I am not who you think I am. If you love me, you love me for the wrong reasons.
Females tell me they love me because I'm tall. They love when I stand over them and look down. They love when I lay them down and my height and body weight dominates them.
Females tell me they love me because I'm pure black. They say they never seen a black man so masculine, so pretty, so beautiful before.
Females say they love my eyes. They're jet black too. Women claim they find a passion in them so forceful that they'll do anything I say.
Females tell me they love my body. They beg me for a hug even when there's nothing between me and them. They want to be captured in my embrace, and press their breasts again my chest.
These are the opening words that drew me in to Sister Souljah's novel Midnight, the 2008 prequel to her first book Coldest Winter Ever, a classic, lauded street life tale that ushered in a new era of "street lit" books, also known as "urban literature," for my generation. I specify my generation because urban fiction is certainly not new. I still remember the first time I skimmed through my mother's copy of Iceberg Slim's Pimp: The Story of My Life written in 1969; and many feel the genre goes back even further with Richard Wright's Native Son written in 1940. After Coldest Winter Ever became hugely popular, other authors found an eager underground market hungry to devour their tales of high rolling drug dealers; young girls caught up in the fast life of sex and the pursuit of material things; thugs seeking redemption; players winning and losing in the dope game; pimping not being easy; and just surviving on the inner city streets any way possible. I think I had just passed the phase where I would have become fascinated by these books enough to line my bookshelves with them. While I appreciated (and still do) how people who previously hadn't found anything in the literary world that moved them were now whipping out their library cards every other week, these offerings just didn't interest me. I found them predictable and way too vulgar and violent, more so providing shock value than the crucial pieces to a gripping and believable storyline.
After Coldest Winter Ever, I never looked back. So moved by Sister Souljah's writing style and storytelling that I simply refused to taint my memory with what I saw had become an overly saturated market. The other day, however, while in the bookstore on my lunch break, I perused a fiction display and saw the striking, glossy blue cover of a paperback. A book written by Sister Soulja.
Midnight? That's the guy from Coldest Winter Ever.
When I saw that Midnight was a prequel, I thumbed to the first page and became charmed by the words I used to introduce this post. Excited at my find, I marched myself to the register and made him mine.
I didn't notice the book's length until I was on the train headed home. 496 pages. Whew. Right now I'm on page 17. I figure by this time next year I'll be finished. Just kidding. I'm very excited about reading this. I thoroughly enjoyed her first work and want to see what she's done with this one. Unfortunately, I have heard a few reviews about the book that give me pause. But I shall proceed. Sometimes readers don't want to grow with an author. Sometimes they don't have an open mind. Sometimes they forget an author is merely telling a character's story, and not necessarily confessing a personal belief.
Knowing this, I think my journey with Midnight will be fine. It's going to be a long ride though.
Peace,
Jennifer
True. A reader should allow their favorite authors to grow. The reader has to grow too, and should give the author the chance to create the same interesting, page turning work even if the subject matter is a little different than the previous book.
ReplyDeleteShe is coming to our library in June. I wanted to start from her first book (Coldest Winter ever) and catch up to this one in preparation. I am so behind in reading. I'll catch up. One book at a time. *sigh*
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