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Claudette

The early years of my childhood were the happiest moments of my life. I was born three years after my older sister Amanda to Maya and Travis Newman. We were raised in a neighborhood called Encino in Los Angeles, California.

Safe to say, Amanda and I were inseparable. I was the little sister she'd begged our parents to have. I wasn't born on Christmas. But from her lips to your ears, I was like the best holiday gift any kid could hope for.

Amanda stayed glued to our mother's hip during the early months of my life. She wanted to take care of me, wear the same clothes, and play with me before I even knew how to walk, let alone form a sentence.

Unfortunately, things started to change when Amanda was eight and I was five. Our peers began pointing out that we looked nothing alike. It was the first time that I realized - they were right.

Amanda had a few characteristics of our mother, primarily her full lips, but she mostly looked like our father, Travis. She had pretty caramel-toned skin and curves that developed before she was a teenager. I can't forget her gorgeous smile that made boys melt.

All while at five years old, I was the "dark one" with a gap in my teeth. It wasn't that big - not to me, at least. Still, not a day went by without some kid teasing me about it.

I was skinny and petite with large lips and a big head that I would also get ridiculed for most of high school by children sewn from the same cloth as me.

At such a young age, I learned that image was everything to the world. Even in the black community, there was a standard, and I didn't fit it.

Amanda tried to soften the blow, telling me to ignore what others said. She tried to convince me that I wasn't adopted.

The thing was, I didn't feel like I was adopted. However, suddenly, at just five years old, I felt different.

Like I didn't belong.

The way I saw the world began to form darkly. As I got older, the wool lifted from my innocent little eyes.

I became quiet and reserved.

I self-isolated.

I preferred staying inside to going out to play and hated being forced to socialize with other children.

I even begin to see my father differently.

Travis loved me well, but when I looked at him. All I could see was Amanda.

Our mother tried her hardest to keep me from becoming a permanent recluse. Her efforts went stagnant when she became pregnant with our younger sister Mary.

Becoming the middle child changed things.

Being an in-between sibling was like having a not-so-good meal at a restaurant and coming home full but not satisfied.

I wasn't alone, but I felt like I was; I knew my family loved me but didn't feel loved.

To make matters worse, Mary looked just like Mandi and Travis.

I was now the "dark one" between two pretty lighter-skinned girls with "good hair."

I wasn't jealous of my sisters, and I was never angry with them. After all, they didn't get to choose their looks or genes or control the way people saw and treated them.

The only person I could blame was God, but I didn't blame Him either.

All I wanted was to be accepted.

I drifted from clique to clique in school, trying to find where I belonged. I went through an emo phase, the KPOP phase; I even tried to be a stoner, but that didn't stick either.

It didn't matter who I hung out with or what I did to prove myself worthy of any human connection and acceptance.

I always retreated to being alone.

Being alone became a place of peace. I didn't have to worry about being compared and held to a standard.

Travis and I became estranged (mainly because of me). It wasn't anything personal. I knew he loved me, but I found it difficult to reciprocate to a father I felt wasn't for me.

I tried to talk to my mother about how I felt, and that never worked out.

Sometimes she couldn't even look at me as she brushed off my feelings and told me that I needed to stop worrying about what people thought of me. She wasn't wrong, but I yearned for even a little sympathy.

Things got so bad that I started to plan my future. After graduating high school, I would go to a University across the country and never talk to my family again.

I didn't know what I wanted to be or do with my life. But I knew that I wanted to make my family a distant memory.

That all changed in the Summer of '08. It was a Friday night; Amanda was in school at UCLA. Mary was at a movie with Travis.

Seventeen-year-old me was spending her night listening to music, my usual choice of a hobby on any day of the week.

I remember feeling so many emotions that night but being too tired to decipher what was what.

Between puberty and feeling like I didn't belong in my own family, searching for the specific trigger seemed pointless when it was probably all of the above.

I remember laying in my bed, listening to sad rock songs for hours while staring at the ceiling with my headphones on.

In the middle of Radiohead's "Creep," my mother came in, looking the flashiest I'd ever seen her.

Maya Newman was a traditional stay-at-home mom. She always had her T's crossed and I's dotted. The house was always clean, dinner on the table, laundry done, and our homework checked. She did everything and managed to keep up her looks.

My mother was a modest woman and never wore too much make-up.

But that night, she came into my room, wearing an all-white suit that hugged her curves in all the right places. She wore expensive high-heeled shoes which I'd never seen before. It turned out she had cleavage too.

I'd never even seen my mother's legs, let alone her breasts. She wore make-up too, a bold red lip that tied the whole look together.

I remember staring at her and thinking. "Who the hell are you?"

"Get dressed," she told me. "I want to show you something."

Before I could question anything, she left and closed the door.

Oddly, I got dressed so fast; you'd think the house was burning down.

Looking back, I think curiosity made me act so quickly. I had this gut feeling that whatever my mother wanted to show me would change my life forever.

We drove fifteen minutes away from our town to Hollywood.

Hollywood didn't have much to offer for an ordinary suburban family. It wasn't a place we visited very much. We were more likely to pass through it.

I remember the music from the nightclubs coursing through the car—the smiles and laughs. The stupor of the intoxicated. Women wore tight clothes and high heels while waiting in long lines to get into the club. Men were dressed to a T, eyeing their potential playmates for the night.

My mother wasn't religious by any means. She believed in God, but more importantly, morals and values.

Hollywood at night was anything but morals and values.

I didn't understand why we were there. I remember being nervous and even a bit scared.

We pulled up to an enormous two-story building. Think theater but Hollywood.

Pink Neon lights read "Mama's Girls" with a busty half-naked woman lustfully tilting her crossed leg up and down in blue.

The parking lot was full of cars and men eagerly running to the door like kids when they heard the ice cream truck jingle.

I finally looked at my mom and asked, "what is this place?"

She stayed quiet as she pulled around back. After shifting the gear into park, she slowly turned her head and looked at me. "Your future."

My eyebrows rose from my forehead, "my future?"

"Come on," she got out of the car, and I followed suit.

We entered through the back; it was a long corridor with doors to different rooms on each side. Rolling racks lined the hall, holding all sorts of costumes and accessories, from shimmery skirts to boa scarves and metallic knee-high boots.

Women in robes and underwear surfed through the racks like little girls playing dress-up.

"Stay close," my mother told me, unaware that I was trying hard not to step on her heels.

"Hey, Mama," the women greeted her as we passed.

"Hello, girls," my mother smiled. There was a glint in her eyes.

At first, I was upset by that.

My mother could never look me in the eyes. Yet, she greeted those girls with pride.

I realized that the glint had nothing to do with the women and everything to do with how comfortable she was in her element.

My mother peeked her head into a dressing room full of vanities. There were half-naked women in different costumes doing their make-up and hair—black women, white women, Asian women - every shade and culture.

Though they dressed provocatively, I noted that they didn't show their breasts or private parts - they left a lot of room for imagination.

"Mama, can you tie this for me?" A white girl with blonde hair and the most southern accent I'd ever heard on the West coast asked my mother to help tie a lace corset.

"Of course," my mother said sweetly.

The blonde smiled at me, "and who's this cutie?"

All the other women looked at me, having been murmuring the same thing.

"This is one of my daughters. Claudette, say hi."

I waved quietly. I couldn't speak. My seventeen-year-old mind was still trying to grasp what was going on.

"Nice to meet ya, Claudette. I'm Billie."

I shook hands with her.

"We've heard a lot about you and your sisters. Mama talks about y'all all the time."

"What can I say? I'm a proud mother," my mom gleamed as she finished with the corset. "There you are, honey. Put on some more glitter. As I always say -"

"There's no such thing as too much glitter," the girls synchronized like a church choir at a Sunday service.

"That's right. You girls do well tonight."

"We will!"

My mother ushered me out and down the hall, where we entered her luxurious office. It was modern and sleek with its abstract art and neutral color tones. There was a photo of my sisters and me on her desk, but what I remember most is the map of the USA on the back wall; X's were drawn on different cities across the country.

"Sit," she pointed to one of the white stencil-designed chairs.

As I sat down, she walked around her desk to do the same. She took out a key, unlocked a drawer, and pulled out a black book.

"Let's start from the beginning," she said.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in!" she sighed heavily, visibly annoyed.

A tall, burly man came in an all-black suit, dark shades, and an earpiece. He stopped short when he noticed me. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mama."

"It's all right, Chucky. What do you need?"

"It's the Senator of New York. He wants to say hello."

"Of course," my mother stood, adjusting her suit jacket. "Stay here," she told me. "I'll be back."

Chucky left with her, leaving me alone. My attention went right to the map behind her desk. It didn't take a genius to know it was an expansion plan.

My eyes drifted to the black book on her desk. I couldn't resist the urge to open it, so I didn't try. It was full of names and numbers of important people. I didn't recognize most of them, only a few government officials I'd learned about in school.

Just as I'd put the book back, my mother returned.

"All right, let's skip past the suspense," she sat behind her desk.

"You're almost eighteen, so I think it's time I tell you about the family business."

"The family business?" I was confused; it was my first time hearing anything about it.

"Your grandmother, Lord rest her soul had a hard childhood. Her parents were addicts. When they ran out of drugs . . . they would uh . . ."

She paused, clearing her throat.

"They would use her to get drugs. You understand?"

I quietly nodded. My throat went dry.

"She eventually ran away, ended up on the streets, and prostituted herself to survive. Prostituting can be a dangerous, life-threatening job for women."

I remember sitting there, my eyes wide as quarters as I listened. You hear about the dark sides of life and even see them in movies. But there was something different about hearing how someone you're related to went through such unimaginable things.

I hadn't known much about my grandmother, just that she was a strong woman who overcame a lot.

"My mother got tired of that lifestyle and founded this strip club so that women on the streets could work in a safe, clean environment run by someone relatable. She got a lot of women off the streets, and the club was so successful that powerful people would come across the world just to come here. And they still do. My mother passed the business over to me, and I plan to pass it on to you."

"Me?" I scoffed, shocked. "W-why me? Why not Amanda? She's the oldest. Does she know about this?"

"She doesn't," my mother shook her head. "I had planned to tell her, but it didn't feel right. After some consideration, I think you should take over . . . eventually."

I was in such a state of disbelief that I chuckled. "Mom, are you hearing yourself? Why would I want to run a strip club?"

"Strip clubs," she corrected me and pointed to the map. "And then there's the escort part of the business."

"Es -" I held my forehead, speechless.

"Honey, I asked myself the same thing when my mother told me about this. I was sitting right where you are. I sometimes still don't know why I took over for her other than that she wanted a legacy. But you know what? I eventually found gratification in having a haven for women who My mother spoke with passion as she stood.

"Claudie, this is more than just stripping and sex. The girls out there are family to me, to each other. I take care of them better than any family member, job, or government benefit could or ever would. These women are runaways, single mothers, orphans, college students putting themselves through school. If someone doesn't take over, many of them will end up on the streets."

Unnerved by my silence, she sat beside me.

"I know taking care of strangers is not your responsibility. And I'd hate to be the reason you don't get to live the life you want. But if I had to pick between you and your sisters to give this empire to, it is you."

I felt foolish as tears welled in my eyes.

All I ever wanted was sympathy and connection from my mother. For her to see me, and now that she did. It was because she wanted something from me.

Part of me felt honored, and the other - played.

"I know I haven't been as present and open to you," she said. "I know you've felt lonely, misunderstood, unwanted, and I'm sorry."

"Why now?" I had to ask.

A cloud of darkness overcame my mother; she left mentally.

Where? I don't know.

"Mom?" I leaned toward her worriedly.

She sucked in a breath, coming back. "I'm sorry, dear. I just . . . Listen, there are things that I've been through."

"Things like what?" I was pleading. "Help me understand."

Tears formed in her eyes. She took my hand and squeezed it. "I will, one day when I'm ready. For now, I'd really like to show you the ropes."

I swallowed the frog in my throat, wiping my eyes. "Does dad know about this?"

"No," she shook her head. "It's that better that way. I work with a lot of important people, some dangerous."

"Dangerous?!"

"Don't worry. They won't be a danger to you once you know how to deal with them. The point is, at home, I'm Maya Newman - a wife, your mother. In this world, I'm Mama. There's a big difference. You'll understand soon enough."

Overwhelmed, I stood up and began to pace. My mother sat in silence, letting me digest everything for a few minutes.

"What do you say?"

"Yes," I said without thinking much about it if I'm honest.

Back then, I didn't understand the weight my mother was carrying.

I just knew that for once, she saw me.

I didn't want to ruin that.

"I'll do it," I agreed, "but on one condition."

My mother smiled proudly, a twinkle in her eyes. "Name it," she sat with poise, crossing one leg over the other.

"Teach me to be in charge, fine, but I'm not doing this without Amanda or Mary. Until she's old enough, of course."

My mother arched an eyebrow, "are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Mom, look at this," I pointed to the map. "This is more than an empire. This is a legacy. You said it yourself. The girls back there are like family. Then this place should be run by a family. You were the only kid. You've had all of this on your shoulders for what years? Well, there are three of us. Three heads are better than one, don't you think?"

My mother said nothing but her smile said it all.