34.

We dominated. The news the next day was all about us. All about Bow Down, Starring Winter Santiaga. The morning shows was abuzz because of the ratings that broke all records ever known. Viewers from around the world tuned in to see me at my finest. Even in countries where our show didn’t air, legit and illegit satellites were making it possible for all to see. One morning-show host showed clips of teens gathered in one hood hut in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, to check my show. Kids in the barrio in Cuba and Puerto Rico were glued to the tube. Places I never heard of heard of me—more than heard of me: knew me, sweated me. Ghana and Nigeria, Senegal and South Africa, Zimbabwe and Kenya, yup, I only know of them because they knew of me first. They’re my fans, my viewers. Jamaica, Bahamas, Barbados, Aruba, Turks & Caicos, yeah I knew all of them of course. They were the hustler’s playground.

Funny thing is, when you’re dominating, which is way higher than simply trending… every kind of media, social or otherwise, every magazine, newspaper, online service, gossip mag and rag, blogger, podcast, YouTuber, and radio or whatever, are each coming from a different angle. The fashion media was on Santiaga’s dick. He was wearing Stefano Ricci and killing it. There were images of only my alligator stilettos, starring my pretty feet and perfect pedi. Each of my body parts were captured in close-ups, posted and praised. Comments were streaming in from everywhere. Where did you buy those shoes? How can I get an alligator trench? Who did your diamonds? Grown-ass women and female celebs were rocking ponytails within twenty-four hours of viewing my show.

The political shows didn’t give a fuck about the Santiaga’s fashion. They just wanted to know who let us out of prison. It was as though they wanted us to be locked up forever. Investigative reporters were already digging. They wanted to know the details of my father’s release. No comment from Elisha and my team. By morning time the next day, I knew the deal. It was the governor of New York that set Santiaga free by pardon. It was an entanglement of circumstances. All of the veins leading to Elisha. It was amazing to me the doors that would open for him. I know I would never know if money changed hands. I don’t need to know either. All I know is that my father is free and poised to be king. Okay, not king. Let me calm down. All I know is shit changes. The high and lows happen. The tables turn. That having been said, my father is back to where he belongs. And… even the governor of New York and president of the United States of America are black men!

Entertainment outlets all focused on Elisha and tried to get photo exclusives of Porsche. Porsche turned down The Tonight Show, Jimmy Kimmel, Good Morning America, Jimmy Fallon, Katie Couric, and even Ellen, Oprah, and Gayle King. Once it was absolutely clear that she was not available, producers and publicists started coming for me. I agreed, of course, to all the elaborate photo shoots for the top magazines. That was fun and easy for me. Like being a supermodel or some shit. But as far as in-depth interviews where I had to talk, I hesitated before agreeing. I want to be interviewed only in a place where I can say whatever I want. Nobody beeping out, cutting, editing, and limiting what I say. I didn’t want to be packaged like some fake-ass bitch. They’d have to invite me and take what they get. Go on live and cross their fingers that I don’t say or do nothing too wild or too forbidden. But I’m a cool bitch. I already know what it means to be dead. I already know what it means to come back to life. So of course I wasn’t planning on playing myself, like others do easily.

Party and publicity invites piled up to a paper mountain. My digital likes and followers and fans bursted into seven figures. Elisha was tight that all of this extra popularity on top of the already super popularity happened after the finale. The new season would not start for a few months. That meant other shows would be eating up the excitement that he created on Bow Down. I gotta give it up, though, my brother-in-law is extra clever. He surprised everyone, his staff and crew. He went off-script, the same one I had tossed in the trash. He made the finale with only me and my father. He restricted the cast that had carried the show for the whole season. My reunion with them was to be the show opener in the autumn season. Elisha knew how to keep his audiences in film and television, as well as cable, hanging off a cliff. Then he would milk their anticipation and open up with the viewership numbers higher than other shows’ finale numbers.

I decided to accept an invitation based on the fact that it was what was familiar and comfortable to me. It came from Angie Martinez. She was the voice on Hot 97 that ruled in the ’90s. Now she switched over to Power 105. I didn’t like the switch. But she’s a cool bitch. She knows everybody and everybody knows her. She’s New York style. Our style is definite and different. In our state, the Blacks and Latinos are the same. We living the same. We struggling the same. We earning the same. We hang out together. We all speak English. And, unless it’s over some hot boy or top hustler, we don’t fight on no Black vs. Latino–type vibe. When a fight is over a top nigga all bets are off. A black chick will fight another black chick just as furiously as she would fight a Latina. Even when I found out on lock that in other states in America, it’s the Blacks vs. the Latinos, I thought that was dumb and corny and basically backwards. So Angie Martinez was my pick. Besides, if I let her interview me, I know all of my niggas will be listening. That’s what I really cared about. It was okay to be known all around the world. But at the end of the day, I’m thinking about Brooklyn niggas and New York State. I’m wanting my chicks on lock who are still there to taste my victory. I wanted hustlers in their whips that came up after my pops to know and then to show him some motherfucking respect. I wanted to certify that the Santiagas are back on our feet, strong, rich, legit, and doing it.

Here’s how my first post-finale interview went.

Her:	I know you probably get asked the same questions over and over again.
Me:	Definitely.
Her:	So let me take it from another angle. What do you think is the reason your show has become the phenomenon that it is?
Me:	’Cause niggas love victory. Niggas love drugs, hustling, and stories about drugs and hustling. Niggas love money. Niggas love fashion. Niggas love passion. We got all of that going on at the same time.
Her:	But there has to be more to it. There are so many shows, films, stories about hustlers, hustling, drugs, etc. Your show has surpassed them all.
Me:	True, there are other shows, and movies with actors and actresses and shit like that. But our story is original. The Santiaga’s ain’t acting. We come from that golden age of stand-up hustlers and hustling and the women who rode with the niggas the whole ride through. No flipping or snitching. So many have tried to cash in on what was our lifestyle, our thing, our hoods. We genuine. This story is authentic for us. If there is money to be made off of our lifestyle, business and true stories, our fashions and look and even lows, who should make that money besides us?
Her:	Whoa! the streets are cosigning. Look how the board lit up with callers from every borough of New York.
Me:	The whole world loves a happy ending. We made a strong comeback. We got back up without diming out, betraying or embarrassing the hood, our culture, our people. That’s why they showing love.
Her:	Let me ask you about your father.
Me:	Be careful.
Her:	I’ve interviewed hundreds if not thousands of people: stars, rappers, CEOs, producers, directors, community leaders, students, activists, moguls, icons. For every person I’ve interviewed, I’ve heard almost as many true, hateful, hard-luck sad stories about absent fathers, abusive fathers, mentally and physically ill fathers, disappointing fathers, hated fathers, shrewd, manipulative, cunning, and thieving fathers. But you, Winter, stand out and probably will forever be remembered as the most loving, loyal daughter that a father ever had. Now you spoke about being popular because of your hood background, drugs, hustling, prison, and an undeniably amazing comeback. But I watch your show because of your family relationships. Rich or poor, for better or worse, that’s the one thing almost no one seems to be able to get right. It’s incredible to me to see how your sister Porsche adores you. How you adore your father. I know the only person in the world who probably loves your father more than you is your moms. I heard your parents never divorced. That’s big.

I sat back. I had tears in my eyes. But I refused to allow them to spill. She brought up Momma. Didn’t her producers tell her that Momma was dead? Why was she forcing me into a memory that I did not want to remember?

Me:	Momma… Lana,… yes. Lana Santiaga loves her husband more than anyone ever loved any man, true.
Her:	See, I thought so, that’s beautiful. To have love, honesty, and warmth in a family, that’s something money can’t buy. That’s what we all wanted… but so few of us received.

She promised the many callers to hold on and that she would definitely allow them to ask questions and for me to answer their questions. Then, she teased them by placing them all on hold, saying that she wanted to ask her audience a question first. So she asked the listeners:

Her:	If your father walked into your living room today, the way Winter Santiaga’s father walked in on the reality-show-set living room, millions of us all saw for sure, do you think that simply seeing him would cause you to collapse and spill tears the way Winter Santiaga did on her show finale? Winter, you’re real. You’ve said that you are no actress. Those were real tears I saw and we all experienced, weren’t they? You were actually shocked to see your father on your own show, weren’t you?
Me:	I don’t know how many bitches you had sit in this interview chair. But I for one don’t have even one percent of anything fake. These are my eyes, my eyelashes. This is my hair. This is my ass, my body. My feet. Nothing borrowed, rented, plastered, plastic or lasered on, touched up, shifted, stolen, filled, or purchased. This is the same me who came out of my momma’s coochie. Y’all got to see my tears once. I hope you taped it, downloaded it or plan to buy the DVD. Otherwise, you gon’ have to wait till reruns. From finale forward, no more tears. We going all the way up.
Her:	I like that! I love that! I feel your confidence.

Then she went to the callers.

Caller:

Marry me.

Two words was all the caller said. He had a nice voice though.

Me:	Nigga, I don’t know you!

I responded the only way I know how. But just as I did, I thought the voice sounded familiar. It did. I would, however, need him to say more than two words to confirm.

Her:	Caller, hold on. Don’t hide behind the radio show. Sounds like you popping the question that most girls can’t get their man to pop, because you are not here in my studio, standing in front of Winter Santiaga, and holding the rock you would need to have on you to marry this superstar!
Caller:	I’m down in the lobby. I got the diamond fresh in the box from the jeweler.
Her:	I take it back. You can’t come at her like that. I love the callers but that feels like some stalker-type shit. Winter, does this caller make you feel like you need security?
Me:	I know who you are, nigga. Fall back.

Then I saw her press a button and terminate his call. A new caller popped on. But I wasn’t listening no more. That nigga Bullet got me vexed. What the fuck is he talking about, “Marry me!” He left me sitting in the rented car. The car he had me rent in my name to run his drug and gun hustle. That wasn’t the problem, though. He let me take the fall for him. He never came for me. He never got a lawyer for me. He never put money on my books. He never visited. He never wrote. Point-blank. He never loved me. And I served fifteen mandatory years without betraying his fucked-up ass.

Me:

I want to say something to all the niggas listening. A bitch wants a nigga who is loyal to her the same level that she is loyal to him. A bitch wants a nigga who loves her all the way up to worshipping her but who never crosses that line. A bitch wants a man who she don’t have to teach how to be a man. He should already know and already been living it. A bitch wants a man who doesn’t abuse his kids or anybody else’s kids for that matter. And if you the nigga out there who fits this description, but you ain’t rich, a bitch like me will forgive you and share her bounty without bragging about it or mushing it in your face. But if you’re listening and you are rich that’s okay too, of course. But let me make it clear: Winter Santiaga ain’t no nigga’s fuck piece, no matter who he is or how rich he is. I’m holding out for a man worthy of being my husband. A man almost as good as my father, which I already know is next to impossible. A solid, unapologetic man who doesn’t suck or fuck men. Who never allows men to suck or fuck him.

Her:

We’ll be back after a commercial break.

Later that night, I locked my bedroom door even though my apartment door was already securely locked. I’m not scared of no niggas running up in my place. I am still living alone in a wing of the Porsche/Elisha Brooklyn mansion. I don’t plan to stay long. I plan to build my fashion empire. At the same time, I plan to marry the man who meets my loyalty and love level. Now that I’m known around the world, I know I have my choice of all the top picks. No matter who I choose, he will still have to get the nod of approval from Santiaga, my father and my first love.

I’m washing my naked body. I’m preparing to make a prayer. That’s why my door is locked. I don’t want anyone, not even family, to see me pray or to even know that I pray. At the same time, I know from being shot dead and from the death after life, and the life after death, that there is a God. God is One, All-Powerful, and All-Knowing. That One God is the only One to be feared and worshipped. I know there are consequences to each of my choices and actions. I know how hellish those consequences are because I already experienced them. I know what mercy means. I’m grateful for many things, but especially I am grateful to be alive.

At the same time, I’m no fanatic. I got pride. Don’t know if I will ever be able to let pride go even though I know it’s wrong. I don’t know if I even want to. I don’t cover my hair or wear religious-type clothing. For me that ain’t it. But I do worship One God and make my prayers in the early morning and late night, when no one can see me. Once I find and marry a real man who makes my heart and my pussy thump, who loves me right up to the line of worship, I’ll let him be the only one that sees me bow down beside him, bowing down beside me, to the One who created us both and us all.