    
H_i_c_k_s_o_n
Newbie Poster
Username: H_i_c_k_s_o_n
Post Number: 28
Registered: 05-2006
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Wednesday, February 07, 2007 - 09:54 am: | 
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AND GOD CREATED WOMAN. A GHETTOHEAT® PRODUCTION.
A •••••, A WHORE, A BASKET CASE AND A DYKE!
AND GOD CREATED WOMAN, a sophisticated, provocative story that chronicles the evolutionary journey of four flawed African-American women, as they overcome their individual struggles, and survive to become beautiful and stronger. Meet the four feisty, fascinating females:
Tristan, a beautiful, successful, financial guru who’s emotionally bankrupt: “Men call me a •••••! Because when it comes to business, I’m a man-eater.”
Mekka, the bold, sexy, exotic dancer who’s a single-mother of two: “Some people call me a hoe because I strip for niggas and hustle for cash.”
Shawn, a neurotic, Afrocentric, neo-soul goddess, who’s an elementary school teacher with substance abuse issues: “Some people call me desperate. The truth is, I’m a basket case, a borderline alcoholic; I hate being by myself…”
Melanie, the cool, sassy, hardcore “‘round-the-way girl” with a sexual identity crisis: “I can see that he’s trying to figure out whether I’m a girl or a guy. It’s not easy to tell.”
AND GOD CREATED WOMAN is a ground-breaking tale of perseverance, filled with many moral messages. Taking readers on an emotional journey with enticing plots, twists and turns, Tristan, Mekka, Shawn and Melanie are forced to realize the true essence and beauty of a woman.
Excerpts from AND GOD CREATED WOMAN by MIKA MILLER
A GHETTOHEAT® PRODUCTION
MEKKA
Some people call me a hoe because I strip for niggas and hustle for cash.
Yeah, I turn tricks.
I tell niggas, “If the price is right, then the deal is real.” My momma used to say, “As long as you got a pussy, you sittin’ on a goldmine. Never give your shit away for free.”
If that means I’m a hoe, so be it!
None of these bitches pays my bills or puts food on my mutha…fuckin’ table, so •••• ‘em!
God didn’t give me the type of brains where I can understand all that “technical” book shit. In elementary school, I was never good at math and, to tell the truth, I was never that good at readin’ either.
It’s not like I didn’t try.
It’s just that, when it came to school, nothin’ really registered. In high school, I tried to learn the secretarial trade. I figured that if I had some sort of technical skill, that I could at least get a halfway decent gig after I graduated. Well, it turns out that typin’ and shorthand was just another thing that I failed at.
So bein’ somebody’s secretary was out of the question.
With no real education or skill, I had to settle for minimum wage jobs. My first job was workin’ as a maid at a five-star hotel. After about two weeks, I got tired of cleanin’ after rich bitches that shitted all over the toilet seats, and hid bloody tampons all over the goddamn place!
And I wasn’t ‘bout to work in nobody’s fast-food restaurant. So I had to come up with a new plan. And that’s when I met this f-i-n-e-ass, Puerto Rican muthafucka by the name of Ricky.
Ricky was a straight-up thug. He had tattoos all across his chest and stomach like Tupac and shit. When I met Ricky, I had two kids. I was single, workin’ my ass off as a hostess in a restaurant and braidin’ hair on the side.
I was finally maintainin’, you know, gettin’ money. But I was always workin’, so I didn’t have no time to enjoy my kids or my money.
Ricky came on the scene and promised me all kinds of shit. He was like, “Baby, you ain’t gotta work that hard, why don’t you lemme take care o’ you and nem kids.”
Ricky had my head gassed up, for real!
Plus he was layin’ the pipe on the regular. Fuckin’ me real good wit’ his fine ass. So one night, after Ricky got finished eatin’ my cooch, he was like, “Baby, I’ma take you to Philadelphia wit’ me. You an’ the kids can come wit’ me, and I’ll hook ya’ll up wit’ errythang.”
Me, bein’ naive, I followed his fine ass all the way to Philly and shit, and the nigga started trippin’! Beatin’ me up, knockin’ me all upside my head, accusin’ me of cheatin’...which I wasn’t. Ricky started kickin’ my ass to the point that I was too ashamed to go to work with black eyes and busted lips, and I eventually got fired.
Long story short. After a while, I finally had enough. I packed me and my kids up and went to a shelter. I didn’t know no fuckin’ body, I didn’t know shit about Philadelphia—all I knew that I was broke and I needed a place to stay for me and my kids.
So I went to the welfare office….
TRISTAN
Men call me a •••••!
Because when it comes to business, I’m a man-eater. My mind thinks faster than theirs, my competitive edge is sharper than theirs, my will is stronger than theirs.
Men call me a •••••.
Because I am a machine—I seek and destroy the competition. I close the million-dollar deals. I call the shots.
Men call me a •••••.
Because I’m not a traditional woman, I don’t fit into their mold. I don’t cook, I don’t clean and I don’t take their mess. I go where I want to go, I do what I want to do, and I say whatever it is that I want say...all without the assistance, or permission, from any man. And they can’t stand it.
So they call me a •••••….
I say, if the best word that men can conjure up to antagonize me with is “•••••”, then I’ll be that…we all know that obedient and docile women are never the kind to make history.
I used to take offense to the word “•••••”, but now...humph...I take it as the highest compliment. Do you know what I tell them? I tell them “•••••” stands for: “Being In Total Control of Herself.” After all, with my high-end, six-figure salary, I can afford to be a “•••••”! I can also afford my newly-renovated condominium on Rittenhouse Square, my summer home in the Hamptons, my lodge in Namibia, my chauffeur-driven Bentley, and my Gucci, glitz and glamorous lifestyle.
The stigma of a being labeled a ••••• is clearly a double standard. Why is it that every time a woman, such as myself, climbs the ladder of success, stands at the top of the financial hierarchy, and makes a name for herself, without taking shit from any man, she has to be considered a •••••?
If the aforementioned attributes is what qualifies someone as being a “•••••”, then I must pose this question, is billionaire, real estate developer, Donald Trump a •••••? Is rebel and gazillionaire, Richard Branson, owner of Virgin Airlines a •••••? Was oil industrialist and investor, John D. Rockefeller a •••••? If not, then why me?
Oh well, no sense in losing sleep over it. Que sera sera.
I can only be me.
I have always grabbed life, and men, by the balls. Men may not like me, but they will respect me. What men fail to realize is that I didn’t always have it like this.
I started out as a stockbroker. I got my Series 7 license while I was at Harvard Business School. When I graduated, with an MBA, my first job was at Merrill Lynch in Manhattan.
I remember the first day I’d walked onto the New York Stock Exchange trading floor. I was meek, skinny, and nervous like a little baby bird, walking out into a sea of vultures and buzzards. The energy was chaotic—men yelling, phones ringing, ticker symbols changing frantically. I was being pushed, poked and prodded, bombarded, elbowed and shoved, until I found myself standing smack dab in the center of the trading room floor.
I felt like the room was spinning.
I felt lost.
And abandoned.
But most of all, I felt powerless.
I went through my first day without making one transaction. At the end of the day, my boss, Donny, took me to dinner. I’ll never forget it.
He told me that, “The trading floor is a ‘man’s world’, maybe you should rethink your role.” Donny also told me, in so many words that, I was too “pretty” for that line of work. He meant it as a compliment, but I’d interpreted his statement as an insult.
MELANIE
I never cared much for dick.
Pussy has always been my thang!
When I was thirteen, there were two dykes that lived on my block. At the time, I didn’t know they were dykes; I didn’t even know what the word “dyke” meant. All I thought was that, the two ladies, who were “roommates”, lived across the street.
One was named Miss Tanya; the other, Miss Gloria. Miss Gloria was the pretty one, not that Miss Tanya wasn’t pretty, it’s just that, Miss Gloria had a more conventional type beauty: pretty face, pretty smile and long, pretty hair. Tonya, well, she was a bit rough around the edges, but back then, so was I.
Miss Tanya wore baggy clothes, like me. She wore her hair in cornrows, like mine (before I chopped all my hair off), and Miss Tanya had a swagger in the way she walked, like me.
Miss Tanya walked like a man.
And talked like a man.
She was confident, and strutted like a peacock. Miss Tanya always wore Dickies work suits and denim coveralls.
Miss Gloria was more dainty and feminine.
She shimmied when she walked, kinda like Jackee did on the TV show, 227; always wearing tight sweaters and painted on Sassoon jeans.
Miss Gloria always smelled like fancy perfume.
Miss Tanya always smelled like motor oil.
Miss Gloria hosted Tupperware parties.
Miss Tanya worked as a janitor at Temple University, who also drank Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer.
Miss Gloria liked to drink hot cocoa with marshmallows and eat iced apple pie a la mode. That’s the one thing that she and I had in common. Now, come to think of it, that’s probably why we bonded so quickly.
When “the dykes” first moved on the block, it was wintertime. I remember because, three weeks after they moved in we had this huge snowstorm, and the block was snowed in. School was closed, so my sister, Tristan and I were stuck at home, while my dad braved the weather and went to work at the hospital.
I got up early that morning, threw on my rainbow-colored snowsuit, and raced outside to make some dough; shoveling out sidewalks, stoops and walkways for the folks on the block. It snowed for two weeks straight, so I made plenty of holiday dough that year; not to mention the fact that I got cool with most of the neighbors, especially with Miss Gloria….
Whenever Miss Tanya was home, she always shoveled her own walkway, but there were those rare occasions that she had to work, and I would step in and “fill her shoes”.
On those days, I always saved “the dykes’” house for last, because Miss Gloria tipped the best, and always made me come inside for hot cocoa and apple pie when I was done. We’d also sit in her living room and listen to albums. Miss Gloria and I would dance and lip sync, or play cards until it was time for me to go home for lunch.
I loved those snow days.
Soon, the winter season went away, and spring appeared. Shoveling snow transformed into mowing lawns, and in the fall, mowing lawns turned into raking leaves. It didn’t really matter what the season was, Miss Gloria would always invite me in….
SHAWN
Some people call me desperate. The truth is, I’m a basket case, a borderline alcoholic; I hate being by myself and my luck with men is shitty.
I’m clutching my sleek, silver cell phone in the palm of one hand, and a scotch on the rocks in the other. I want to call Mike, but I’m trying to muster up enough will power to sustain the urge.
What did I do that was so wrong that would make him not want to talk to me anymore?
I scan the room to ensure that none of my colleagues are around to witness my drunken, self-induced pity party.
It’s happy hour at Zanzibar Blue, the premiere venue for world-renowned live jazz music and fine dining, located along the prestigious Avenue of the Arts. It’s an upscale restaurant with an intimate atmosphere, where corporate types go to unwind after work.
I sit alone at a table for two, within the semi-private topside dining room, and I wonder what Mike is doing now…
He hasn’t answered my chirps since I told him about those dreams I’ve been having about being pregnant. Shit, Mike knew that he was taking a chance by sleeping with me without a condom. If he thought that I was a slut, then Mike would have never taken it there.
Right?
…I mean, one minute he was talking marriage, the next minute Mike’s acting as if I don’t exist, just because I told him about my pregnancy dreams.
He still hasn’t called me….
I’ve even written Mike a letter…or two...or three, and he won’t even respond to that.
I don’t understand why Mike’s tripping.
I cooked breakfast for him, wrote him poetry, and even bought Mike a shit load of clothes.
Why won’t he talk to me?
…What did I do wrong?
I let Mike •••• me the same day we’d met, and he was sprung! Talking about, I’m so sexy this, I’m so pretty that, blah-blah-blah, now, he won’t even talk to me.
I just have to try harder and make Mike realize how much he needs me in his life. I have to make him understand that were good together.
Why can’t Mike see that?
…All I want is to be happy. I want to be in love, and I want someone to love me the way Allen Payne loved Jada Pinkett in Jason’s Lyric. How he took her out on picnics, washed Jada’s feet, made butt-naked love to her in the grass, and was romantic and gentle—Allen worshiped her. I want Mike to want me the same way.
Why does this always happen to me?
Why? Why? Why?
I’m a beautiful person.
Right?
…I mean, I deserve to be loved. I’ll make Mike see. If I’m pregnant, he’ll have to take care of his responsibilities. Then Mike will understand that this is a blessing.
Maybe I ought to call him now.
Mike has to answer sooner or later. If I’m pregnant, he’s gonna have to face me eventually.
•••• Mike!
•••• me.
Why does this always happen to me?
I dial his number and Mike’s machine immediately picks up. His prerecorded message plays: “Hey, yo, what up? I’m not available at the moment. Leave me a message and I’ll holla back. Or hit me up on my two-way. You know the deal.”
B-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-p!
I whisper into the phone. All the while, I’m checking the door for any signs of someone who could bust me.
“Um, Mike. It’s Shawn. I just wanted you to know that I’m fine. I had another dream last night about the baby. It was a boy, and he looked just like you.
“Just because I might be pregnant, doesn’t mean you have to treat me this way…I love you…I love you Mike. We may have only known each other for a month, but I do love you. You’ll see...please call me.
“I, um…wrote you a letter. You should get it tomorrow. I’ll be home all day tomorrow because it’s Saturday, and I haven’t made plans. Stop by if you want to—”
“’CAUSE I’M A WOMAN—PHENOMENALLY. PHENOMENAL WOMAN, THAT’S ME!”
MIKA MILLER is a native of Philadelphia, who’s a loving mother, a conscientious novelist and an extraordinary woman. A savvy entrepreneur who wore many hats in the stringent world of corporate America, specializing in the areas of retail, corporate, and municipal finance, she’s now pursuing her career as a full-time writer at GHETTOHEAT®.
In between juggling motherhood and enjoying family life, while being a lover of the Arts and crafting her own creative works, MIKA MILLER also devotes her time empowering women worldwide through an organization called Phenomenal Woman; assisting in healing and rebuilding the lives of women, spiritually, emotionally and financially.
AND GOD CREATED WOMAN is MIKA MILLER’s debut novel, in which she’s currently penning the sequel.
To mail comments or questions to MIKA MILLER, send all correspondence to:
GHETTOHEAT®
P.O. BOX 2746
NEW YORK, NY 10027
ATTENTION: MIKA
or e-mail her at: MIKA@GHETTOHEAT.COM
AND GOD CREATED WOMAN by MIKA MILLER in stores February 22nd!!!
GHETTOHEAT.COM
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