Now, when one of my ladies of three and a half years wanted to leave,
due to
her fear of competition. In hopes that she might return, I encouraged
her to take EVERYTHING that we had
accumulated considered hers, which included clothes, cash, jewelry, a
credit card, (with at
least $700.00 on it), a fully-paid for, 1983 white Oldsmobile
Ninety-Eight Regency Coup/with a brand new
motor, a brand new set of Michelin’s and a newly resealed
power moon roof! So when I see documentaries
or movies of an ex "lady of hospitality" returning home penitent and
penniless, I laugh.
It took my best protégé over three years of
so-called therapy (reprogramming) after our relationship. Because the
last time we spoke, her regret was not our past relationship; it was
her current position at a JC
Penney’s not earning a thousand dollars a day anymore!
A side note, no matter what you do, do it for you. You will have less
of a
chance for disappointment.
Shouldn't wage increase reflect the cost of living increase?
It does at certain
levels of the governmental administrative structure.
Every system of “government” is merely a
“pyramid scheme” for control of the
resources produced by this planet that every living creature and/or
thing requires for survival;
whether overt or surreptitious, governments in and of themselves are
pyramid schemes, and thus “dynamically,”
plutocracies.
What if employee profit sharing were mandated? Especially, in
a
government whose mantra reads “for the people.”
We must be careful of what we give ourselves to, because when we give
ourselves
to the wrong thing, it can and most oftentimes does, hurt us.
I would like to make it clear that I am not out to save-the-world. I am
here
merely reporting my attempt to save myself from the greed of our kind,
specifically mine.
I consider myself to be a sovereign,
representing the principle
of the
United States Constitution in opposed to the idea or interpretation. Principles
that
were never truly implemented because the greater segment of the
people to be affected had no representation at the table at the time of
implementation! And the
amendments after the fact were not meant to and did very little, if
any, to level the playing field.
I would also like to make it clear that by human standards, even 'In A
P.I.M.P.’s Eye', I am not normal. However, I am perfect,
perfect in the sense that all life came with a natural
blueprint to do exactly what it is designed to do, unless
interrupted or disrupted.
It is this "interruption and/or disruption" that I speak specifically
of saving
myself from. Because inarguably, the so-called Black American, and more
specifically the Black American male, can be
displayed as the extreme example of what it means to starve a
ho’.
Like "freedom," when something is INALIENABLE, then even a challenge
to the matter of, is a violation thereof.
A "lady of hospitality" taught me that the first step to changing
anything is to stop accepting it. Because when you stop accepting
something, it immediately begins to change.
A realization I am afraid long lost in the commercialization of life.
The
average individual of any given country accepts rule or
“law” by willing and/or forced compliance. Now I am
not
suggesting insurgency or anarchy. I am merely saying that no matter
what form of
government is in place, wherever it is in place, it should serve
whatever purpose or purposes intended
or stated. And if it should, then it should definitely benefit those it
serves, in whatever manner
stipulated.
I once oversaw the investment of approximately $250.00 of monies on a
female,
whom of course had literally earned the monies, and she replied,
“He, (Ever respectful, I will not
reveal his name, but "he" was her so-called pimp and legal husband)
would have never spent that much money on
me.” To which I replied, “First of all, you are not
with him anymore, and second, I did not
spend anything on you either, you did.”
In TRUE pimp etiquette, a "pimp" should only look as good as they
ho', never better, especially if he is not making money with them.
Bad management is why over 3/4 of this nations' wealth is owned by less
than 5
percent of this nations' population.
Bad management is why one of the most natural resource rich countries
in the
world, has a 90 percent population literally dirt poor.
Recent data indicates that only one tenth of 1-percent of this
country's
population are millionaires, and 40 percent of the world's population
lives on less than 2 dollars a day!
As "bargain basement" as Hitler's philosophy may have been, to my
understanding, the country and its people fared rather well under his
“government.”
If you really want someone to
participate in something, involve him or
her. If
you are going to "run" the house, you MUST take care of the house and
everything in it.
So, what do I mean now by P.I.M.P?
It is an acronym for;
Personal
Investment
Management
Professional
I am a guide to maximize the gift of life, learning to get the most out
of me and sharing that information with others. If I was comfortable
whoring-out my
ability to persuade others to have a gang mentality,
I
would promote some religion. But since
I cannot, my journey continues me to offer what I have to share with
all that empathize with my
vision.
My proper address is Author/Ordained-Spiritual Coach/self-styled
Sociologist/Entologist George Johnson-Hill. My spiritual
identity is Yafeu Zuberi Adisa Ajamu. I am developing a project to
serve victims of the H.A.L.L.
syndrome in communities worldwide.
Life is my belief; And wisdom is my religion.
If there be any thing in these writings to find of any value, I would
ask that
it be those words, as my gift to all, acquaintance, reader or critique.
'In A P.I.M.P.’s Eye', these writings could be interpreted as
a cry-out for
help, or a call-to-arms. If you are reading this, you have either
already bought the book, thinking about it, or at
least, talking about this book are supporting this blog! So, you are on
the right path to helping me, and
I thank you even for that consideration! As for a call-to-arms, I
can't, be your super man, super woman
or super being, nor do I need one. I had a so-called pimp once in my
life and I left him because he
would not give me fifty funky dollars so I could by a car. Read the
story!
In The Beginning
I was
born in 1962, seventh or
eighth in a rumored clan of eighteen. My
earliest recollection is of my mother and some other woman trying to
get me into the back seat of a car. I
remember my mother finally getting in on one side, and as I followed,
she got out on the other
side. As I was only around 2 ½ years experienced in the
human race, I knew nothing of locks. I remember my
mother slowly disappearing, as my eyes seemed to be screaming out the
rear window of the car
speeding away with me. I remember screaming so hard that the sound
seemed to disappear too. For
some reason, I seem to remember knowing that I was not going to get out
of that car, my mother was
gone, crying was senseless, and the man driving with the woman in the
front seat, were all I
had...
My mother was at-risk and disadvantaged before they became the
buzzwords
describing the impoverished by the politically correct of our
millennium. She was supposedly
the result of a union between a Cherokee Indian concubine, Christian
name Lewis, and a West Indian
factory worker, Christian name Johnson. Family legend has it that when
Mrs. Johnson, herself a
Native West Indian, and still practicing in the cultural mores of
pre-colonial doctrine, learning
of her husbands unfaithfulness, cast a spell on him and he was
mysteriously crushed to death at
his jobsite.
My grandmother, pregnant, was locked in a shed and supposedly died
there during
a premature birth. My mother was born with what was known at that time
to be the rickets; more
commonly referred to today as scurvy and tells how she was so fragile
that she had to be carried
around on a feather pillow. A bone deficiency trait I believe to be
inheritable, as I suffer, even as I
write this, from what I was told to be spinalythiasis, an arthritic
condition causing my spine to curve. I also
have an injury to my spine compliments of the Chicago police
department, yeah, yeah, read the story.
Consequently, my mother was given to the Johnson family to rear.
Perhaps that is why my mother speaks
of getting the Cinderella treatment from the Johnson family, where is a
hero when you really
need one...
My supposed father (whom only pretended to be whenever we happened to
be in the
same bar and some female was commenting on my looks) was supposedly the
result of a union
between a burple (so black she looked purple) West Indian woman and a
fine-haired, pale-skinned
Frenchman by the sir name of Baptiste. I imagine that growing up for
dad was a measure because he
had good hair, but not the look. He had apparently taken the complexion
of his mother. Family rumor
has it that he disowned me due to the look. Obviously he was ignorant
of atavism. When I was growing
up, one of the names that the children were rather fond of calling me
was Chief, Chief High-Waters. This
was due to the reddish-tint of my skin, the texture of my hair and the
fact that my pant-leg
usually barely reached my ankles.
My eldest sister would say that my sometimes socially dysfunctional
behavior and
anger
is a result of having been raised by my auntie-mama and being picked on
as a child. Of course, as an
Entologist, I know this to have some ring of truth. Overall, I believe
that my auntie-mama could not
have done a better job, and as for being "picked on," wah. Because I
can honestly say, that I
like myself. I do not always show myself love, but I do like myself.
I will admit that auntie-mama was a very bitter woman, but she taught
me to be
independent, very resourceful, and consequently, to have an admiring
respect for the female and
what she represents. I understand now that men had left such a bad
taste in her mouth that not even
mouthwash could cleanse. I do not ever remember her actually hugging
me. In fact, the closest I
remember her seeming to care about anything other than money, was when
she asked me if I was ever going
to call her mama. Other than that, she was not an affectionate woman,
and like most women
scorned, got along better with other women.
I'm sure her bitterness had something to do with her having been
molested at a
very, very early age (family rumor was that the local preacher had
gotten her pregnant before she
was even 13! In fact, rumor was that he was rather nice to all the
Johnson girls because they were
all very pretty) but since this is an autobiography…
Growing up, weekends were always busy at my house. There would always
be a
group of men and my auntie-mama sitting around just drinking. Often,
her sidekick, my Godmother
would be there too. Sometimes, since all of the men worked at the steel
mill and made good money.
My other aunts would come from out of town (and a cousin, who the
family, because of a family
secret, gave her auntie status) and then there would be real wild
nights. On those nights I sometimes
went over to my Godmothers house to play with her children, I believe
she had as many as my
real mother.
Anyway, I became quite the little pervert! (And still am!) Sex was
everywhere
around me on a regular basis. Since my bedroom was adjoining the
bathroom, I made holes in the walls
so I could peek from either room. Talk about sex education!! I was only
eight years experienced in
the human race when I first put my head between a woman’s
legs. To this day, I can still remember the
intoxicating headiness that seemed to swell my head. There is NOTHING,
NOTHING like the aroma of a
woman! I was 10 when a friend's 18-year-old sister, under the auspices
of physics, attempted to
advance my education. She told me that she had a boyfriend her age and
wanted to prepare herself for him.
Since she was a virgin, she figured the smaller the object, the less
the pain.
Ironically, girls my age did not like me, in fact, I have four children
from a
seven-year relationship with a woman my age and our relationship began
like that too, yeah, read the story....
For a living my auntie-mama cleaned houses. Actually, she only worked
for these
two sisters, unless one of them recommended another family, and then
that would not be permanent.
Summers I would often go to their houses to play or swim in their pools
(they had standard
in-ground pools during the 1960s!) Every Christmas each family would
have a ten-foot live Christmas tree
in their respective living rooms! Hell yeah, auntie-mama was getting
down like that! We had a 19 color TV
in our living room and I had a black-and-white TV in my bedroom!
Auntie-mama had at least 4 real furs,
two full closets of clothes and she bought a brand new Buick LaSabre in
1969!
Now, everything that I got, except underwear, was second hand, unless I
stole
it. I remember joining the little league baseball team and was going to
play the position of back catcher.
We had gone to the local Walgreen’s, I thought to get a back
catchers mitt, but a fifth of Canadian Club
was cheaper, so we got that. Of course, I ultimately got the catchers
mitt. You see, auntie-mama had
unwittingly taught me what shoplifting was one day when we were at the
St. Vincent DePaul. She had me
stuff a set of white chiffon curtains in my pants while she put a pair
of hush puppies in her purse
for me.
Stealing became a way for me to get whatever I wanted. Little did I
know, it
was my first experience with addiction...
At the age of seven I stole some money and caught a bus from Racine to
Chicago
by myself; I had run away to look for my mother. I do not really
remember much other than stealing
food, hiding and wandering around downtown Chicago. When auntie-mama
and I had visited Chicago
the last time, I had met my eldest brother because he had begun living
with our cousin, (the
cousin with auntie status). While I was there he had told me that he
knew where our mama was and
could take me to her since I wanted to go. As I had not remembered
where he lived, I was ultimately
found wandering downtown Chicago and was taken back to Racine, yeah, I
was a kid on a milk
carton. When I got back I was sent to a psychiatrist to find out how I
possibly survived on the streets
of Chicago for nearly three months by myself.
You know, in my 45 years, the craziest people I have ever met were
psychiatrists! I once had a psychologist; yes I know the difference,
anyway, a psychologist refused to talk
to me because he stated that my thinking was not
“normal.” It took me to point out to him that
if my thinking was not “normal,” he was duty bound
to talk to me, being a psychologist.
About a year after I was "rescued," I was caught stealing a candy bar
from the grocery across the street from my house and was put on
probation. My probation officer, like most people,
being amazed with my intelligence, took a personal liking to me. He
became my Big Brother and
would come and take me to different places or just to his house to be
with his family. He was a very
sincere person and had really cared about me. I saw him after I had
become street poisoned, I was
around 16 or 17, and the look in his eyes told me he wondered if
whether or not he had made the right
decision...
It was December 1974, I had violated my probation by being out of
state, and
auntie-mama said she had had enough...
I was nearly 12 and I had tried to run-away again, the third time. The
second
time, when I was around eight or so, I had gotten an address and had
actually found my brother. I had
hung out in my cousin's basement for nearly a week though before I
finally saw him. Had I not had to
wait for him to wait until the weekend for us to go to meet my mother...
When I was nearly 13, auntie-mama and I took a train to Chicago, which
was
strange because we usually drove, but we were on our way to Chicago!
She bought one round-trip
adult ticket, and one one-way child ticket. She gave me the return
portion of the adult ticket and told
me to put it in my wallet and keep it for her. After we got to Chicago,
she gave me the news; I was going to
meet my mother, finally, after ten long years!! After about a week or
so of visiting, my mother asked me
when was I going back home to Racine? I told her that I was waiting for
my auntie-mama to
come and get me. When my mother told me that my auntie-mama had already
gone back to Racine and had
called to say that my probation officer had issued a violation of
probation warrant against me, I was
stunned. Apparently, my auntie-mama had said that she had given me
instructions to return with the
adult ticket that I had in my wallet! I was about to be locked up! My
probation officer having had the final
decision let me return to Chicago, back to my family, back to...
To say that my auntie-mama and I did not get along would not even begin
to
define our relationship. For the most part I just stayed out of her
way. Not that she was mean; she just
gave me the feeling that I should be a burden as little as possible. I
would often take money from my
auntie-mamas' purse or wherever else I could find her money. I did not
consider it stealing because
she would always take every damn penny I got. She would have me playing
bar-back every weekend and
take all the tips that I made. When we would be hanging out in bars,
she always kept an eye out for
anyone giving me money and shook me down as soon as we got home. She
would ransack my room after I
went to sleep for whatever I may have stashed. She would claim that
every penny was needed to
take care of me. After I learned that the welfare food and the monthly
state stipend we got were due to
me, St.Vincent de Paul and her reasoning, I knew to be just greediness.
Although this is an
autobiography, there are some things that I dare not reveal. I'll just
say that the education that I got from
her was priceless; she was a sinister person. She thought every bit
like a man!
As a child, when I was told about Santa Claus, I started trying to
figure out
how in the hell he got into our apartment because we did not have a
chimney. I began school at the age of
3…
(As I write this, I just realized that auntie-mama put my age up a year
so I
could start school early, because it wasn't until 1977 that I learned
that I was born in 1962 and not
1961. Damn, I'm learning shit about my damn life in this book!).
…Anyway, I was enrolled in a program entitled the
Follow-Thru Program. It was
post Roe v Wade and integration was the buzzword. The genius of the
Follow-Thru Program was that
underprivileged children would be bussed to different schools excelling
in their respective
curriculum. Well, I was considered exceptional, especially for a Negro,
and was usually in a study
group of one, so, as an experiment, although in third grade, I was put
in an all "white" fourth grade
classroom.
I would report to our home school, go to my homeroom, and then I would
go to
the fourth grade class with all the white children. I became the class
mascot, an attraction for all
the white children. We would play games like hit-George-in-the-chest,
can-George-do-this, can-George-do-that, and the all time favorite,
see-how-smart-our-nigger-is. Consequently, I won most of the games we
played, which only added to my mystique. My teacher, I believe, knowing
that I was being
guinea-pigged, took an extra liking to me, that, and the fact that our
birthdays were a day apart, March 7
and March 8. For about 3 years, she came and got me on our birthdays
and took me to this fancy Italian
restaurant where we would have pizza and soda, (she had beer). She did
this even after I was no
longer eligible to attend that school. Ultimately, I did a half-year
third grade and a half-year fourth,
and went to fifth at my respective neighborhood school.I would have
stayed at the all white school and went to the sixth-grade,
continuing the experiment; however, auntie-mama thought they might be
moving me too fast.
Back at my neighborhood school, I was an outcast because intelligence
was
something frowned upon in the so-called Black community.And shamefully,
still is today...
And on the last day of sixth grade, the class activity was let's
kick-Georges'-ass. I knew, and had gone to school with my Cub
Scout knife. Fortunately, my auntie-mamas’ man, (not the
one that had helped kidnapped me as a little boy) met me at the school.
No, I was not a popular kid
in school; I was considered a bum and a nerd. I remember being in class
one time and another
male student and I were talking about the girls. I told him that I
liked this one real pretty, popular
girl, and he told her! (the kid in me would LOVE to print her name
because she is a
fat ass now with lots of kids!) Well,
she got her posse and after school they chased me! I had to seek refuge
in the Piggly Wiggly across
the street from my house; those heifers were that damn close to
catching me!
Here is one for you, the same dude that I am speaking of, chased me
home every
fucking day for damn near a whole summer because I slapped the shit out
of him in the classroom (I
was tuff if I could hit you and someone was there to stop the fight
before you could get a chance to hit me
back). Anyway, this son-of-a-bitch, chased me until he caught me. He
jumped up and snatched me down
from a fence I was trying to escape over. Well, fast-forward, I am in
my late 20s, early 30s, in
Chicago, on the el train, and who in the hell do I see sitting down a
few seats from me, dude from six
grade!! Check this out, and I do not mean anything discriminatory by
this, but dude was queerer than a
six-dollar bill!! I mean flaming gay! We recognized each other
immediately though, and all I could think
about was, this motherfucker used to chase me home from school,
(get-away-George was another one of my
monikers.)
But I still say that my auntie-mama could not have done a better job of
raising
me because I turned out to be a real human being, for a man. Which I
believe to be an amazing feat,
especially when one considers my upbringing in our culture.
Since I had been given to my great-aunt at the age of two, I knew that
she
wasn't my mother, and had always felt a sense of being lost. December
1974, I returned home to my mother
and the siblings I never knew, at the age of twelve-and-a-half. I had
not seen my mother in ten years.
Our long awaited reunion lasted all of six months...
The dynamic of life demands that only the strong survive. A principle I
rationalized as a child and increased my threshold for pain by
practicing torture therapy. I would even
simulate being smothered with a pillow.
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