Featured Book: Felicia “Snoop” Pearson's “Grace After Midnight: A Memoir”

I recently finished reading an advanced copy of Felicia “Snoop” Pearson’s autobiography “Grace After Midnight: A Memoir” available now in bookstores on Hachette Books.

Felicia is probably best known for her role on HBO’s hit series The Wire as Snoop.

But after reading her story, it’s clear that Felicia is more than just a pretty face.

Felicia was born premature to two drug-addicted and incarcerated parents and reared in an East Baltimore foster home. Hours old and about 3lbs, doctors didn't expect her to live. She was so small she was fed with an eyedropper until she grew stronger. Days went by and she continued to survive, so Snoop was made a ward of the court and reared in an East Baltimore foster home. While other 12-year-olds were in school, Snoop was learning the drug game. At 14, Snoop was sentenced to 8 years in prison for the second degree murder of Okia Toomer. She said her life turned around at 18, when a man she called Uncle Loney, a local drug dealer who looked out for her and sent her money in prison, was shot and killed. It was he who had given her the nickname "Snoop" because she reminded him of Charlie Brown’s favorite beagle Snoopy in the comic strip “Peanuts.” She finished school while behind bars. After earning her G.E.D. in prison, Pearson was released in 2000. She landed a local job making car bumpers, she said, but was fired two weeks later after her employer learned she had a prison record.

Snoop met Michael K. Williams, who portrays Omar Little on The Wire, in a Baltmore club. He invited her to come to the set one day.  He introduced her to the writers and the producers, and she was offered a role in the series.

Her new book “Grace After Midnight: A Memoir” reveals the details of her life prior to her acting career.  A life of hard knocks that almost lead to her death and a long term prison sentence.

Felicia is open about her being a lesbian both in real life and in her book.  While her sexual orientation doesn’t dominate her story, it’s a significant part of it.

“Grace After Midnight: A Memoir” is Felicia’s story, but it is also the story of countless Black men and women, some who escaped the game and others who didn’t.  But one thing is clear about Felicia, she's fiercely independent and made her own way, be it it legit or nope. And like with so many brothers and sisters, Felicia puts in black and white what happens when you try to go legit and do things the "right" way and how in many cases the system sets you up for failure.

I thoroughly enjoyed her story and look forward to hearing more from her.  I hope that her publisher will send her on tour with her book so that she can meet and talk to the people who have been inspired by her story. It’s not everyday that the autobiography of a Black lesbian who is out of the closet is published and publicized.  I have to say that I’ve read about her book in the November issues of Ebony and ESSENCE Magazines.  Word!

Congrats to Felicia for keeping it real and telling her story, the good, the bad, and the ugly, but mostly for being an inspiration and putting a face on the invisible.

Now the rest of ya'll...going and buy it!

• Barnes & Nobles
• EReadable.com
• Blackwell

Grace After Midnight: A Memoir
Non-Fiction/ Life Stories
ISBN:0446195189
9780446195188
Hardcover
$22.00/U.S.
$25.50/CAN
240 pages
5-1/4 x 8

EXCERPTS FROM "GRACE AFTER MIDNIGHT: A MEMOIR"

BABY GIRL

 

I was born in Baltimore twenty-seven years ago, and then I died—twice. I died both times because my mother was filled with drugs and so was I. Crack babies are messed-up babies, and, according to what the doctors were saying, I didn’t have a prayer.

But they brought me back from death’s door. Someone or something keeps bringing me back from death’s door.

I don’t understand it, but maybe writing this book will help me see who I was and who I became.

Sometimes I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and imagine myself back then:

A little-bitty baby small enough to fit into the palm of the doctor’s hand, no bigger than a puppy or kitten; a baby who has to be fed with an eye dropper ’cause her mouth is too small for the nipple of a bottle; a baby born cross-eyed due to the drugs running through her system.

A baby born to die.

But that same doomed-to-die baby finds a way to live.

How?

Why?

Sure wasn’t because of Mama. Mama was Loretta Chase. The woman may have wanted me—I can’t know that for sure—but I do know that she couldn’t care for me. Later I learned that Mother was the kind of lady that always kept a drug dealer around to fill her needs. She could do that because she had a pretty face, long wavy hair, and a fine figure. Men flocked to her. My daddy ran from her—or she chased him off. I never did get the story.

I didn’t get a lot of the stories about my real parents. They’re ghost figures in my childhood. I saw them in my dreams when I was a little girl. Sometimes they creep back into my dreams now that I’m a grown woman, but they’re always covered in mystery.

The mystery was heavy because as soon as I was born I was put into a foster home owned by two people who had a row house in the toughest neighborhood in East Baltimore. Their names were Cora and Levi Pearson and their place was on East Oliver Street, three doors off the corner of North Montford. That’s where I grew up. Oliver and Montford is where it all happened.

When I arrived the Pearsons were already in their early sixties. Sweet folk. They took care of me, but I still wanted my mama. And when I heard that Mama was calling for me, I got happy all over. I wanted to see her.

All little girls wanna see their mothers. All girls need their mothers. The earliest dreams I can remember are dreams of my mother. I’d see her standing there before me, holding out her arms, hugging me tight, putting me to bed and tucking me in.

“You’re my precious baby,” she’d say.

I’d smile at her, close my eyes, and fall asleep inside my dream.

THE CLOSET

My memories of Mama’s visits are like dreams.

During the first two visits we were at the park. I remember clouds and rain, I remember a dark sky, wet grass, and plastic slides in the playground. I remember Mrs. Simms, the white social worker, who held my hand until, from behind a tree, a woman appeared. The woman was beautiful. She ran to me with her arms wide open. I didn’t move. I didn’t know what to do.

“It’s your mother,” said Mrs. Simms. “Go to your mother.”

I let the woman embrace me. She smelled of cigarettes and perfume. Tears ran down her cheek. I didn’t know why she was crying. She held me tight and said words I don’t remember. I imagine that she said she loved me. We walked for a while. She, Mrs. Simms, and I went to a candy store where I got a soda and a little bag of M & M’s.

“You and your mother look just alike,” Mrs. Simms said.

I loved hearing those words because I knew my mother looked like a lady in a magazine.

The rain stopped—I can’t remember if this was the first visit or the second—and children were in the park. My mother said something about my pigtails. As a little girl, my hair was done up in little pigtails.

“If you let your hair grow out,” she said, “it’ll look like mine.”

She let me touch her wavy hair.

“Can I bring her to my house? Can I be alone with my daughter?” she asked Mrs. Simms.

Mrs. Simms said, “Maybe. Maybe next time.”

Next time came soon. The night before I was too excited to sleep.

What would my mother’s house look like? I was sure it’d be pretty because she was pretty. I was sure it’d be big. The house on Oliver Street had three floors and three bedrooms, but I knew my mother’s house would be bigger. The house on Oliver Street had all sorts of people living there—grandchildren and cousins to Mr. and Mrs. Pearson. But I was my mother’s only child. I wouldn’t have to share the house with anyone but my mother. Maybe I could live with her forever.

I always hated dresses, but I wore one to visit my mother because I wanted to look pretty. I wanted to look like my mother. My dress, lavender and embroidered with white lace, was brand new. My foster mama had bought it for me to wear to church.

My excitement built as Mrs. Simms drove me to my mother’s. But when we arrived, I was sure she had made a mistake. It wasn’t a house at all, but a tiny one-room apartment with a small kitchen, and a couch that opened up into a bed. The room was messy and didn’t smell good. This couldn’t be where my mom lived. But it was.

When Mrs. Simms left us, my mother sat down on the edge of the bed. Something was wrong. She was crying and shaking. I didn’t know why. She didn’t hug and kiss me like she had in the park. She didn’t even look at me. I just stood there.

Then her mood changed. She got up from the bed and told me to take off my clothes. I didn’t understand why. I wouldn’t do it.

“Do it!” she cried.

She screamed at me until I did it. I took off all my clothes, dropping them on the floor.

“Now get in there,” she ordered, pointing to the closet.

I tried to run but my mother caught me. She pushed me into the closet and locked the door behind me. I began wailing at the top on my lungs.

“Stop crying,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

Then the sound of her leaving the apartment.

The darkness.

The fear of being locked in.

Naked fear.

Baby girl fear.

Pure terror.

I carried on. Kept crying. Kept screaming louder, but no one heard. Cried so loud and long that I cried myself out. I finally fell to the floor and started kicking. I had to get out. Someone had to hear me.

I don’t know how much time passed, but when I heard the voices of Mrs. Simms and my foster father, I screamed my head off. They broke open the door and set me free. I was hysterical.

“Imagine that,” I heard Mrs. Simms tell my foster father, “selling her little girl’s clothes to buy crack.”

I was never allowed to be alone with my mother again.

Sometime in my childhood my mother reappeared at the house on Oliver Street.

Each time the visit was short, and with each visit she looked less beautiful. Her eyes were crazy. Sometimes her dress was dirty and worn. She’d come into the front room and just look at me. She’d try to smile, but the smile wouldn’t come. She’d cry and leave.

Her visits became more infrequent. Finally they stopped.

That’s when Mrs. Pearson became Mama and Mr. Pearson became Pop.

 

Comments

[Nikki]

Mayne snoop is fyn ass hell i bought her book n its rell tawk

[yo girl jay]

post more

[yo girl]

i think that this is going to be a good book i like reading things that are real instead of that fantasy bullshit reading this makes me be thankful for what i have and even more thankful for not having to go threw something like that but my grandma always said that you had to go through pain to recive joy

[skylynn touchet]

lawd...all i came on here was to show somebody what u looked like cuzz u is fine as hell and i just read all that i was like dam i didnt even know none of that from what i just read about u it kinda reminded me of myself how shit was for me and still is with me accept im still caught up with the law and i aint done till im 18 but ya im gone get that book a.s.a.p..i already like to read and ima keep watchen ya fine ass on bet boo well keep it real and gutta and stay cute ma

[skylynn touchet]

man...lawd i wanna read that book i didnt even know any of that i was just showen a friend what u looked like cuzz u is fine as hell and when i read that it reminded me a lil of my past but mine wasnt that bad like that it was ruff though and it still is were im at and all the trouble im in with the law but aww ya u seem to look like u make a difference in peoples life from what i just read from other peoples blogs well im out and i cant wait to read the book...love sky boo

[Delona]

This book seems to be very good and watch the wire all the time just to see snoop and i don't care if she is a girl she is vey cute.She tells the truth about everything aand i love the way she talks.And she is open about her being gay and dosen't care who talks about her. She is a real person ihope and dream and pray that one day i will meet her just to tell her how much ilike herno matter what people might say just because i like her dosen't mean im gay.

Felicia pearson is an inspiration to all who have done wrong in their lives... Her book gives people hope to overcome all trials and tribulations.. I can relate to her life because my mother was also on drugs. I lost a little brother because of my mother being on drugs. Growing up was hard... and for her to write a book about her life takes a lot of courage... Keep doing ya thang baby!!

Respectfully,
Princess

P.S Thanks for the hug at CLUB CEBU 3/16/08
It was live as hell in VIP!!

[Nsayne]

I would hope that she did show remorse for the family that she caused pain to. But I think that its good that she is doing something positive with herself instead of the same things that got her in trouble in the first place. What would be a good suggest for Snoop and all the ppl that are hating on her new life. Is for her to at least donate something to her family for their loss. It wont bring the girl back but at least its shows that she has some type of empathy for what happened and the pain she caused. But also we should get both sides of the story before we judge Snoop. Who to say that it wasnt self defense. I dont know the whole story. But at least give this girl a chance to change her life for the good and hopefully use her story to change other lost individuals before they end tragic.

[Professor Tracey]

Does she regret the murder she committed? Does she mourn for the girl whose life was cut short? If not, I think I skip this book. Go out there and google the name of the girl she killed, there is an interesting article about the pain of her family watching and knowing that Snoop is making money and gaining fame from playing a character similar to the real-life person that murdered their loved one.

[Fero Moon]

Daaarraling jasmyne Cannick,

I am always reading your blog because of the interesting artcles and opinions you is spreading around the net. And when the article is interesting enough I place them with a FULL link to your blog back.

Me as a lesbian of colored from the carribean want to greet you by saying you are doing a wonderful job.

Brasa fo mi sisa,

Fero Moon