Work Hard & Treat People Right

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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. 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 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.

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. 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. 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. 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. Sometimes the three of them kids together got on my nerves so bad they almost made me want to go to school. 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? 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 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 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. 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. 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 sweat pants pocket. His powerful legs were as cut as his upper body. For this I gave him mad respect. 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. Now Midnight never paid me no mind. 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.

Well Midnight was the opposite. His face seems serious all the time. 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. So I decided to make him a long-shot project. Meanwhile I had my own fun stuff going on. 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 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 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. The rest is history. He got paid every two weeks and so did I. He worked at the store and I worked on him. We ate at places he never knew existed.

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.

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. 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? I wanted to surprise everybody and I figured today was as good as any day. 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. Now it was like we was cutting out. So I did something that I normally would not do. I questioned Santiaga. 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.

Me, Momma, and Porsche were all seated stiff and silent. Surprise swirled around, strangling us. 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. If they want war, let it be man to man, and only the men. 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. The rules for our move out of Brooklyn were clear and nonnegotiable. We knew no matter how silent we were, there would still be chatter. 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! 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.

So we started running toward them. We charged those 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.

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. She taught us how to dance like the Jamaican winders by moving our bodies slow and sexy like caterpillars. I was gonna miss BK, the music, the vibe, the hot dogs, and mostly the streets. No one was supposed to know we were leaving. We left in the evening. The whole thing was casual like we were going out to dinner or some shit like that.

Oohs and aahs were the only sounds anybody could hear as my three little sisters were completely won over by the drive through the fancy big-money Long Island neighborhoods.

The way I figured it they were young so they were quick to betray Brooklyn. The huge doors to our new home looked more expensive than our entire old apartment. The warmth in the house invited us in, yet and still Santiaga lit the fireplace. More like a museum, there was enough space in this joint to fit seven or so families.

It was so wide we could even park our cars indoors if we wanted. The floors were made of white marble, huge three foot by three foot squares, to hell with tiles and linoleum.

Momma sprawled out on top of the white mink rug that Poppa had laid out in front of the fireplace. The way she sunk into that fur and the way her eyes were twice their normal size made me know we were here to stay.

For an entire month we went through catalogs and magazines, mail-ordered shit, and received deliveries that Santiaga arranged. Santiaga was so live that he had a guy who could make whatever he wanted to happen, happen. Designers, carpenters, locksmiths, tailors, you name it, they came when he called. Although I wanted to be in Brooklyn, I could see that this is the way a man like Santiaga is supposed to live. But those slim corridors in the Brooklyn projects—where the smell of fried chicken collided with the smell of codfish and ackee, then got drowned out by the smell of liquor—still had my name on it.

The silence in the Long Island mansion was killing me. The reality was that for the most part, in this area where we lived, nothing jumped off, period! The whole idea of next-door neighbors was dead.

Forget borrowing a cup of sugar, a few cigarettes, or whatever. When I registered at the new school I knew that I would be spending even less time there than I had at my other school. There was just nothing live about it. By this time everybody is all paired off, grouped up, friendships cemented. Now every girl needs company. Trying to figure out how to meet a young nigga out here was like a fucking brainteaser.

Here I could put on a Chanel suit, stand on the corner, and meet nothing but the wind and maybe even get a ticket for loitering. He promised Mom she was next in line to get her car.

I was sure that after her car came mine, but who knew how long that was gonna take. Santiaga had to hook everything up just right so as not to bring too much attention on himself with too many big purchases. After a while, me and my moms were going stir crazy.

But we were the only ones disappointed. Even the twins were having a ball because they had plenty of space to tear up in. At the rate they were moving, we joked that our part-time housekeeper, a little Spanish woman named Magdalena, would be quitting any minute now.

I need my family to share in what you have given us. Once she lured him into the bedroom she would get what she wanted. Soon Santiaga agreed to allow Mommy to throw regular Saturday night parties. Invitations were limited to carefully selected friends and family.

Santiaga spared them no luxury. They ate like pigs, drank the liquor from our bar, and powdered their noses with the cane available in candy dishes usually reserved for jelly beans. They partied every weekend and stayed at our house so late that some of them were at our breakfast table on Sunday morning. These parties excited my mother and added the necessary spice to our new boring Long Island life.

She got to show off her house, furniture, and all that good shit. Nobody from our neighborhood could lie and say that they had what we had. These parties did nothing for me though. Somehow he thought he treated me better than any man claiming to love me would.

So, that should be enough for me. First I found the bus stop. That may sound simple but believe me it took real detective work. It was about a mile and a half from our house. I took the bus to the mall. I cased the place just to see what stores they had up there. They passed my quality test. My heart rushed as I shopped.

I spotted a few cuties, but not exactly my type of men. So I sipped a chocolate malt, bought myself a designer T-shirt, hooked it up the way I wanted it, and smiled quietly to myself. Saturday morning I prepared to fulfill my baby-sitting obligations. I dressed the twins in their matching Hilfiger jumpers and crisp new kicks.

I did their hair up nice in some grown-up styles. I had on my tight brown suede pants. My brown suede jacket, brown leather shoes, and my Versace sunglasses. I put on my new custom-made designer T-shirt. I snatched up their little hands and headed to the mall, where I was sure there would be something exciting for each of us to get into. By the end of the day, the twins had managed to rearrange their hairdos and decorate their jumpers with spilled hot cocoa. Instead I was approached by one guy who walked up to me with his doofy ass asking me about my T-shirt.

I rolled my eyes and made a face at him like he smelled like shit or something. He got the point and strolled away. Later on, going home on the bus I thought maybe the guys around here are not used to bold women like me. Maybe they were into manners, prissy bitches, and shit like that. There was no doubt in my mind that I would have to find my way back to Brooklyn on a regular basis to keep my sanity.

Daddy, I said softly, trying to lean on my innocent baby doll look. Sensing some type of plot, Santiaga asked, Why would you go all the way to Brooklyn to get your hair done? Come on, Daddy, I pleaded.

Earline be having my shit—excuse me, my hair looking correct! Go to Wyandanch. I do my runs solo. And I never been a stupid man. Just lay low for awhile. Your mother will have her car in a couple of weeks. Then you and her can go ripping around to take care of all that girly shit. Even in my disappointed moment a compliment felt good, and worked, as it did every time.

Days later I called Sterling, my old sugar daddy, out of the blue. After racking my brain for a plan to get into Brooklyn I realized he was the only sucker I knew who would get such a kick out of seeing me that he would drive all the way out here to get me. The worst thing that might happen is I might have to end up giving him some pussy just to keep him in line or a quick blow job while he was driving. I had done it with him before and I could easily do it again, especially to get the hell out of Long Island.

I swallowed hard and got ready to pretend it was a limo. I quickly added that I would be back first thing Saturday morning to watch the kids. She let go of her anger and I jetted. I was like a junkie getting a fix as I got filled in on the what-haps around the way. Open navigation menu. Close suggestions Search Search. User Settings. Skip carousel. Carousel Previous. Carousel Next. What is Scribd? Explore Ebooks. Bestsellers Editors’ Picks All Ebooks.

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Ebook pages 9 hours. Start your free days. Read preview. Language English. Publisher Washington Square Press. Release date Nov 30, ISBN Read more from Sister Souljah. The Midnight Series. Save The Midnight Series for later. Crackhead: A Novel. Save Crackhead: A Novel for later. Hood: An Urban Erotic Tale. Ebook Butterfly by Ashley Antoinette. Save Butterfly for later.

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To learn more about how we use and protect your data, please see our privacy policy. Media The Coldest Winter Ever. Save Not today. Format ebook. ISBN Author Sister Souljah. Publisher Washington Square Press. Release 30 November Subjects Fiction African American Fiction. Search for a digital library with this title Search by city, ZIP code, or library name Learn more about precise location detection.

 
 

[Download] The Coldest Winter Ever PDF | Genial eBooks.FREE READ (PDF) The Coldest Winter Ever: A Novel

 

Uploaded by volunteer-alex-curtin on October 13, Search icon An illustration of a magnifying glass. User icon An illustration of a person’s head and chest. Sign up Log in. Web icon An illustration of a computer application window Wayback Machine Texts icon An illustration of an open book.

Books Video icon An illustration of two cells of a film strip. Video Audio icon An illustration of an audio speaker. Audio Software icon An illustration of a 3. Software Images icon An illustration of two photographs. Images Donate icon An illustration of a heart shape Donate Ellipses icon An illustration of text ellipses.

User icon An illustration of a person’s head and chest. Sign up Log in. Web icon An illustration of a computer application window Wayback Machine Texts icon An illustration of an open book.

Books Video icon An illustration of two cells of a film strip. Video Audio icon An illustration of an audio speaker. Audio Software icon An illustration of a 3. Software Images icon An illustration of two photographs. Images Donate icon An illustration of a heart shape Donate Ellipses icon An illustration of text ellipses. Metropolitan Museum Cleveland Museum of Art. It is at a point where I can just open it to any page and start readiny. So glad it was never made into a movie because books are always better.

I read a deeper love inside and it was okay. Nothing sister soulja has done since “winter ” can measure up. This book made me learn how to speed read because I was so anxious to turn the page!!! I was told to read this book as an adolescent, but didn’t get the chance until I was older. I waited too long I have never liked another author as much as I like her sistah souljah I actually have all three books winter, midnight, and Porsche which derived from this book I inspire to meet her one day I love her books and this is the beginning book of a mind blowing trio.

Sister Souljah is a graduate of Rutgers University. During her college years, she was known for her powerful voice, sharp political analysis, cultural allegiance, community organizing, and for her humanity.

 

Coldest winter ever download. The Coldest Winter EVER!

 

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Books to Borrow Open Library. Search the Wayback Machine Search icon An illustration of a magnifying glass. Sign up for free Log in. The coldest winter ever Item Preview. EMBED for wordpress. Want more? Advanced embedding details, examples, and help! The Coldest Winter Ever marks the debut of a gifted storyteller. You will never forget this Winter’s tale.

I have read this book more than once myself. It is at a point where I can just open it to any page and start readiny. So glad it was never made into a movie because books are always better. I read a deeper love inside and it was okay. Nothing sister soulja has done since “winter ” can measure up.

This book made me learn how to speed read because I was so anxious to turn the page!!! I was told to read this book as an adolescent, but didn’t get the chance until I was older.

I waited too long I have never liked another author as much as I like her sistah souljah I actually have all three books winter, midnight, and Porsche which derived from this book I inspire to meet her one day I love her books and this is the beginning book of a mind blowing trio.

Sister Souljah is a graduate of Rutgers University. During her college years, she was known for her powerful voice, sharp political analysis, cultural allegiance, community organizing, and for her humanity. Post-graduation, Sister Souljah earned the love and support of her African American community by creating a national youth and student movement. She is credited for serving homeless families, creating academic, cultural, and recreational after-school programs, weekend academies, and sleep-away summer camps.

Partnering with major mainstream celebrities, she provided her efforts free to all young people and families in need.