Hood Starseed

By Linda E Grinvalsky and Deneque White

If you decide to read this book, you will learn of a young girl named Deneque. My mother. (Though, this book is not for young girls). It does not take long to figure that out. If you can't finish this book, that's fine. It's expected. If you do, congratulations and yo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda/Grinvalsky
• Release date: Jun 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990933019

Book preview

1

Chapter 1

Dear Daughter,

I’m know I’m asking you to do this cuz you’re the only one I trust to write my story, but I’m sorry to put you through this. You’re strong and so intelligent, but there are things that happened that are probably best kept in the darkest parts of my memory. Sharing your story is supposed to be therapeutic and I need something.

How I feel now is the best I have ever felt in my life. I’m closer to my spirituality and closer to feeling like the true me than I even thought possible. It’s time to clear my name and set the right things that have been wrong and unspoken. At anytime during this process, if you want to stop, then I won’t blame you or think any less of you. This is the hardest thing I have ever done and I know that after you hear everything, you might not think it to be true, but it is the hardest thing for me to share these things with you. I don’t want to put this pain and confusion on anyone, especially you.

This story is meant to help whomever it can and to help me get over some of the fear I’ve held inside.

2

Chapter 2

Dear Daughter,

I was born in mid-February 1974. It was one of the coldest winter nights of the year. The snow piled up knee high, burying cars completely. Getting around the city was nearly impossible. I still hate the cold. Most people tend to prefer the weather in which they were born. On the other hand, the cold tries to kill me. Unfortunately, it seems that things I should love or enjoy don’t tend to feel the same, but you’ll know more about that later. As you well know, I wear three layers of clothes in the spring. I can’t take the heat either. I hate the heat.

I melt in the summer.

I do like the fall though. It’s my favorite season.

My mother was 19 when she became pregnant and gave birth to me at the age of 20. This is not very uncommon in the family or the 70s, but her getting pregnant after her first time was a shock to her more than anyone else. Despite using protection, it didn’t work. Her father was not happy as you could imagine and did not speak to her for most of her pregnancy. Because he had his room, that he didn’t share with his wife, and went out often made this very easy.

The night I was born was a much-awaited occasion in the projects. The entire neighborhood was outside that day, well, not outside. They were hanging outside the project windows waving and cheering her on like it was some kind of big event.

They yelled, Congratulations, congratulations and she was waving like the Queen of the projects while getting in an ambulance. It must have been too funny. She, of course, must have already been in an incredible amount of pain, but my mother loved attention and admiration from any and everyone. She probably didn’t even feel it over the rush of adrenaline she felt at seeing a crowd just for her.

After cautiously maneuvering through the terrible conditions of the road with a screaming pregnant woman in the back, the ambulance finally made it to the Queens General Hospital, and she said she was in the most pain in her entire life. In one hour, she had a baby girl named Deneque Sia McClain.

My dad named me. He was a five percenter; an Asiatic black man. Which is why he gave me that name.

His nickname was Dahu. He looked it up in some book and he thought it was a cool name. I don’t know if it’s a man’s name. I’m not sure, but it means king or lord or something.

Sia is my middle name, which is after Mia Farrow, the actress whom he had a crush on. But he didn’t want to name me Mia, of course, because he didn’t want my mother to feel any type of way. So he thought he would switch the M with an S and hope she wouldn’t notice. She didn’t.

I was born with twelve fingers, six on each hand, and I was 7 lb even.

I came out so dark that my grandmother said she thought I was one of my mother’s friends’ baby, which is hilarious. I was darker than both of my parents. Of course, everyone dismissed the claim, since she never slept with anyone except my father.

My dad was in jail, so my mother gave birth to me alone. I don’t think they had men in the delivery room, but even if they did, he wouldn’t have been there with her, anyway. He might have been in the hospital, but he would not have wanted to see that side of her, screaming and bleeding. They would put young girls in a ward, so they brought her to me.

My whole family came to see me, but when my aunt, my mother’s older sister, and her husband saw me, she noticed I had six fingers on both of my hands. She cried. I guess she thought I was some kind of freak and my mother told the doctor to remove the fingers. So, they took a string and wrapped it around the base of them and they fell off.

I thought for so long that I was a freak for being born like that. It took years to realize I wasn’t. At a family reunion, I met one of my cousins, who was born with extra fingers and toes. He kept all of his extra digits, while my hands only have small bumps on the sides where they used to be.

I remember you used to play with them and take some strange form of comfort from them. Probably just a way of also knowing that it was me.

I found out that it actually runs in the family. It would have been nice if someone told me sooner, but that’s neither here nor there. I don’t remember it but I heard that I cried to no end, so I guess it did hurt. That was my introduction to the world and pain.

My father was in prison with my uncle, my mother’s brother, when I was born. I don’t know if it was for robbery. I’m not sure, the story has changed so many times over the years.

I know it was my uncle, my dad, my mom’s cousin, and a friend of my uncle. I suppose someone else initially intended to be there, but they backed out, so my father took their place and it led to a shootout. When they were leaving the store, the cops arrived before they could get away, so the driver left them behind.

My cousin left and my uncle got shot in the head. He was about 20 years old. My dad was 23. My dad ran back to my uncle because he called to him saying, Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.

Feeling sad and scared that his friend was going to die, he ran back and held his hand, putting pressure on his wound and told him, Stay with me. It’s going to be alright. They both ended up going to prison, and my uncle survived. They stayed lifelong friends.

I don’t know how I feel exactly about my dad going to jail. It was always something that I was used to. Never really something I put too much thought into—more of a fact of life. Sometimes I wish that maybe he would have been there for my mom. It would have been better. Maybe the idea of having a two-parent household sounds better. There is nothing wrong with being raised by a single mother. Plus, she wasn’t even the only person who was in my life. There were so many people around me as a child that it didn’t seem like I was missing out. I don’t know what I would have missed because he wasn’t there when he got out, anyway.

Only when I was older, I came to find out about his traumas and mental health, but being in a black family, those things aren’t as taken care of as they are now. If he was considered functional on a basic level, they left him to his own devices.

I wasn’t much raised by my mother either, so I don’t know how everything would have turned out if they were both present.

But, you know, I’m glad it happened the way it did because he wouldn’t have been there to save my uncle. My grandma glorified him when I was younger because he saved her son. People have talked about him as a hero for as long as I can remember. I know now that what they were doing was wrong, but as a child, I only saw the loyalty and bravery that came with his actions and not the fact that they were stealing.

Maybe I wouldn’t have had so many daddy issues that I noticed later on in life. I was looking for a father figure in all the wrong places.

He got out of jail when I was three, but he was always in and out of my life. I did have my uncle Buddy, who was like a father to me. I guess it’s not the same as having a father that was there sometimes.

I probably have some abandonment issues and some other shit. I don’t know I’ll ever be able to deal with, but that’s whatever.

Being the person that he was, then I probably would have come out worse than I did. He was young and only looking for a fast fuck. He didn’t want a family. Because I was not his first child. I probably saw him more than my older sister did. It’s not like we grew up together. The last time he saw her, she was six months old.

I’m glad he stayed with my Uncle James because then he wouldn’t have had my cousin Lil James, whom I love dearly. Uncle James, when he wasn’t high or before he got really deep into drugs, paid me a lot of attention, which I’m still grateful for. I know the injuries he had led to a