Momma and The City

By Andrea N. Jones

I stare out on California Street in San Francisco as cable cars pass up and down the slanted thoroughfare with distant memories swirling around inside my head. Memories of a young Andrea, just 19 years old, moving to the big city to take a huge bite out of it. 

I like so many black girls was pushed out of my parent’s house at an early age. As much as I resented this ritual I was eager to experience adulthood. Anyway, my mother arranged my U-Haul and we drove the short distance from Hayward to The City. 

I found a charming studio apartment in Lower Nob Hill or Polk Gulch. After unloading the last box into my new home, my mother gave me a big, lippy kiss, told me to be safe, watch out for strangers and pay my bills. After a heartfelt I love you, she was gone. I sat on my Murphy bed looking over my second hand furniture for about an hour figuring out my next move.

It was 1993 and I was a young journalist. I’d been at it since I was 15, publishing my first piece in the San Jose Mercury, the paper journalist Gary Webb (google him) made famous. Up to this point I would handwrite my articles then type them up when I got to my desk at my office, Pacific News Service. 

My mom must had heard my internal cry for help because she rewarded my dedication to my craft. She found a Macintosh Classic for sale in the paper. Driving to Foster City to pick up that Mac was one of the happiest days of my life. My mom could be very generous like that. She would do kind things on a whim. Every branch of my family could attest to that.

Once I got the Mac, my productivity rose greatly. However, I needed a side hustle to be financially comfortable. I decided I would become a phone sex operator. I looked at it as undercover work. I took on the persona of a white blonde, 36-24-36, Kelly was my name. With Kelly, anything but pedophilia was cool. 

96% of my clients were white men. Many wanted to be peed on. I’d just stand over my toilet with a tall cup of water and make a splash. Some were kinkier and wanted to be defecated on. For this, I’d pour out “lumps” of aqua.They’d go nuts. And so many requested some strap-on treatment. They loved it! I loved making $20/hr plus tips. I also got gifts like lingerie.

I spoke to my mom less and less during this time. We had a running joke about me still being a virgin when in reality I’d lost that at 16. Still, I didn’t want to slip up and spill the beans. I just knew it would hurt her to no end to know I could be that type of girl— a dirty girl.

It wasn’t meant to last for me though. After seeing Spike Lee’s Girl 6 starring the beautiful and talented Teresa Randall about a black actress’s journey through the phone sex industry and being shamed by a lame ass boyfriend I quit. 

I’d successfully kept this secret from my mother for 20 years. That was until she was diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer. I didn’t want her to die not knowing this guilty secret I’d been carrying around from her. 

One day after feeding her soup, I’d made my confession. She just looked at me, half way rolled her eyes and asked if we could smoke a joint. That was my mom. She never ceased to amaze me.

When she passed, I was left with a clean conscious. I knew that in those 18 months of caregiving I’d done right by Linda Patterson. Even still, it doesn’t take away my pain from losing my best friend. In her absence, I’m my own best friend. I let me know when I can splurge and when to tighten my belt.

Fall is in full swing in San Francisco. Leaves line the streets in this concrete jungle and I am reminded what a cold world we live in. I was carjacked last month. Escaping domestic violence, I had most of my earthly possessions in my car— 2 iPhones, a laptop, diamond earrings, new clothes, etc. Not to mention all my cards. 

I slipped up by not minding one of my mom’s rules, don’t talk to strangers. What made it worse is that my family, the one my mother was always there for has not offered me any type of help. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Makes me wonder what good having a family really is to me. 

I did some venting about it to Facebook. Next thing I know the family porn star tells me I’m about to be disowned. That really gave me a good chuckle. The truth is, there is no one alive who is qualified to disown me from my family. My mother is dead. She is the only one who could disown me, hooker. Another day, another encounter with a dipshit.

How I miss my mother’s love. I’ll curl up under my electric blanket remembering how my mom would rock us both to sleep. Watch a show my mother would love, like Billions. Fall asleep and do it all over again tomorrow without her. Her love remains in my heart though whether I’m strong enough to recall that during difficult times or not. I love you, Momma.🌹🌹🌹

Let It Go: Afghanistan Must Stand On It’s Own

By Andrea N. Jones

I’m a 10th generation Black American who is beginning to feel a certain way about immigrants and foreigners. Like, maybe they’re just using us. Many Afghans have been upset about our withdrawal from their country. We only spent 2 TRILLION DOLLARS+ taking care of them the past 20 YEARS. Yet, they are so DEPENDENT that they have the nerve to guilt us for leaving all over the AIRWAVES. 

I say “Oh well, I show hate it.” Afghans are very basic being they come from a land of dirt rocks and opium poppies. They believe the calendar year to be 1391. The way they treat women is worse than a dog fares there. They’re ass backwards in thinking to the point that a Taliban could arise with such crushing force to democracy there. I know how democracy is also fragile here, which was made apparent with the rise of Donald J. Trump.

However, the irony is that they and other foreigners can give TWO FUCKS about Americans. In fact, they look to take ADVANTAGE OF US at every turn. If Afghanistan descends into hell, Afghans have NO ONE to blame but themselves. 

Expect The Taliban to be a threatening fixture against the U.S. Government for the next 100 years. They here, as it were. NUGGA.

Do you know what AMERICANS could have done with that money? Do you know what black folk could have done with 2 TRILLION DOLLARS+???? Come on now. However, the United States government would rather give $2 trillion+ to Afghans than they would to Nuggas. 

RACISM IS REAL. BLACKS ARE ALONE. ADOS (American Descendants of Slavery) stand alone.



In high school, my closest friend was Afghan. I’ll call her F.N. I met her the first day of freshman year at James Logan High in Union City, California. She literally came up to me while our school I.D.’s were being made and said to me this, “Hello, my name is F. I heard your stepfather is an alcoholic. My father is also an alcoholic. Let’s talk.” From that point onto junior year, we were nearly INSEPARABLE. 

I very quickly discovered that F. loved all things BLACK. She devoured books on The Harlem Renaissance, watched Spike Lee movies with me and listened to my music from artists like Minnie Riperton and Stevie Wonder. All this CULTURE she received directly from me. I felt like a DOPE PUSHER because of the way she always needed more. Anyway, with years and distance, we grew apart.

Fast forward 20 years. We’re both journalist. However, this bitch beat me to a publishing house and released a book entitled Opium Nation, a memoir. Within it, she mentioned me NOT ONE time. Instead, she created a fictitious composite and made the girl AFGHAN. FAKE BITCH. 

In fact, at the book signing I attended of F.N., her twitchy-eyed sister couldn’t WAIT to run up on me talking about, “How does it feel that your BEST FRIEND published a book?” I just stared at the hoe. Wtf! Bitch, yo hoe ass sister is NOT MY BEST FRIEND. She’s a liar, cheater (constantly cheated in her A.P. classes), shoplifter and likes sucking white dick. How can a sheisty OPPORTUNIST be my best friend?

I spoke to F. recently, at which time the how told me, “Nicci, no one owes you ANYTHING.” Lol. I thought to myself “Okay, Fucktard. I don’t owe you shit either.” So, in kind, America owes Afghanistan nothing. 

Afghans owe themselves the ability to think on their own feet; to stand on their own. Self-determination is everything when it comes to organizing a civilization. If one can’t get with the Age of Aquarius we’re  currently influenced by, according to the ancients, when man has gone from needing a middleman to think to man being able to think for himself, there’s little I can do to help them.

I distinctly remember an occasion that has always stuck with me. Fariba came to visit me at my home in San Francisco’s Polk District. She went to great lengths to let me know that she was “white.” I couldn’t believe this shit. 

The only reason the government considered Afghans white in wide ranging comfortable was in order to boost white folk’s census bureau numbers. White are very desperate to appear as a majority body politic.

I hear Iranians (Persians) are also on the fast track to being white in America. Foreigners come here and surpass blacks not because they work much harder but, in my opinion, because of their proximity to all mighty whiteness.

I’m airing Fariba Nawa out because I have decided that I owe this hoe nothing as she is a BACKSTABBER. So, I thought it was only RIGHT I return the favor. I REFUSE to carry the water of people who mistreat me any longer. 

People say don’t poke a panther and they’re right. Look for MY MEMOIR, “That Time When ‘Rona Came A Calling,” in stores sometime late 2022. 👀👀