A Fly Girl

March, 2015.

I was thinking of something the other day, something Thirstin Howl the 3rd said to me once. He really made me stop and think when he said, “Yo, I done fucked a ugly bitch before, just ’cause she was fly.”

I’ve been reminiscing a lot lately about that ol’ fly shit, thinking back to when it all began. Besides the magenta dress from India with the little mirrors all over it I had with the matching shorty-pants I used to rock when I was 2, my first recollection of being fly was standing outside of my auntie and uncle’s house on Norton Ave.

I was watching my cuz and his crew busting backspins and windmills on their square of linoleum in the front yard, the sun was shining, blue Cali sky, green grass and palm trees swaying in the breeze, Hip Hop bangin from the ghettoblaster — and there I was, a pre-teen beauty queen replete with long ponytail, t-shirt, lavender cords and matching lavender Nike Cortez over white and lavender pom-pom socks. You really couldn’t tell me shit.

Junior high brought a new sort of flyness to the game, and even though it was hard playing Powder Puff football with 2" long curved acrylic nails, I was doin’ the damn thing just the same. With my red or burgundy lips, black eyeliner, mascara AND liquid eyeliner, and stone-cold beautiful visage, there was only one way to call me in Spanish… La Muneca. China Doll.