When the East is in the House

The first girl I met was my neighbor in Queensboro. I set up a tanning station out in the back and was out there chilling with Kayla when an older man came over and introduced himself. He offered me some fruit. I liked him right away. He had a daughter, Erin. She was younger than I was, and I noticed she also had a mixed-breed daughter, Tisha, who was younger than Kayla as well. Her dad was cool—he reminded me of Walt from the series Longmire. Seeing that her daughter was mixed made me feel good. When I first arrived in Vancouver I went right downtown—”Where da black people at?” There wasn’t any—all white and Chinese.

My daughter is black. B.C. was kinda racist and that made me question if I could live out there. I found out sooner than later there were black communities, several, they just weren’t downtown and ya had to know someone.

Erin’s dad thought she and I would hit it off—and we did! The ladies in B.C. were naive—the ones I met anyway. Two of my long-haul friends were from the Okanagan, way up there in Kelowna—a beautiful place with lots of beautiful women—innocent, naive, small town ladies. My guess is Erin was from the Lower Mainland, close to New Westminster, which to me is the equivalent of the East End in Toronto. They had no idea about light-skinned, green-eyed Scotians or the life I found myself deep in.

Erin was different. Her baby father was Jamaican—a little rough around the edges. He gave her a hard time every now and then, so Erin had been somewhat exposed to activities that weren’t always law abiding. Erin, to my surprise, was quite tough though, and she had the glue! These guys were attracted to her, and even though she was warned, she got involved anyway—with the fucking devil!

Pete was the oldest, sneakiest, smartest con of all of them. Light-skinned, green eyes. I never understood what they saw in him—I personally never found him attractive. I heard the stories long ago. I knew all about him well before he was “company” in my home.

All three of my friends fell for him. He was with them all in accordance with when he met them. At one point, all three of them were fixated on him, but he wasn’t walking away from Erin.

When we moved back to Queensboro, she was still there in that house with her dad, so she and I were around each other again. That’s when he first saw her and wanted her. He kept asking me to hook it up—I wasn’t hooking shit up! 

Erin, after being apprehensive and giving him a hard time, finally gave in and ended up with him! He was a handful, to say the least, but she was handling it—him!

I knew they had some issues, that there were incidents, and I felt guilty about it—all of it. I apologized to her more than once. Out of all the friends I had out west, Erin was the only one who was exposed to my world that could handle it! When I say handle it, I mean there’s a lot to take in being with a man like Pete—mental and physical abuse, and rule number one: shut the fuck up. They were together for years; they even ended up having a kid together. She lasted longer with him than anyone I’d ever known—and came out on top!

I had known Pete since I was 17. He used to mess around with my homegirl, the one who showed me the ropes back in the day. Scotian, both of them. That’s when I was introduced to the world of Scotians—that particular breed, when I was 17. 

Pete and I were copacetic, he was never a threat to me. Him and I never had any issues. I always had a man, two of them he knew well. We crossed paths many times over the years. To me, his presence was straight fucking evil—I had heard too much. 

Erin has a whole new life now—thank God! She finally got rid of Pete. We stayed connected over the years through social media. She lost her dad and her baby father, and she put up with fuck knows what with Pete all those years. She’s happily married today with another kid.

Seeing that made me super happy because not too many make it out unscathed. And honestly, I can’t even say she made it out unscathed—maybe on the outside but I wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up with some sort of PTSD from that relationship. I messaged Erin a few years back and told her that I was happy for her and that she was one down-ass bitch—the baddest bitch I knew out west! The shit she went through—most would have crumbled into bits!

A pic of a pic—Erin. That’s all I have from the 90’s pics of pics.

Two of my other friends from Kelowna I was tight with, no longer speak to me—both from the Okanagan. Summerland and Peachland! Those are actual places and they are just as peachy and just as summery as they sound. One went through the mill, making her way through the Scotians and the Jamaicans. Even though she saw the harsh consequences of her actions, she just couldn’t help herself. The other one, for the longest time, was fixated on Pete. He entertained it, but ultimately, he wanted Erin like a sugar fiend wanted candy.

I truly think those two from the Okanagan blamed me for the experiences they had back in those days, and for the longest time, I felt guilty about it—thinking that if they had never met me, they wouldn’t have gone through all the shit they did. But at the end of the day, it’s called free will. They made their own choices, just like I did. However, I wasn’t privy to a warning beforehand.

We were out in the clubs often—Level 5, downtown Vancouver, and Paradise in New West, close to home. Chet and I noticed that there were a lot of hoes out in B.C. A totally different vibe of hoe than a Toronto hoe. You wouldn’t see a hoe in the clubs in Toronto between the hours of 10 PM and 2 AM—those was working hours. You only saw hoes at the After Hours.

In Vancouver, the hoes were in the club during working hours and it left their pimps vulnerable. It was obvious, the pimps out there were too laid-back. The hoes in Vancouver thought it was cool to be a hoe. Everyone was a hoe or aspired to be one. In Toronto, the hoes preferred to keep it under wraps.. They were low-key. It wasn’t cool back then to be a hoe in Toronto—unless, I guess, you were a hoe.

The hoes never bothered me. I loved the hoes! They were just like the rest of us—trying to eat.

We were at Paradise one night, and Chet recognized a couple of laid-back, old-ass, chilled-out pimps from Toronto. Chet knew them from his old pimpin' days. They were living the life out there on the West side. Comfortable as fuck.

It’s like Vancouver was a hidden gem. It was good for the taking—nobody knew what was coming—not even me! That being the fucking East Coast coming to the West and making themselves known. Just like settlers back in the day.

There was an unspoken connection between us, the Scotians and Boz’s boys that came out west. It was like we were family—we were connected, we all came from back East to B.C. which was kind of like a whole new world for all of us. We stuck together. The girls—the hoes in B.C., were lovin' off the East Coast vibes—the men in B.C., not so much!

We really didn’t interact with any men out there too tough. They were off and considered to be soft compared to the dudes from the East Coast—way too laid-back. They were more concerned with showing off than making paper—Hollywoods. Others were out there hiding—on the run, from someone back East or straight up rats in the relocation program. They came from the East to the West but because they had to. Wasn’t hard to sniff them out—all ya had to do was listen—they’d tell on their own damn selves.

Boz picked up on that right away; we all did. The three of that crew, the ones that were well-spoken, would come to the house from time to time just to say hi, smoke a spliff, and have a beer. Boz and two of his soldiers I got to know: Moe and Sleeks.

We would go to the club. I'd be dancing, drinking, having a good ol' time. There would be like 5–10 of us at times. The local B.C. dudes were feeling it.

Once Boz and his soldiers settled in, their first course of action was to take their hoes!

We we went downtown—Level 5. All the soldiers were there. There were a couple of Scotians with us as well. It’s not known for Jamaicans and Scotians to hang out together, but everyone was from back East, and they were both in Vancouver. Outside of that, they had commonalities of interest: Chet and money.

Me and my girl were dancing. We were having a good ol' time. Boz and his boys—they’re not buying drinks—they’re buying cases of Heineken, bottles of Hennessy. They’re showing off hard, at the very least making their presence known... the flaky little hoes out there just loved that shit. The East Coast came with a whole vibe, and they were digging it. There was some mixin' and minglin' going on. Even though those B.C. pimps were laid back, they weren’t stupid. They felt the breeze when these guys came to town. They knew they had a threat amongst them. I personally wouldn’t say they were soft. They just got too comfortable.

The mixin' and minglin' was going on, and a whole lotta jealousy. Next thing I know, a big ol' kerfuffle broke out. People were getting shot. People were getting stabbed. The whole fucking club was wild. I ended up getting out with Moe, who had his titty sliced open. He was a big boy—he had at least a C cup going on and it was slit in half.

Cops, ambulances, everything was outside at this time. It ended up being a fucking war East vs. West on Granville Street!! I don’t know who got hit from the West but on the East side it was just Moe. I was outside with him trying to hold him up and hold his titty together. We’re in the ambulance going to the hospital. Blood was fucking everywhere. They stitched him up, a good 6-7 inch slice. We walked out into a cab and went home. No police, no questions. Gotta love Vancouver!

After that night, Vancouver was never the same. The East was in the house!

That song “When the East is in the House—(oh, my God)—DANGER!” Blahzay Blahzay—will forever remind me of that night.

Chet was marked. He had been in Vancouver the longest. We had been out and about, and everybody kinda knew who we were. We had a small business called Groove-On Productions. We promoted local talent. Chet made the clothes, and we hosted fashion shows in the clubs, using a wide variety of hoes. I went to the brothels, got acquainted, sold them dresses and promoted Groove-On Productions. Those brothels were top-tier, nothing like the grungy rub n tugs in Toronto. Hoeing was BIG in B.C.

Chet’s style of dresses were very sexy, slinky, hoey. The women out West were drawn to us; they loved that Hollywood shit. We were doing all of this before Boz and his boys came out. We were known to be from Toronto, using the song "Only You"—112 feat. Notorious B.I.G. when the first model walked out on the runway. “Thought I told ya that we won’t stop…”

We had a big presence. We were seen around here and there with alternating Scotians. Ironically, Nova Scotia has some of the hardest pimps out there in North Preston. These Scotians were from Halifax; they didn’t want the hoes. But the Jamaicans were all about the hoes, and then some, and there was nothing subtle about it.

One night, Chet, myself and a girlfriend were at Paradise—just us three. We saw one of the dudes from that night at Level 5. He called his boys, got a crew together, and waited outside until we were leaving to give Chet a beatdown. Like 7 or 8 of them—fucking cowards! Chet covered himself up like an armadillo on the cement and took his licks. It didn’t last long, and he wasn’t too badly banged up, but I was scared for him at first until he got on the ground and covered himself. That’s what you do in a situation like that when you’re outnumbered and if you’re smart.

By no means was Chet a slouch! He was a skilled boxer, and even though his frame was smaller than the others, he was not to be underestimated—Chet could throw down! I saw him knock 3 out of 4 guys out in less than 5 fucking seconds! Fucking KO’d! When we first arrived in Vancouver—by himself! We were in a limo and these dudes got loose with the “N” word and as soon as we stopped and got out—it was pow, pow, pow! I won’t lie, that shit impressed me—I had never seen no shit like that before! He was quite mighty in his day. I never met a Scotian who didn’t know how to throw hands.

Going out now was a problem. After that night we were never out without a crew. 

The house we lived in was being sold so we moved again from Queenboro to New West not far just over a bridge. New West reminded me of the east end in Toronto. We were comfortable there. Kayla was popular in school, participating in all the extracurriculars. The hood was safe. There was a huge park up the street from our apartment—Moody Park. A mall and a DQ. I have so many memories from out West—both good and bad.

Things had calmed down since the outbreak at the club and that night at Paradise. Chet was fucking around (big surprise there) and I fucking called him out. It was the first time he ever put his hands on me. We’d been together 5 years. I wanted out. Once he put his hands on me it became a recurring event. It was a lot more than I was going to tolerate. 

I decided we were leaving—Kayla and I. Moving out, walking away. I had enough of everything! I started sneaking out, looking for an apartment up the street and found one! I locked it in. Chet and I were talking one night about separating, and I came right out and said it, “We’re gone at the end of the month. I already got a place.”

We moved out and it was smooth. Chet went out to Coquitlam and  moved in with Boz’s soldiers. We were still stupidly seeing each other. I’d have him over from time to time. Chet had his two kids up for the March Break, his daughter and Kayla were the same age, they were friends from Toronto. They were all at my place one night. Chet called and said he was gonna grab some movies from Blockbuster, get some munchies, and come back.

Well—I fell asleep and woke up around 2–3 AM and was like, “Where the fuck is Chet—what the fuck! The kids were all asleep, camped out in the living room.

I called his cell… no answer. So I called the house, and his boy picked up this Scotian dude, Dale. I knew Dale from when I was pregnant with Kayla. I met him with my homegirl from back in the day. He was staying out there at the house too. So he answered my call and said, “Yeah, he’s here, one sec. Chet!” I could hear him calling and calling out to him. He came back to the phone and said, “I don’t know, man, I think he’s sleeping.” He put the phone down and was still calling out to him. He just left the phone like that, put it on the couch or something, I could hear noise in the background.

I hung up the phone. Called a cab and went to the fucking house in the middle of the night. Brap, brap, brap! On the door—one of Boz’s boys opened the door for me. I didn’t know who this dude was. I had never seen him before, but he knew who I was. They all knew who the fuck I was. He opened the door and let me the fuck in, he basically steered me in his direction! I had never been to that house before, but I knew the fucking address.

So I walked in—she was laying on her back, and he was on his knees. Marvin fucking Gaye playing in the background! I grabbed my purse and swung it at them, and he dove on me. I punched him in the face as he was coming at me. He held me down, choking me out. It was dark, and there was blood dripping on my face. I could feel it and smell it, I thought it was my blood. I said, “Get off me, I’m bleeding.” He said, “It’s my blood.”

The girl was young, playing stupid. I didn’t give a fuck about her. I was just like, “How could you fucking leave your kids at my house, while they’re here on holiday and this is what you’re fucking doing?” I went upstairs, and he chased after me. He was pissed! I had just interrupted his sexy time, how dare I! I was fucking done.

I was done with everything—his hands on me, the lies—everything. I said, “Come on, you fucker, you want me? Let’s go, come the fuck on!” I didn’t care anymore. My hands were up! He walked away. That was the end. 

I got in a cab, went home, put the kids in a fucking cab, and sent them back to him. He and I were fucking done. Piece of shit!

A lot of time had passed, months before he and I saw each other again. He wanted to apologize, and he did. I asked him, “Why, why would you come to B.C. when I was doing so good out here, happy, just to do the same shit you did to me in Toronto?!” His sincere reply: “I’m sorry. I didn’t want any of this to happen. It’s just who I am.” In tears. I felt sorry for him because—that’s just who he is—selfish!

It was because of that sincere apology though—the only one I ever got from an ex with an explanation that was honest or that I actually believed why we remained friends and maybe because fuck; we had been through so much together. I learned a lot from him, even though he talked a lot of shit, he was kicking some knowledge. I learned more from him than any other man I had ever been with.

We kept in touch all these years right up until this past September, actually! Chet always had good advice, even for me. His words were motivating. I sent him this piece I wrote on Gen X. It was the first piece I wrote when the words started spilling out of me. I sent it to two people—my cousin Jen and Chet. I sent it to Chet as a fellow parent, to take heed—of course, he didn’t see it that way. He saw dollar signs. His reply: “Congratulations, you just wrote your first blog.” My cousin’s reply: “You should blog.” That’s how this blog came about. After I wrote that one piece in September, I couldn’t stop writing.

I don’t know fuck all about digital stuff, computers or web design. Chet did or so he led me to believe he did, for years. He came over and that was the first time I’d seen him since I was in the hospital after my surgery. He visited me a couple times while I was there.

When we first spoke on the phone earlier on that year I told him that I wasn’t sure I was gonna ever speak to him again. My whole identity had changed and a transformation within had taken place. I wasn’t sure he belonged in my life anymore, as a friend or even as an acquaintance.

I invited him over to talk about this blog. I saw him differently that day, through different eyes. He had many ideas and told me to leave it with him. Trust him. I was getting amped up, pretty excited—this is really happening, I’m gonna blog! I had my ideas about this site and what I wanted to do, which was to help people with any of the topics that I discussed throughout this blog. That was my goal—to help women with heart issues, to create awareness, and potentially get to the bottom of why Indigenous women are at such high risk. Is it because of oppression, or is there more to it? More research needs to happen. I also wanted to let women know what they’re up against when they have heart surgery. Shit they don’t tell ya. 

He had very different ideas. He purchased the domain and for me and was explaining to me as he went along, the costs involved, giving me all these different numbers. I was like “OK, sure.” The numbers weren’t too extravagant. I had no clue what the cost was for something like this. The website was originally supposed to be www.hearttoheartwithjaye.com that’s what it was.

A couple weeks later, after he’s been setting up my website, I gave him my first piece “The Beginning of the Chaos.” We set a launch date. Without running anything by me or showing me how anything looked—he launched it. Fuck! It was ugly and unprofessional like a 5 year old did it. His advertisements were all over the home page! Facebook and some other shit. I don’t even fucking use Facebook. I was like “Take it down!” Take that shit off. It’s not ready. This isn’t cool.”

After arguing with him, he was like, “OK, OK, OK,” and he took it down. For the next three days, I tried to get the credentials for the website because I could see how bad the homepage was that he didn’t really know much about web design or the infrastructure of how to build a website. 

After all those years of him carrying on, talking about all this technical shit like he was a pro—I saw his work, the ads, and the impression he left on me when he came to my place, and the fucking lights came on! That fucker was in it for himself! He couldn’t even see the healing that was going on or what this site was really about.

I wanted the credentials to get this site going properly, to hire a professional website designer. He kept stringing me along. “I’m not home right now.” “I’ll do it when I get home.” “Not home yet.” Then it was “Give me the guy’s name and email address and I’ll send it all to him.” I replied “I am him!” “I am the fucking guy! Give me the fucking credentials!” Dead silence.

The bells were ringing in my head like a fucking alarm! This motherfucker wasn’t trying to help me at all. He was trying to make a fucking buck. He was trying to scam ME! ME! After all we’ve been through together—after visiting me in the fucking hospital after heart surgery, knowing what I had been through and was still going through, for fuck’s sake!

He told me the domain was like $200–$300. The hosting was another $100, and email was this much, blah, blah, blah. I popped on GoDaddy to see about purchasing another domain. By this point, I realized I wasn’t getting the credentials to that site. A website on GoDaddy is like 30 bucks! I was livid. I never did send him any money—he was still fucking tallying up, creating an obnoxious, fictitious invoice.

After 30 some odd years of knowing each other—RUDE! I saw straight through him—that all he ever did was talk shit! Nothing ever came to fruition because all he ever did was talk shit—manipulatively, in fucking circles, and he was fucking good at it! I was finally able to see him, right then and there, clear as fucking day for exactly what he was.

I sent him a message describing to him how disgusted I was and how much of a piece of fucking shit he is, and to never fucking contact me ever again! 

Today, I’m not angry with him, not at all. I feel sorry for him. Oh, I was in September—I was livid! But it’s like he told me way back in 1999—he can't help it, that’s who he is. After 30 years of knowing this man, I saw vividly—his sad, disoriented soul.