The Urban Sista Review: Playing My Mother's Blues / The Coldest Winter Ever

Back again with another book review. Until someone out there publishes me, I'm going to express my views and opinions of the books out there -- the good, the bad and the stupid. Luckily, this book, Playing My Mother's Blues by Valerie Wilson Wesley, was not too bad.

I finally finished the book this week after starting it about six weeks ago. It didn't take that long because the book was dry or stupid, but because it's hard as heck to find time to read. This past week, I've been on the bus and subway non-stop, so I need something to do to stop the crazy folk in the TTC from conversing with me.

Anyway, to the story. The plot revolves around Maria Dells and her two daughters, Rose and Dani. Maria had run off with some no-good scoundrel, Durrell Alexander, when her daughters were younger, leaving them to be raised by their rich and influential father, Hilton Dells and his sister Lucille.

Now, Maria, after a short love affair with Durrell and many drugged out nights and parties, killed Durrell and is sent to prison.

Fast-forward to today. Hilton Dells is on his death bed, Dani married with a child and Rose is mothering, generous Rose... but it can't just be like that. No one really accepts how much Maria's leaving affected the family until Hilton dies. Suddenly, we learn about the cracks in everyone's armour: Dani has been cheating on her cheating husband and is planning to leave him. Rose is in the arms of a married man because she just can't let anyone get too close to her. Lucille is not the battle axe auntie, but a loving woman who gave up her life to raise her brother's children.

At Hilton's memorial service, Maria comes back into their lives and we find out what the truth is about Durrell's death and how that death set them all on their individual life paths.

Honestly, it took a bit to get into. While I was reading, I was like, 'ok... so?' I didn't feel the connection between myself and any of the characters until Hilton died. I guess that was the author holding back. She didn't want to give us everything about the characters until the scene was set.

I like jumping right into a story, but I can respect a nicely crafted story if the author gets to the point and the point is a good one. The author made me wait -- I don't know if it was worth the wait, but at least she delivered on an interesting, sometimes too jumpy, plot.

Ultimately, I found out what really happened in Maria's love affair with Durrell and how his killing was so integral to her life, but to the lives of her daughter.

I wouldn't say it's the best book that I've ever read, but it was good enough to keep my attention.

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With Nas' baby momma (read a chapter compliments of Crunk & Disorderly) coming out with a new tell-all piece of smut and Karinne Steffans is now a New York Times bestselling author with Confessions of a Video Vixen (which I'll read if someone will lend it to me 'cause there is no way in HELL that I'm going to put down hard earned cash on that tripe), the mother of street lit has got to be reviewed.

The Coldest Winter Ever, by Sister Souljah, isn't a tell-all like the two I mentioned, but it was certainly the start of this genre. Unfortunately, The Coldest Winter Ever, which is a wicked book, spawned copycats which spawned this crap of the hoochie spilling her guts about who she had and calling it literature.

Shame on y'all publishers! When folks are trying to create decent books, you will publish any piece of crap describing how some girl is getting laid by celebrities across the States. Chupse.

But to the review: Winter Santiaga is a bad bitch in her own words. She and her father, drug dealer, Ricky Santiaga, run things in their Brooklyn neighbourhood. Winter is the princess of projects and you better do as she wants or all hell is going to break loose.

Ricky, not wanting his family to be in the crossfire of some underhanded criminal dealings brewing in the projects, shuttles Winter, her mom and her sisters, the twins, Mercedes and Lexus (ghettofab, folks, ghettofab) off to the 'burbs. Winter is vex. How is she gonna get down with her people if she's in Long Island?

Well, she doesn't have to wait long to get back to Brooklyn. Her mother is shot in a drive by and the Feds catch Ricky and Winter has to show everyone that she's a survivor.

Honestly, I love this book. I love the realness of the story. I'm saying, how real do I know it really is? I've never grew up in the project with a drug dealer dad, but Sister Souljah definitely made me feel like I was an insider into Winter's life and the life of bad gyals all around who are ready to slice someone with a boxcutter.

It's a cautionary tale of living the high life with no respect for self or the law and that even if you're the baddest bitch, you can and will come to a bad end if you don't get your life straight.

I haven't read another street lit book that captured the essence of the street... or a tell all book that just didn't smell like trash and corruption from the moment I flipped through it. The problem I have with many of the new street lit stories/tell all bios are that: a) they aren't well-written; b) they are out and out smut with no redeeming qualities; and c) they don't emphasize the cautionary part of the tale.

But they sell, that's why they are out there. If not one cared who Karrine Steffans screwed or who screwed her (literally or figuratively), we wouldn't have these books.

Happy reading!

False airs: I’m not fond of pretentious people

I am back. I am! Work, sigh, is keeping me away from the blog. But I will get more regular, trust :)

I consider myself a pretty laid-back kinda chick.

Some things people do annoy me to death and make me want to pimp slap them into submission.

Other things make me throw them a side-eye glance and shrug my shoulders. One thing that makes me seethe with anger and annoyance are people who think they are better, greater or smarter than the rest of us. The ones who wear their ‘false airs’ like a badge of honour.

Over the years I’ve learned a few things about people in general:

• Some people truly believe their own hype, thus making them think that they are all that. Although most of them don’t know a damned thing, but, of course believe they know it all.
• Some people want you to believe their hype to make them feel better about their station in life. A lot of times, these people don’t know a damned thing either, but they’ve managed to fool a lot of people with their ‘false airs’.
• Some people are downright igrunt (yep, that ain’t a typo, that’s how I wanted to spell it).

It’s a damned shame that more people aren’t transparent and just themselves. No, they have to go on about what they know, who they know and how much they know about everything.

There is a particular party promoter in Toronto whose e-mails, laden with adjectives, adverb, synonyms and all kinds of things is quite pretentious. Pretentious to the point that the so-called ‘beautiful’ people who he’s catering to can’t be bothered to go to a jam because everyone’s trying too hard to be all that.

Granted, I did attend a party this summer and it was nice. I think, more than anything, having Starting from Scratch deejay was more the reason for the amicable crowd than this dude pretending that he’s the representative of the upscale, sexy people.

And there are the people who can tell you about the latest couture outfit, hottest club or restaurant or the do’s and don’ts of networking, but chew with their mouths open.

Chupse.

False airs are not cool. You don’t have to pretend that you’re the s**t and try to make other look/sound/feel foolish. That’s igrunt behaviour right there.

So if you're getting uncomfortable or agitated reading this blog entry that because you are a pretentious fool. Stop it. It's not cool and it's annoying as hell and someone will call you out just now.

On another note, I read that 60 Minutes reporter, Ed Bradley, died of leukemia. I enjoy watching 60 Minutes, I think they do a good job reporting the issues, but I was enormously proud, especially as a child, to see a Black man doing his thing. He was a great journalist and will be truly missed.

RIP, Mr. Bradley.