​In 1999, right before I turned sixteen, my mother attended the annual Black Expo held at the Jacob Javitz Center in New York City. My family went every year. I went a few times, but for whatever reason, that year I didn’t. I was curled up in the living room chair when she returned home and handed me the book. She said, “Sister Souljah has a new book out. I got it for you.”
I said, “Thanks, Mom.”
We were avid readers in my house, particularly of Black literature. There were a few Danielle Steel books on my mother’s shelf, but she and my aunts read all of Terry McMillan’s books, Kimberla Lawson Roby, Toni Morrison, Beverly Jenkins, and Donald Goines. I was no stranger to the range of Black literature available. So this type of exchange was the norm for us.
Immediately, from the first page, I was hooked on The Coldest Winter Ever. Who is this Winter Santiaga talking about, “I came busting out of my momma’s big coochie on January 28, 1977, during one of New York’s worst snowstorms?” I needed to know more. I literally devoured the book in three nights and then called my best friend (a reading partner to this day), like, “Gurl, you’ve got to read this book!”
My life was the furthest thing from Winter’s. I lived in a modest two-story home, owned by my grandmother, who was a full-time detox nurse; my mother was a stay-at-home mom, and my aunt was a beautician with her own salon. I was raised on the belief that to get what you wanted, you needed God, an education, and a solid job. I knew nothing about the inner workings of the ghetto fabulous lifestyles of inner-city drug dealers. I’m from The Bronx; I knew a lot of young drug dealers—but I knew them in passing. All the designers mentioned in the book and the amounts of cash being handled, were things the adults- mainly my aunt had while I was growing up. Winter’s access to these wild and intriguing adult endeavors blew my mind. I ended up reading the book several times. Now, in my forties, I can’t say how many times I’ve read the book.

I used to fantasize about the book being a film. I desperately wanted to see it come to life. I think I was in my twenties when I heard the rumor that Jada Pinkett-Smith had bought the rights to the story and was going to produce the film. Sister Souljah cleared that up recently, saying that the rights were never sold and she’s not interested in a film production, though it was once a conversation, and that’s where the rumor stemmed from.
It took twenty-two years for Sister Souljah to release the sequel, Life After Death, which many fans turned their noses up at and walked away from. Bad reviews did not deter me. I read it from cover to cover. I can’t gobble books the way I used to, so it took me about two weeks to finish it. Some parts definitely terrified me because I am not a fan of literature and movies that discuss the devil. I persevered, though, and was glad to make it to the end. My lifelong bestie and reading partner persevered as well, and we agreed that we both enjoyed it. Three years later, Love After Midnight was released and received similar reviews. I remained undeterred and endured to the end. Admittedly, the pacing confused me, and Winter still annoyed me. By my thirties, I was no longer fascinated by her stupidity, but rather annoyed by it, yet I remained enamored with the cautionary storyline. Readers want Winter to grow up, and they seem to be mad at Sister Souljah that she’s not. I’ve accepted Winter for who she is because I know people like her in reality. That’s what makes Winter’s character so real to me. She’s no different from a few homegirls and homeboys, I might as well say, that I’ve known for many years and mentally outgrown. Winter’s story is more common than we realize.
Anyway, lately, more and more people are using AI to create TCWE movie trailers. One young lady has been making chapter clips, and she is crushing it. I stumbled across her page on Facebook, where she apparently has another ongoing AI series that people are hooked on. I literally “tune in” twice a week to watch these mini episodes.
Now, I am not a fan of visuals generated by AI. I’ve messed around with it myself, but social media is now oversaturated with all the same flyers, and it just seems like people have given up on visual creativity altogether. I refuse. I will spend hours on Canva and stock photo sites to create visuals before I throw a few words into a prompt to get the same flyer as half the people in my newsfeed for my own vastly different events and business endeavors.
However, I can see the work that goes into this young lady’s TCWE video clips, and I am awestruck. I commented on one of her posts that this is how generative AI should be used. Millennial women who enjoyed TCWE the way I did can truly appreciate the way her attention to detail taps into our nostalgia and brings us back to the story that turned many of us on to Urban Lit. I’m obsessed.

​A fourth book is on the way: A Beautiful Evil, and yes, I am going to order the hardcover and read it. I need a hardcover copy of TCWE (hints for those who know me). To this day, I still have the original paperback copy that my mother bought me. The front of the cover has fallen off; the pages are yellow—yeah, it doesn’t stand up to the others on my shelf. I need that hardcover for book nook aesthetics. I also hope this young lady on Facebook (and YouTube) continues making TCWE clips for the entire book, and I hope she’s inspired and encouraged to do the whole franchise. Others have tried to replicate the book visually, and one was so bad: Winter looked twelve for the entire clip and wore a jail suit in every scene; it was nuts. However, the young lady I’m raving about really takes her time with a score/soundtrack, quoted dialogue, and as much visual detail as she can with the AI tools she’s working with. I don’t know how she would feel about me mentioning her in my blog, so I haven’t said her name. But if she catches wind of this, I would eventually come back, make edits, and add her name/production company.
In the meantime, I’ll be waiting for Thursday night’s episode. Child services came and took the kids lol. I’m looking forward to Winter and Lana’s visit to the prison—I think that’s what’s next. I’m tempted to pull out my old copy to follow along, but I’m already reading three books. I’ll just enjoy my episodes and wait on A Beautiful Evil.

Back in March of this year, I listened to Diahann Carroll’s memoir, The Legs Are the Last to Go. This is a memoir that left me full and touched on many different emotions. First of all, I LOVE Diahann Carroll. I have been fascinated by her since childhood. For me, she made her biggest impression while on A Different World as Whitley Gilbert-Wayne’s mother, Marion Gilbert. A Different World was one of my favorite shows, and I felt that Diahann Carroll was everything Whitley Gilbert’s mother should be. One of my mother’s and aunt’s favorite movies is Claudine, and while so many things hit close to home as a Black woman of any generation, as a child I was intrigued by Carroll’s ability to play such vastly different women. Then, because my aunt lived for Dynasty, I also became privy to Carroll’s role as Dominique Deveraux. The more I saw Carroll, the more I wanted to see. Early on, she was a role model and icon in my young mind, and I watched everything she was in.

​One of the things that surprised me was how she felt about her mother. Across the African diaspora, we carry this reverence for our parents, especially our mothers. Unfortunately, many of our mothers carry the brunt of child-rearing. (I used to joke that I wanted to be the daddy, so I could just not have time to do things, just return my child to the mommy, and not have to figure anything out, but rather leave the thinking to the mommy.) Anyway, this veneration causes us to ignore, bury, or simply not speak on our negative feelings at all toward our mothers. As of late, Millennials (my generation) are learning to be honest about how we feel about our mothers (thanks to therapy for many of us). So I was surprised that someone of an older generation could be so real about not only what she observed of her mother, but how she felt about her. It was refreshing.

Carroll approaches every stage of her life with blatant honesty. She kept it 100 about everything that happened, as well as her reactions and feelings, and whether her actions and reactions were right, wrong, or appropriate. Not only was she honest about her feelings toward her mother, but she also reflected on the type of mother she was and what she could’ve done better. I believe that is the reason why her relationship with her daughter was strong. I loved listening to the end when she talked about the type of grandmother she was. Again, she didn’t try to be anyone other than who she was, and she didn’t create a false granny who wears her hair in a bun and bakes cookies. She bought her grandchildren attire meant for ladies and gentlemen, and though small children aren’t always interested in that sort of thing (particularly the labels) it’ll be a source of warm memories when they are older.
I was impressed with the highs of her career and how she handled the lows. I was surprised that she just barely mentioned her time on A Different World, and I wonder if there’s anything to that. Carroll was candid about most things, though, and I imagine that had to be cathartic for her. Also, at her age, who was going to check her?

​Of course, this was a 🍷 🍷 🍷 🍷 🍷 listen for me. Diahann Carroll gave me everything I wanted, needed, and more in this sincere reflection of her life. This memoir is now on my list of “must-reads.” She called this book The Legs Are the Last to Go, but Carroll’s impact on my life is here to stay.