The Education of a Ghetto Lit Writer

 by Winkfield F. Twyman, Jr.  

| View comments |  Print This Post

As I started watching Black Entertainment Television, I began to see the truth; that keeping it real meant sex, violence, and profanity, that dealing drugs had become the American Dream, and that the sound of a shotgun being cocked had become music on the street.

My friend, Lisa, reminds me of C.J. Cregg in The West Wing. Lisa is tall, intelligent, and hot. Unlike C.J., Lisa is the married suburban mom of two kids, children blessed with the best private schools D.C. can offer. Lisa, like C.J., works for the government albeit as an attorney. And Lisa is African-American.

Why does Lisa’s race matter?

A few weeks ago, Lisa convinced me to write a ghetto lit novel with her.

Pause.

Ok, I lost my mind. I agreed. I had the hots for Lisa in college, a When Harry Met Sally kind of thing.  Nothing came of my crush. But once you’re smitten with someone, those memories don’t go away, do they?

I fit the profile of a typical ghetto lit writer — Harvard Law-educated attorney married to a Yalie from an Old Family. And so did Lisa — a suburban-born and raised UVA Law grad married to a Bryant Gumble sound-alike partner at a big deal firm. What could go wrong?

Well, we needed a story idea. All the novel-writing books say you must have a main character who battles something to a happy ending. The character must grow over time too. I had an idea. “Every thug must have a lady. That’s keeping it real. What about a surgeon’s son who turns bad, gets his girlfriend pregnant and two women on the side? At the end, he loses everything but his girlfriend stands by his side.”

“But Winkfield,” Lisa says. “No one will believe it — a surgeon’s son morphs into a gangsta?” “Sure they will, Lisa,” I said. “Did you know 50 Cent’s real name is Curtis James Jackson, III?  If Madison Avenue can transform a Curtis James Jackson, III into a commercial success, then we can do the same with our surgeon’s son.”

And so the daughter of a former Howard University Treasurer and the son of a conservative, republican suburb began their education as ghetto lit writers.

We had to learn the language of the ‘hood. 

Lisa’s initial effort at ghetto speak came up short — “that was some meal, baby” and, “I am with you on that sister” — and I couldn’t get the image of C.J. Cregg singing The Jackal out of my head. Lisa’s writing seemed more sensual than street, more Sam Seaborn than Snoop Doog.

I suggested we start watching Black Entertainment Television.

And through the haze of my upbringing, I began to see the truth, that keeping it real meant sex, violence, profanity. I discovered that Every Thug Needs A Lady had already been written by Wahida Clark, that dealing drugs had become the American Dream, that the F word and the B word and N word gave one respect, that the sound of a shotgun being cocked had become music on the street.

As I watched more 50 Cent videos, I put together a translation guide for our writing. Write “Damn” before “baby.” Say “lil” instead of “little,” “crackin’ instead of “cracking.” Dropping the “g” in gerunds worked well.  Even though distasteful, “Sh*t,” gave depth and richness to threats. Don’t write “thing.” Instead use “thang.” Write “wanna” instead of “want to.” Life seemed to be one long plot of drug dealing, shootouts, sex at the club, babies out of wedlock, and crack dealing.

But hey, if laying stereotype on top of stereotype worked for 50 Cent, why shouldn’t it work for the surgeon’s son?

We began to write the story line. Born the son of two black doctors in Brooklyn, the Surgeon’s Son grew up with every privilege — private schools, summers at Sag Harbor, Yale University. But something went terribly wrong at Yale. Inner-city blacks questioned his authenticity as a black man. What black man has a swimming pool in his backyard?  What black man has a trust fund? What black man talks like a white man? The Surgeon’s Son snaps. He drops out of Yale and drifts to the streets to discover his “blackness.” One thing leads to another and hanging out with a bad crowd leads to drug dealing that leads to his first crime of violence where he smokes an 11-year-old rival, a crime the gang requires as a test of his thugness. He begins dating a Yalie from his old life. She tries to change him, but it is too late. He gets her pregnant. He refuses to marry her, to keep it real. He cheats on her with a ho’ he meets at the club. He gets the ho’ pregnant. And he cheats again with a sexy Puerto Rican at another club. She gets pregnant as well. His doctor parents disown him. He’s arrested for slingin’ crack. He loses everything but his pregnant girlfriend stays with him at the end out of love.

The End.

When I went to sleep that night, I had a dream. I dreamed, to my horror, that The Surgeon’s Son became a runaway best seller with movie rights optioned by Spike Lee. Critics praised The Surgeon’s Son for its “originality,” “raw honesty,” and “authenticity.” I woke up in a cold sweat and called Lisa. She had had the same dream.

Pause.

“Let’s write about something else,” Lisa says. I quickly agree.

Race & Ethnicity, Multiculturalism

Read more articles by Winkfield F. Twyman, Jr.