Santiaga.
"Why? What's the point? Why are we about to do something that you said we would never do?"
Santiaga simply said, "Baby girl, things is on a new level. It was cool to rest my head here in the past. But my business is bigger and better than ever. I can't let them get too familiar with the routine. I gotta switch up, keep 'em guessing." Me, Momma, and Porsche were all seated stiff and silent. The babies didn't know what the fuck was going on. Surprise swirled around, strangling us. He continued, "Everyone can't handle my success. Eventually some fool will snap out of order and try to bring it to me by hurting one of my girls." His long finger pointed at us. His eyes locked into each of our eyes individually. He was making good sense but I was still vexed. I figured, yeah sounds good and all but I'm not down with the idea of running from a fight. It's just straight up not Santiaga style.
Santiaga picked up on my expression quickly and said, "Now you know I don't run from no war. I'll take on anybody who wants to bring it to me! But what I'm not having is nobody fucking with my ladies. If they want war, let it be man to man, and only the men." It seemed like Santiaga knew something he wasn't telling us. He was dead serious and I knew that his statements were coming from somewhere. "This place," he added, holding up the picture, his finger pointing out the mansion, this is a safe place. Man, wait till you see it. Shit, is laid out so nice it's, like heaven."

The rules for our move out of Brooklyn were clear and nonnegotiable. Don't talk about it. We knew no matter how silent we were, there would still be chatter. My mother's brothers and sisters, and their husbands and boyfriends, who all worked for Poppa, would definitely have something to say. That didn't matter, Santiaga said, "I'll take care of everything. Just don't add to it."
In my last few days everything was moving like in a slow motion film. Shit that stank, stank more. Anything sweet seemed even sweeter. I spent all my extra time with my girls. We were mad tight, many of us born and raised in this same spot. Take me and Natalie for instance, we did everything together. We even got our cherries busted together and lied to each other about how good the first time felt, when the truth was those big dicks ripped our tight little twelve-year-old tunnels apart. We fought over whose date was finer, even though Jamal and Jacob were twins! But I knew Jamal was cuter 'cause he had a fine black mole on his right cheek and that shit was sexy. Natalie said Jamal was the one who made my titties grow, 'cause after me and him started "getting down" I went from flat-chested to all eyes on me!
When my girl Toshi had beef with these chicks from around the corner, me, Nat, Zakia, Simone, Monique, Reese, all of us took off our jewels, greased up our faces, braided down our hair, and had our razors under our tongues ready to go to war. Before blows could be thrown or razors spitted out the big doofy girl from the other crew who was s'pose to scare us, shouted out, "Yo, that's Santiaga's daughter. You crazy, I ain't fucking with her." Then the chicks we was supposed to be fighting started fighting each other 'cause some of them wanted to fight and some of them didn't. So we started running toward them. We charged thoses bitches and they flew. We ran till we got tired and cracked up laughing at how stupid they were. I know one thing, they never fucked with Toshi again.
We blew trees together then got so hungry we ate four family-size bags of nacho cheese Doritos and watched our girl Asia, the only chubby one in our crew, throw up from the bellyache. Hell, we went from patent leather shoes at five-year-old birthday parties, to matching tomboy outfits and brawls, to fighting over whose titties were bigger.
Chanté, who was older than us, taught us all the sexual positions. She let us watch while she got down with boys when her mother was at work. She liked the idea of being our "teacher." She even taught us how to suck a dick.
We had our first beef patties and coco bread, bun'n cheese and ginger beer together 'cause our girl Carmen was from Jamaica and used to take us to the spot where the dreds chilled out. She taught us how to dance like the Jamaican winders by moving our bodies slow and sexy like caterpillars. But none of us took fashion tips from her 'cause her gear was out of this world.
There wasn't nothing that we hadn't been through, including going to the funeral for Nique whose mother pushed her off the roof after she found out her man had been fucking her daughter. I was gonna miss BK, the music, the vibe, the hot dogs, and mostly the streets. It didn't matter what no one said, Brooklyn is the shit, number one in my heart.
No one was supposed to know we were leaving. But on our last day there, Natalie, who had a way of finding out all and any dirt on anybody, said to me out of the blue, "I'm tryna get my mother to get our long distance turned back on so I can make long distance calls." When we parted, she said, "Stay real, don't switch up on us, bitch."
We left in the evening. The whole thing was casual like we were going out to dinner or some shit like that. We didn't take nothing with us 'cause Santiaga said we didn't need it.

Copyright © 1999 by Lisa Williamson P/K/A Sister Souljah

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First Chapter

Chapter One

I never liked Sister Souljah, straight up. She the type of female I'd like to cut in the face with my razor. Before I get heated just talking about her, let me make it clear who I am and where I stand. Don't go jumping to any conclusions either. All of y'all are too quick to jump to her defense without knowing what somebody up close and personal thinks. When it comes right down to it, those are the ones who really count, the people who was there, who seen it all. Hell, you can't smell nobody's breath through a camera. You almost can't even see their pimples. So you know that TV shit ain't real. Don't run ahead of me. Let me take my time and tell my story.

Brooklyn-born I don't have no sob stories for you about rats and roaches and pissy-pew hallways. I came busting out of my momma's big coochie on January 28, 1977, during one of New York's worst snowstorms. So my mother named me Winter. My father, Ricky Santiaga, was so proud of his new baby girl that he had a limo waiting to pick my moms up from the hospital. The same night I got home my pops gave me a diamond ring set in 24-karat gold. My moms said that my fingers were too small and soft to even hold a ring in place, but he insisted that he had a guy who would have it adjusted just right. It was important for me to know I deserved the best, no slum jewelry, cheap shoes, or knock-off designer stuff, only the real thing.

We lived in the projects but we were cool with that. We weren't wanting for a damn thing. I had three aunts, four uncles, and a whole slew of cousins. As far as we were concerned it was live for all of us to be chilling in the same building, or at least the next building over. We never had to worry about getting into fights because around our way we had reputation. Plus it was plain and simple common sense. If you put your hands on anybody in the family you would get jumped by the next oldest person in our family, and so on and so on. Sooner than later we didn't even have to say a word. Everybody understood that our family had the neighborhood locked down, it wasn't worth the trouble.

Our apartment in the projects was dipped. We had royal red carpets on the floors, top-of-the-line furniture, a fully loaded entertainment center, equipment, and all that good stuff. I loved my pops with a passion. He was the smoothest nigga in the world. When he came into a room he made a difference. His cologne came around the corner introducing him before you could even see him. He spoke softly, with deep seriousness. He was light-skinned, tall, with curly black hair and a fine thin mustache to match. He was medium build, definitely in shape. The thing that stood out about him was his style. His clothes were crisp-expensive. He never wore the same shirt twice. He could do it like that 'cause he was smart. He never used the drugs he sold. He collected his money on time and made examples of any fool who tried to cheat him. He had a saying: One copper penny, one finger.

All the ladies loved him but he wasn't what I would call a ladies' man. He never had no girlfriend, at least no female ever called the house trying to front on my moms. I can't recall any incidents involving other women, accusations or any uncomfortableness. He was a family man. Everybody in the whole world knew my moms was his wife, his one and only, his soft spot even. Moms and Pops had been young lovers and, unlike a whole lot of niggas, they stayed together. She was fourteen when she had me. Folks said she looked great during pregnancy and would switch her ass around the neighborhood flowing easy, like water. She would wear her fine Italian leather stiletto heels even in her seventh month. Moms had everything by the way of clothes and anything else you could think of. Her mahogany skin was smooth as a Hershey's chocolate bar. When she went anywhere she was well coordinated. If she had on a zebra skin hat, she'd sport the zebra skin pants and would have a zebra skin pattern on all ten nails. She'd even have the Victoria's Secret zebra pattern panties and camisole. What separated her from every other woman any of us knew was she just had so much class. While the others were putting their imitation leather and zebra skins on layaway, piece by piece, Momma wouldn't be caught dead without her shit perfectly arranged. By the time hoes sported their outfits all their shit was played out, straight out of style. When it came to shopping Momma had no mercy and that's the way Santiaga liked it. His woman was supposed to be the showstopper. Momma didn't work 'cause beauty, she said, was a full-time occupation that left no room for anything else. She'd sit at her vanity table for three hours making sure she positioned each extra long lash on just right. She'd argue with anyone who said she wasn't born with those lashes that framed her big, wide brown eyes that were gorgeous with or without falsies. She made it clear to me that beautiful women are supposed to be taken care of. She would whisper in my ear, "I'm just a bad bitch!"

Now a bad bitch is a woman who handles her business without making it seem like business. Only dumb girls let love get them delirious to the point where they let things that really count go undone. For example, you see a good-looking nigga walking down the avenue, you get excited. You get wet just thinking about him. You step to him, size him up, and you think, Looks good. You slide you eyes down to his zipper, check for the print. Inside you scream, Yes, it's all there! But then you realize he's not wearing a watch, ain't carrying no car keys, no jewels, and he's sporting last month's sneakers. He's broke as hell. A bad bitch realizes that she has two options: (1) She can take him home and get her groove on just to enjoy the sex and don't get emotionally involved because he can't afford her; or (2) She can walk away and leave his broke ass standing right there. Having a relationship is out. Getting emotionally involved is out. Taking him seriously is out. If a bad bitch is extra slick she can keep this guy on the side for the good sex. He then becomes a commercial to the money man who is the main program. The money man is the guy who knows how to provide, knows how to bring home the goodness and bless his woman with everything she wants. Now the money man might not be ringing any bells sexually, but if he has ends — if his pockets are heavy — a bad bitch will moan like this nigga is the original Casanova. When he's sexing her, she'll shake, pant, and cry out like he's creating orgasms as strong as ocean waves. Now Moms must have been a bad bitch because she had it both ways. She had the money man with the good looks, loyalty, and I know Pops was laying it down in the bedroom.

Moms got her hair done once every three days. The shop we went to, 'cause she always took me, was for the high rollers' girls. These were the few women in the neighborhood who are able to hook the big money fish. They all went to this shop to get their hair done, nails did, and, more importantly, to show off and update on shit going on. Earline's was where we could get our hair done while we collected information on the side.

By the time I was seven I understood the rules perfectly. Keep the family's business quiet. Most things were better left unsaid. Even though this was the high rollers' hair shop, we were clear that motherfuckers were jealous of us. My Pops's operation was steadily building. As a young guy he started off as a lookout but was so sharp that now he has organized his own thing. He has his own workers and whatnot. People knew he was headed to being the next Big Willie by his style. He was respected for his product, which was never watered down, always a fair cut for your money. So me and my moms would catch those jealous glances, but we threw those shits right back. Our attitude toward other females was: "Hey, your man works for my Pops, now bow down to the family who puts food on the table for you and yours."

Santiaga was the number one businessman in our area by the time I was thirteen, running thangs. Although he taught me never to sweat the small stuff, it seemed like every move he made he thought about carefully. I would hear his key unlocking the first door into our apartment. Then the men he was with, his workers, they would stand in the limited space between the first door and the heavy metal second door that actually led into our place, and talk. After they handled their matters you would hear the first door open, then slam again. Pops would lock it and then unlock the second door to come inside. Whatever pressure he felt, whatever weight or business he had was left in between those two doors because when he came inside he brought his sexy smile, excited eyes, and power along with him.

He would show us all love. He would have whatever any of us had asked him for in his pocket no matter how small the request, down to a Snickers bar. If any of us had a problem of any kind, we could ask him and he'd make the answer so simple that I'd wonder how I couldn't of figured it out myself.

If something was on his mind, he'd go in the back to a private room he had Woody the carpenter build and pull out his chessboard. Funny thing was, he wouldn't play with anybody, just against himself. When I'd ask him why, he'd say, "That's how I stay on top baby. I look at life from every position. I play from every side. You gotta know what each man on the board is thinking down to the littlest motherfucker like the pawn."

Now Daddy would explain that other players are quick to sacrifice or ignore the pawn, but he was too smart for that. "The pawns are my soldiers," he would say. "If I surround myself with strong soldiers, give them all a stake in the game, then they keep the hood strong and tight." He would look into my eyes as if to ask do I understand. I didn't want him to know that I dig him so much that I'd listen to him for as long as he wanted to talk, but I didn't give a fuck about a game of chess. He would break down how around our way there were always some young kids tryna "spread their wings" and test his operation. He said they mostly stupid though 'cause no smart guy is gonna try to kick in the door of the big man unless he got an extra tight, professional, strong, and ruthless crew. But every now and then some dumb-ass young kid who had seen too many Scarface-type movies will try to overtake what can only kill him. "He loses," Santiaga said, knocking the black king over on the chessboard. "He loses because he never understood the game."

The up-and-coming dealers on the block was Santiaga's number two problem. I was his number one. He loved me like crazy but was getting nervous about the way men, young and old, was checking for me. It was amazing how in one year, from age twelve to thirteen, my titties sprouted. I even had the ass to match. I don't know who was more excited, the men or me. I was walking around poking my stuff out in any direction that looked good to me. But anybody who stared my way for more than a few seconds was in danger of catching a critical beat down. Pops had already made an example of at least two niggas around my way. Santiaga sliced this one dude from his left ear to his right ear. We call that kind of cut a "hospital run." But this guy never got to go to the hospital. Santiaga let his blood gush out until Doc got to our apartment. Now Doc ain't really no doctor, he just had some medical training in the army. Santiaga calls him when he don't need the police and hospital buttin' around in his business. Well when Doc got finished with dude his cut just bubbled up all the way across his face. Everybody in the neighborhood started calling him Bubbles for that ugly scar. Bubbles's crime was looking at me with lust in his eyes while he was supposed to be installing the safe in our apartment. Now Bubbles was a walking billboard that no one is allowed to fuck with Santiaga's daughter. After that we got the second metal door installed in our apartment and none of Daddy's "workers" were ever allowed past that door again.

Now Moms thought Santiaga's ways was overboard. She told him she was just gonna get me some birth control pills and let me go, 'cause "When a woman wants to get fucked, she gets fucked. She gets fucked whether it's in a car or a closet."

Suggestions like this just got Santiaga more crazy. He made it clear to Moms, "Winter is not a woman yet. None of these lowlifes are gonna make a trick outta my flesh and blood." Pops would pull me to the side, grab my shoulders with his strong hands and firm grip, stare into my eyes, and tell me slowly, "Only a hardworking man, a sharp thinker who doesn't hesitate to do what he gotta do, to get you what you need to have, deserves you."

He repeated that lesson often. I would think to myself, Hmm, only Poppa fits that description. Now I loved Poppa but I hated the way he cock-blocked. Every teenage girl wants to cut loose and get close to the fire, but I was like a pot of boiling milk with the lid on. You know that's ready to explode and slide down the side of the pan.

So my peeps kept me busy by giving me things to do all the time. I had to watch my baby sisters Mercedes and Lexus, the twins. They was a real pain in the ass at eight months old. Then I had to look out for my other little sister Porsche, who was four. She wasn't half bad since she didn't shit all over all the time. Sometimes the three of them kids together got on my nerves so bad they almost made me want to go to school. But my policy was to go to school just enough so the authorities wouldn't kick me out. If I had a new outfit to show off or some new jewels I knew I'd get sweated for, fine, but I wasn't gonna report to school everyday like it was some type of job when they weren't even paying me for it. School was like a hustle. Teachers wanted me to come to school so they could get paid to control me. What do I get out of the deal? Enough said, I just wasn't having it.

As busy as they kept me, there was Midnight. I guess he got that name because midnight was about the only thing blacker than him. He was one of my father's workers. He was real serious like my father. He always looked like he was thinking deep thoughts and had a lot on his mind. I figured maybe he had a plan to take over the world. I liked that because he would need to own the world to win me. He never smiled. He didn't joke around like other niggas in our age group. He did his pickups and deliveries like clockwork. My father once referred to him as a strong young lieutenant. Santiaga liked him because he said he never tried to test or flex. He knew Santiaga was the boss and he was comfortable and cool with that. Midnight never attempted to skim, pay late, or run games, like some guys did when they first started out.

I liked Midnight for other reasons too. In the summertime he wore white when he played basketball. His mother, or whoever washed his clothes, must have been more handy than them happy homemakers on the TV commercials 'cause his shit was crisp. But what really got me was that black skin. It was smooth and perfect. It laid on top of his bone structure tight like Saran Wrap. His arms were cut. I could tell he lifted weights. But he wasn't all big and swollen like those little-dick assholes in the magazines. He was tall, yet medium-sized, and perfect. His muscles were defined, his veins stuck out, emphasizing his strengths. His neck was slim and strong. He would come to the park only on Sundays. I know because I was clocking him like that. He would be wearing a new sweat suit everytime. He held his money in a gold money clip. He would take the money clip, with the money neatly stacked, out of his sweatpants pocket. He'd take off his pants, stripping down to the basketball shorts he had on underneath. His powerful legs were as cut as his upper body. For this I gave him mad respect. I can't tell you how many guys I've seen with strong upper bodies and legs like a chicken. He would put that money clip on the inside of his basketball shorts and play ball. My eyes would move in and out of his structure. I couldn't wait to put my lips against his skin and maybe even suck his collarbone or something. To make the package complete, Midnight's kicks were always new and clean.

Now Midnight never paid me no mind. I wasn't worried about it though, 'cause one thing I learned from my mother is a bad bitch get what she wants if she works her shit right. Pops also taught me something useful about patience. He said sometimes a victory is sweeter when it takes a long time to carry out the plan, and you catch the person completely off guard. What I was up against was the fact that Midnight worked for my pops. So, even if he had ever considered me, he probably ruled me out. He was five years older than me. So, he might have also considered me jailbait. The worst thing about it was that I couldn't tell either way. You know how they say a person's face is a dead giveaway? Well Midnight was the opposite. His face seems serious all the time. His reactions just didn't show up. Even when he plays ball, he didn't talk trash like the other niggas. He didn't even react when they try to mess with him. He just seemed focused on the basket, made his moves, scored his jumpers, and didn't even smile when he won. At first, to get his attention I did the regular things like rocking my skirts extra mini, shortening my already short shorts, sporting halter tops and cute little metallic bras. As I got sexier, he went from looking at me almost never to never looking at me at all. While in his presence, or at least when I was in the same park he was in watching him play ball, I would try to get his attention by acting mad. I'd suck my teeth, roll my eyes at him, still nothing. So I decided to make him a long-shot project.

Meanwhile I had my own fun stuff going on. I would let niggas take me to the movies, or should I say I went to the movies with my girlfriends and met niggas there, not wanting to ruffle Santiaga's feathers by bringing a "worthless nigga" home. Sometimes we would just chill at my girl Natalie's apartment. Her moms was never home so we had free run of the place.

Getting my first sugar daddy was no problem. His name was Sterling. I met him in lower Manhattan at a grocery market when I ran in to get some Chap Stick on a fickle autumn morning. I guess my style just overwhelmed him 'cause instead of reaching into the cash register and giving me my damn change his eyes were sliding in between my breasts like he wished he could be one of my gold chains. I recognized him immediately as a sucker, somebody I could take for all he had. All his thoughts showed on his face. It was clear that I had his full attention as I gave him a blast of ghetto attitude. I put my hands on my hips, saying, "My money or your life?" He looked startled, stopped staring, and counted out my change. I laughed.

"Do you need your receipt?" he asked with his enthusiastic corny ass trying to prolong the conversation.

"If that's all you have to offer," I said with a serious look sprinkled with sexiness. He gave me my money, and cleared his throat, turned from the register with his cheap white dress shirt and two-dollar tie, and followed me as I walked toward the door. I guess he had it like that. He could walk away from the register because he was the store manager.

"So what's your name?" he asked, looking like he thought he could actually make some progress with me.

"Winter," I said, rolling my eyes with disinterest.

"You live around here?"

"Brooklyn baby!! No doubt."

The rest is history. He got paid every two weeks and so did I. He worked at the store and I worked on him. I had him buying me shit he couldn't afford. We ate at places he never knew existed. Whatever little money he took home in pay, I took my 25 percent like I was his freakin' agent or something. It worked out smooth, him living in Manhattan out of Santiaga's eyesight. Besides, the little piece of cash he provided meant a new outfit, an extra gold bangle to my collection, whatever — like mom says, you can never have too much.


Santiaga shook up what was supposed to be my sweet sixteenth with shocking news. We were all around the table. My chocolate Baskin-Robbins ice-cream cake was bombarded with small nuts and sixteen carefully placed maraschino cherries. Daddy handed me a long slim box, the kind I like because it almost always means jewelry. I tore off the gold wrapping paper and smiled wildly as I lifted my new diamond tennis bracelet off of the clean white cotton. My mother's mouth hung open as she inspected my diamonds from across the table. Even though she knew better, she was confirming that they were white, clear, and sparkled like diamonds, not cubic zirconias.

As I put the bracelet on, Santiaga handed me a birthday card. This was unusual because we weren't big on cards and poetry and shit like that in my family. As I fumbled with the catch on my bracelet, my mom opened the card, suspecting I guess that there must be some birthday money in it or something. She probably figured that if I got cash in addition to this bracelet Santiaga had gone overboard again, and would need a talking to later on. As she opened the card two Polaroid snapshots fell out and onto the table. She picked it up, twisted up her face with curiosity and said, "Baby, what is this?"

"It's our new house in Long Island," Daddy said coolly with pride and confidence. "I wanted to surprise everybody and I figured today was as good as any day. We're moving! First class baby! Only the best, top shelf for the ladies in my life." I was feeling crazy. The gold candles on my cake melted away and so did my dreams under the pressure of the flickering fire.

All I knew was the projects. It was where my friends, family, and all my great adventures were. I knew these streets like I knew the curves of my own body. I was like the princess of these alleyways, back staircases, and whatnot. What was the point of moving? Santiaga always said you gotta live where business is to avoid a hostile takeover. He said that a man gotta carry a powerful presence in his neighborhood so the small-timers didn't start itching with takeover fever. Now it was like we was cutting out. So I did something that I normally would not do. I questioned Santiaga.

"Why? What's the point? Why are we about to do something that you said we would never do?"

Santiaga simply said, "Baby girl, things is on a new level. It was cool to rest my head here in the past. But my business is bigger and better than ever. I can't let them get too familiar with the routine. I gotta switch up, keep 'em guessing." Me, Momma, and Porsche were all seated stiff and silent. The babies didn't know what the fuck was going on. Surprise swirled around, strangling us. He continued, "Everyone can't handle my success. Eventually some fool will snap out of order and try to bring it to me by hurting one of my girls." His long finger pointed at us. His eyes locked into each of our eyes individually. He was making good sense but I was still vexed. I figured, yeah sounds good and all but I'm not down with the idea of running from a fight. It's just straight up not Santiaga style.

Santiaga picked up on my expression quickly and said, "Now you know I don't run from no war. I'll take on anybody who wants to bring it to me! But what I'm not having is nobody fucking with my ladies. If they want war, let it be man to man, and only the men." It seemed like Santiaga knew something he wasn't telling us. He was dead serious and I knew that his statements were coming from somewhere. "This place," he added, holding up the picture, his finger pointing out the mansion, "this is a safe place. Man, wait till you see it. Shit, is laid out so nice it's like heaven."


The rules for our move out of Brooklyn were clear and nonnegotiable. Don't talk about it. We knew no matter how silent we were, there would still be chatter. My mother's brothers and sisters, and their husbands and boyfriends, who all worked for Poppa, would definitely have something to say. That didn't matter, Santiaga said, "I'll take care of everything. Just don't add to it."

In my last few days everything was moving like in a slow-motion film. Shit that stank, stank more. Anything sweet seemed even sweeter. I spent all my extra time with my girls. We were mad tight, many of us born and raised in this same spot. Take me and Natalie for instance, we did everything together. We even got our cherries busted together and lied to each other about how good the first time felt, when the truth was those big dicks ripped our tight little twelve-year-old tunnels apart. We fought over whose date was finer, even though Jamal and Jacob were twins! But I knew Jamal was cuter 'cause he had a fine black mole on his right cheek and that shit was sexy. Natalie said Jamal was the one who made my titties grow, 'cause after me and him started "getting down" I went from flat-chested to all eyes on me!

When my girl Toshi had beef with these chicks from around the corner, me, Nat, Zakia, Simone, Monique, Reese, all of us took off our jewels, greased up our faces, braided down our hair, and had our razors under our tongues ready to go to war. Before blows could be thrown or razors spitted out the big doofy girl from the other crew who was s'pose to scare us, shouted out, "Yo, that's Santiaga's daughter. You crazy, I ain't fucking with her." Then the chicks we was supposed to be fighting started fighting each other 'cause some of them wanted to fight and some of them didn't. So we started running toward them. We charged thoses bitches and they flew. We ran till we got tired and cracked up laughing at how stupid they were. I know one thing, they never fucked with Toshi again.

We blew trees together then got so hungry we ate four family-size bags of nacho cheese Doritos and watched our girl Asia, the only chubby one in our crew, throw up from the bellyache. Hell, we went from patent leather shoes at five-year-old birthday parties, to matching tomboy outfits and brawls, to fighting over whose titties were bigger.

Chanté, who was older than us, taught us all the sexual positions. She let us watch while she got down with boys when her mother was at work. She liked the idea of being our "teacher." She even taught us how to suck a dick.

We had our first beef patties and coco bread, bun'n cheese and ginger beer together 'cause our girl Carmen was from Jamaica and used to take us to the spot where the dreds chilled out. She taught us how to dance like the Jamaican winders by moving our bodies slow and sexy like caterpillars. But none of us took fashion tips from her 'cause her gear was out of this world.

There wasn't nothing that we hadn't been through, including going to the funeral for Nique whose mother pushed her off the roof after she found out her man had been fucking her daughter. I was gonna miss BK, the music, the vibe, the hot dogs, and mostly the streets. It didn't matter what no one said, Brooklyn is the shit, number one in my heart.

No one was supposed to know we were leaving. But on our last day there, Natalie, who had a way of finding out all and any dirt on anybody, said to me out of the blue, "I'm tryna get my mother to get our long distance turned back on so I can make long-distance calls." When we parted, she said, "Stay real, don't switch up on us, bitch."

We left in the evening. The whole thing was casual like we were going out to dinner or some shit like that. We didn't take nothing with us 'cause Santiaga said we didn't need it.

Copyright © 1999 by Lisa Williamson P/K/A Sister Souljah

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 5
( 1769 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(1561)

4 Star

(136)

3 Star

(43)

2 Star

(18)

1 Star

(11)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 1773 Customer Reviews
  • Posted January 15, 2011

    I Also Recommend:

    Highly Recommeneded- A Must Read!!!

    OMG!!! I have never read a book that made you feel like you was one of the character in the book. I read this book cover to cover in three days and was upset when I was finished because I wanted to read more. Sister Souljah did an excellent job with giving full details of Winter's life from start to finish. While reading this book I felt like I was Winter and every emotion she put on paper I felt through her words. I feel like this is a good book for every teenage girl to read. I feel that at least 85% of our teenage girl will relate to Winter and learn from this book. I feel that Sister Souljah wrote this book to show our teenage girl that sometime fast life is not the right life to live and that you have other choices in life that you can choose besides falling into the traps of the ghetto. I was very informed and reminder of my childhood growing up in the streets of New York. I recommend that every mother read this book with their daugther and have some bonding time and talk about the book.

    36 out of 37 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 23, 2009

    Definitely a page turner

    I really enjoyed The Coldest Winter Ever. It really shows that crime doesn't pay. Family values are very important and when there are no family values life is much harder. Winter was a stubborn, ignorant, spoiled teen who surrounded herself with the same type of people. When she did find a positive person to guide her she never took the advice. Definitely an eye opener for those who think hustling is a great way of life. I enjoyed reading about Winter learning the hard way.

    13 out of 14 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted December 31, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    A GHETTO CLASSIC!

    I READ A LOT. AND I READ ALL TYPES OF BOOKS, AND THERE IS NO QUESTION THAT THIS IS BY FAR THE BEST FICTION BOOK I HAVE EVER READ. I'VE READ IT TWICE. SO BELIEVABLE, THE CHARACTERS ARE SO RICH IN DESCRIPTION, AND A DEFINITE PAGE TURNER. I AM NOT A FAN OF SISTAH SOLDIER AND HER MILITANT NONSENSE BUT I LOVE THIS BOOK WITH A PASSION 5 STARS.

    11 out of 12 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 20, 2004

    Poorly written, badly constructed

    This novel might have been lauded for its 'raw power' or 'stark images', but it is poorly written and of utterly poor construction with no well-developed theme and little, if any, acceleration or climax. If you are a real reader, don't waste your time on this one.

    9 out of 15 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 21, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Still One of My Favorite Books

    I read this book when I was in high school so like in 2000 I remember my whole family literally taking turns to read this book, and being so inpatient for the other person to hurry up and finish it. It grabbed all of our attention and we all loved it. It is one of the most moving books I read still getchills when I read it. A must read

    7 out of 9 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 30, 2012

    TMI

    I have just purchased this book and can't wait to read it. However, some of these reviews provided way too much info, giving away key parts in the story. For those of you who write reviews, please keep in mind that others have not yet read it, and it's extremely frustrating to read about a key part of a story in a review. Please just review the book without giving away the plot line or any key things that happen. For a new reader of the book, it's akin to reading the ending before the beginning. Thanks!

    5 out of 7 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 26, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Disappointing to say the least. Way too much hype!

    I wanted to read this book ever since was in the 9th grade, but the public libraries never carried them, and i was to dirt poor and cheap to purchase a book. I seen all my friends reading this book, and giving it high praises so the first books on my wish list was Sister souljah's.

    I am 22 now and i just finished reading it and honestly, was a bit disappointed. The characters were so unloveable an story was unrealistic, and i felt no sympathy for any of them. Winter, the main character was hard to love, sympathize, or even remotely relate to. The story is cliche, over the top at times, the writing was choppy, and the only good thing was the ending, which is the only reason i gave the book its extra star. part 2 never came out, and i think Souljah needs to get up on it.

    This book would've been great at 14, when my mind was still young and never read a book with curses, but not at 22. it just fell flat. i can't believe ppl are giving this sht 5 stars!

    Don't waste your money for the hardcover, not really worth it, but it was a fast read, and it was funny at times.

    5 out of 12 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 29, 2006

    Interesting read but not convincing enough

    This book displays a wrong impression. This book is disgusting and degrading. It was all about a conceited girl who only wanted money, the best things, and sex. For a book with this much publicity I expected much, much more. Nonetheless, this book does represent how harsh life can be. On the other hand, this book could have been way better.

    5 out of 10 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 14, 2012

    The best

    I love this book.. i have read it like 5 times and im always clued like i never read it before

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 15, 2003

    Why all the fuss

    I'm still not quite sure what all the fuss was about. I read this book and was a little dissapointed. I guess if the target reader for this novel is 16, then its definitely a home run, but for anyone in their early 20's, its a strike out. The main character's mentality was not at all realistic. The strory seemed overly predictable. I could guess what was going to happen in the next chapter before finishing the one I was on. It was not a complete let down, however and I could see myself giving Ms. Souljah another chance by reading another of her novels

    4 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 22, 2008

    I know what all the hype was about....

    The book was okay it was hardly the best book that I have ever read! I had some interesting points I guess, but overall I was not impressed.

    3 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 23, 2013

    Anonymous....February 23, 2013

    I think this book is great! This book relates to a lot of our youth today. I read this book when I was in my teens and I am now 35 with an 18 year old daughter who is about to venture off to college. I am reading some reviews that state that this story and characters are so unrealistic and this disturbs me. Are people that ignorant that they haven't paid attention to their urban neighborhoods in their city? Have you not watched the news or actually really try to know what goes in your city? These chatacters do EXIST!!!! The characters in this book do have a face but because some of you haven't come close to being around this enviroment, or actually knowing someone that has lived a gangster lavish life....they are so quick to say it doesn't exist or its not real. I loved this book when I was a teenager and as an adult! I do believe as a parent that if my child was to read this book I would discuss the book with him or her. From where I come from I have seen empires crumble and kids lose out on everything. I have met girls like Winter before...so people to be so harsh to say this is so unreal and they hate Winter and this and that is being very judgemental because they have never walked in her shoes or can't relate is ignorant. Oh and I don't think Winter was ever be liked.....lol I laugh because I see posts like she so selfish and money hungry. Uhh...she was built that way from birth, her father and mother messed her up from birth. Yes she should figure it out in life lessons but her whole family was taken from her in a snap of a finger and she try to survive the only way she knew how. So its ok to not like the character but remember the facts and how the character was created.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 10, 2013

    I Also Recommend:

    This is one of my favorite books, it is a must read. I finished

    This is one of my favorite books, it is a must read. I finished this book in 2 days! I couldn't put it down. Great read trust!

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted October 10, 2011

    Omg

    The book was good, but i dont like the way it ended. Left a bad taste in my mouth

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 28, 2011

    Great book!

    one of the best book I've ever read and I've read countless books!

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 25, 2014

    Couldn't put it down

    I wish there was a movie made out of this book ??

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 28, 2013

    I hated this entire boom

    I would recommend this book to anyone. The fact that Sister Souljiah writes herself into the book as the only positive female character is arrogant and pompous. In her attempt to uplift black women she is insulting and plays into negative stereotypes of black women.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 29, 2013

    This book was okay. I bought this book about a year ago because

    This book was okay. I bought this book about a year ago because everyone was saying its a good. I finally decided to read this book last week. I was hoping by the middle of the book Winter was going to change her attitude and worry about money, clothes, and etc but that was wishful thinking. Overall this book was a little bit overrated. I definitely read better books.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 7, 2013

    Awsome book

    Great Book....could not put it down!!!!!...

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 31, 2011

    Polly Pocket turtle

    I read it a few years ago, thinking it would be a really awesome book, that would keep me hooked and give me a whole new perspective on life, or at least something new to think about. It had been recommended to me dozens of times. However while i read it i kept waiting to get into it more, feel the intensity of it, as other books have captured me (like Native Son which i reccomend!) but it just didnt do it for me. It seemed a bit overrated. I see why some people like it so much though, but...meh. I plan on reading it again another day to see if i feel differently, but as of right now...what's the big deal? her book "No Disrespect" is alot better.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 1773 Customer Reviews

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