Miss Jessie's

by Miko Branch

  Three

  STREET WISE

  You must learn.

  —KRS ONE, BOOGIE DOWN PRODUCTIONS

  Our father was not playing. “Miko! Where’s Titi at?” he demanded, the veins popping up on his left temple.

  I was in my bedroom, experimenting with cutting the top of my hair in short layers while I left the back long, and it took some concentration, so I was annoyed by the interruption. “I don’t know!” I said, rolling my eyes when I was sure he wasn’t looking.

  “You better not know, because if you do, I’mma put my foot in your ass!”

  I knew then that I was about to get the full brunt of his wrath for something Titi had done.

  “Again, I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me where she is,” he said, pointing his big finger in my face.

  I had a rough idea where my sister might be, but I was not about to assist in getting my sister’s ass beat, because I knew what could happen if he found out. The thought of witnessing the screams and blows raining down on my big sister made my stomach hurt.

  Titi was in love with a guy in St. Albans, clear on the other side of Queens. His name was Justice, although his government name was Robert. Justice was the name he’d gotten as a member of the Five-Percent Nation, an Afrocentric offshoot of the Nation of Islam founded in Harlem in the sixties. In his downtime, he was referred to as GOD, which was what all the Five-Percenters called themselves.

  It was one of many community movements picking up among young black and Hispanic men and a few women when we were coming up in the eighties, and a lot of our friends from school and around the neighborhoods were down with it. References to it by hip-hop MCs at all the block parties, and later affiliations with early rappers like Big Daddy Kane, Rakim, and Wu-Tang Clan, gave a nod to Five-Percenters.

  Kids were finding their identities in all kinds of ways—rapping, break-dancing, tagging, being Five-Percenters, or all of the above. Titi had found the whole package in Justice, and our father didn’t like it one bit.

  Somehow, Daddy guessed where Titi was. She just wanted to hang out for a few hours with the boyfriend she’d been banned from seeing, so she sneaked out that evening and took the bus to his house. Determined to find her, Daddy got in his car, drove around the neighborhood half the night, and after asking a few folks on the corner, managed to hunt down where Justice was living. Daddy banged on the door. Justice’s parents let him in, and Dad came crashing down the stairs to the basement, where Titi was hiding under the bed.

  “No, Dad, noooo! I wasn’t even doing anything!” Titi protested.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to run around with this dude? Didn’t I tell you to stay your ass home?” Daddy yelled. “Git your ass up!” he demanded. Then he dragged her out of her hidey-hole, up the stairs, and out of the house. Once he had her in his clutches, he grabbed her up in front of the whole street.

  It was his way of helping Justice understand that Titi had a father who did not play. The message was received. Our boyfriends sure were scared of our father, although not as frightened as Daddy was at the thought that his thirteen-year-old baby girl was stepping out with a seventeen-year-old young man at the dawn of the crack era.

  A NEW ERA

  Our teen years were an era of discovery for us, a time when kids all over New York City were finding forms of self-expression. Growing up in Queens in the eighties was a blessing, because we got to be there at the birth of hip-hop, a time of experimentation in art, music, fashion, and entrepreneurship like we’d never seen. The music movement was starting just as we were hitting puberty in 1979, with disco and songs like Chic’s “Good Times” phasing out, and rap just getting on the radar with Bronx DJs and groups like the Sugar Hill Gang. It was all connected. The Sugar Hill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” even sampled Chic’s “Good Times” —the bass line that carried what is arguably the original rap song.

  The first time we heard that record, we were on the school bus from Jamaica to Whitestone, and it was so popular that everyone knew the rhymes by heart. On those long rides into Whitestone, we would also listen and jam to Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five on a huge beat-box radio that one of the other kids brought on the bus. By then, some of the girls had started wearing Jheri curls and would be sure to get teased if they leaned their head on the bus window and left a big grease stain.

  By the time we were in junior high school, hip-hop went local, and a lot of talent came out of Queens. Hollis, in particular, was a hotbed of talent, with Jam Master Jay, Darryl “DMC” McDaniels and Joey “Reverend Run” Simmons from Run DMC and of course, LL Cool J. Other parts of Queens turned out talent like Roxanne Shanté, and Marley Marl, and Sweet Tee. When we were in high school, there were Salt ’N Pepa, Biz Markie and Nas from Queensbridge and, from St. Albans, Q-Tip and Phife Dawg of A Tribe Called Quest. One after the other, new rap groups were coming on the scene, and just by living in Queens we had access to them all. It wasn’t unusual to see these MCs and rappers out in the streets.

  It was something we took for granted, growing up in the city, with music and culture on our doorstep. It wasn’t just the music coming out of Queens and taking over. Entrepreneurship was in the air, with Russell Simmons from Hollis cofounding Def Jam Recordings and turning an underground movement into mainstream business. Being born into this helped us to see what could be done. The fear of trying was never there.

  Sample and curate experiences, trends, and ideas. They will inform you as a tastemaker.

  Many businesses were being born from that time and place. Through music and fashion, there was a pride and spirit associated with black entrepreneurship just emerging from the streets of Queens, Brooklyn, Harlem, and the Bronx. We were growing up with these young men. Daymond John, founder of FUBU, or For Us By Us—one of the first multimillion-dollar hip-hop clothing lines—went to high school with us, as did his business partners. Apparently, by breathing the same air and drinking the same water, we were influenced by incredible talent and raw entrepreneurism, blessed as we were to be living in one of the most creative cities in the world.

  OUR OWN LANE

  By then we were living in a middle-class section of Flushing. Our family had moved from Ozone Park, a section of Jamaica, Queens, in 1980, when we were ten and eleven. Our mother insisted we be around a broader mix of ethnicities. Jamaica was predominantly black and Hispanic, while Flushing had every hue and ethnicity, including more Asians.

  In retrospect, it was a good move for us, because a lot of kids coming up in a more ethnically homogenous neighborhood got locked into one way of thinking. Some of them never left their four corners in Jamaica. Flushing was a whole different vibe. Because we were being bused to a white school in Whitestone with kids from other neighborhoods, we were still making friends and staying connected with people from Jamaica, St. Albans, Laurelton, and Hollis. We maintained roots while constantly forming new social networks. It wasn’t just one tight circle but many. We never stayed in one spot; we ping-ponged among all the neighborhoods where we knew people.

  We were developing our own identities, each of us in our own lane. Titi and I were close, but we never felt the need to cling to each other. It wasn’t the same codependency we had when we were little girls. Now we were old enough to take public transportation and travel around unsupervised. (In the eighties, kids were much less coddled, and twelve- and thirteen-year-olds were considered old enough to take a bus on their own.) Being more mobile opened up our worlds. We had a few friends in common, but mostly, we did our own thing, coming together to protect and support each other on an as-needed basis.

  TEENAGE REBELLION

  As usual, Titi was the adventurous and bold one, always throwing herself headlong into whatever new thing was happening in the neighborhood. She preferred to trust people—or at least give them the benefit of the doubt—experiencing something first and then reflecting on it later. In that sense, she was the exact opposite of me. I tended to play everything out in my head beforehand, analyzing
each and every move like a chess player.

  Titi’s free-spirited ways were causing some concern for our father, because she was getting so deep into the school of life that her regular studies had fallen by the wayside. Titi cut so many classes that she got kicked out of Hunter College High School, the special school where she’d been placed for being exceptionally bright. Her teachers never got to know of her keen intellect. In her own way, she was rebelling against Daddy’s strict rules. Besides, there were too many other interesting things going on in the streets around her. At that age, Titi couldn’t have cared less about her academics. Her interest in people had kicked in.

  I watched, taking it all in and calculating my risks. Only once, when I was fourteen, did I get in over my head. I’d been hanging out at my girlfriend’s house, where her cousin and my boyfriend, Sayquann, met us, and I didn’t get home until three A.M. My father didn’t approve. He smacked me hard the moment I came through the door, knocking the earring right out of my ear. I was never allowed to go back to that house again.

  For the most part, I stayed out of trouble. After I’d seen Titi catch hell with our father, mine was a much more quiet rebellion. I was hell-bent on avoiding Titi’s more overt mistakes, while asserting my individuality in other, more subtle ways. Titi’s rebellion was in her actions, mine was in my head, and in a way that was more dangerous. There was no longer anything docile about this girly girl, who obviously had inherited Miss Jessie’s feistiness.

  CLOSE CIRCLE

  I thought my sister was “out there” for someone our age, so I usually tried to stay inside the lines with a small tight-knit circle of friends who were a little less wild and more age-appropriate.

  Neal Jackson, my classmate and constant companion throughout junior high and high school, shared my love of music and fascination with human behavior. Creative and witty, with a flair for writing and other forms of self-expression, he had a sense of style all his own. Neal was the person I checked in with every day. Next to Titi, he was the friend who knew me best. Years later, he would become our future promotions consultant at Miss Jessie’s.

  Everyone in our orbit had a creative side. Either we were drawn to them, or they were drawn to us. My friend Tony Bodden used to rhyme and even had his own group, with hip-hop producer Irv Gotti as his MC and beatboxer Rahzel, who eventually joined the Roots. They were so good that whenever they played, word of mouth would spread and they’d fill the stadium at Jamaica Park. Tony’s crew won rapping contests and even got a recording deal. Rumor had it that Run DMC wanted to record with them. Later on, Tony cowrote the screenplay for Hype William’s movie, Belly, starring Nas, DMX, T-Boz, and Method Man.

  Neal was heavily into the music, eventually leaving the neighborhood to tour with his sister, Toi Jackson, aka Sweet Tee, one of the first female rappers to get a recording deal, with her hit “It’s My Beat.” Neal, who shared stories from his touring days, learned a lot from the music industry that he would later apply to Miss Jessie’s marketing campaigns.

  BIG BRO’

  The one dear friend Titi and I had in common was Joseph Handy, another St. Albans boy who became a kind of big brother to us. Titi, Joe, and a few others became especially close, doing everything together, including cutting class, smoking weed, riding the 7 train into Manhattan, dancing at block parties, and sneaking off to see the Diana Ross concert in Central Park.

  Joe embodied so much of what was going on in that era, rapping with Justice, Titi’s former boyfriend; wearing his shell top, Adidas, sweatsuits, and Kangol hats; and tagging graffiti all over the place with his crew of friends. We were excited for him when we saw him rhyming at the Apollo Theater in Harlem. Today he is a graphic artist and sometimes does illustrations for Miss Jessie’s—one of a handful of creative friends from back in the day who now have a connection to our business.

  FASHION, HAIR, AND HIP-HOP

  Our own self-expression took the form of fashion and, of course, hair. We rocked that whole eighties look, shopping at VIM and the Colosseum Mall on Jamaica Avenue. Titi had a gray sheepskin, and I had a black “goose” bomber jacket from Delancey Street.

  Trying out the different hair and style trends was one way we had fun together. I’d do Titi’s hair, and we’d borrow each other’s clothes and jewelry. Sometimes it led to fights if one of us lost something or took some earrings without asking. Make no mistake, we were adolescent girls who had our share of fights about stupid stuff. But experimenting with the different looks of the eighties and early nineties was how we bonded as sisters. We cultivated our individual looks, but we were each other’s best critics, and neither of us would let the other out of the house looking anything less than fly and stylish. On rare occasions we even dressed in the same clothes, or complementary color combinations, like identical twins. It was something we did playfully, just to mess with people. We were the Branch sisters out in full force.

  When it comes to trends, you don’t have to be all in. Take what works for you and discard the rest.

  My sister and I preferred to set the trend rather than be a part of one. We liked to mix various elements to make them our own. Many of the girls rocked sweatshirts with felt letters on the front and back, stating their crew, zodiac sign, or even their ’hood. They would pair them with Lee jeans, a name belt and Adidas shell-top sneakers or Reebok high tops, also known as Fifty Four-Elevens (because with tax they cost exactly $54.11). We loved that style a lot, but when others went right, we went slightly to the left. We took a peek at what was happening in the street culture, filed the information we needed, and traveled on. It’s how we’ve operated throughout our career, never going too deep into lifestyle. This approach has allowed us to stay outside trends and provided us with a view of what was on the horizon.

  Not that we didn’t have fun with whatever was happening in the moment. I was doing the sexy punk Madonna thing—lots of bracelets, lace, fingerless gloves, neon socks, and thrift store finds, which was odd for a black girl in those days. Titi and I moved on to the next look quickly. At an early age, we were influenced by many groups that seemed to be worlds apart, even the middle-class kids in Whitestone who were rocking Benetton shirts buttoned all the way up to the collar, and Adidas Stan Smith tennis shoes.

  We became vessels for all these different looks. We would express ourselves by blending everything to come up with our own style. Our black, white, Asian, and Latino friends could never completely understand what we were doing, as it was impossible to put us into any single category.

  In the eighties, the look for black girls’ hair was starting to get more interesting. It opened the door for experimentation. These were the days before we could afford to go to the salon for relaxers, so we hot-combed it straight instead. Our mother was the first person to ever straighten our hair, using a lot of Dixie Peach pomade. We became pros at doing our own hair, heating our combs on the stove to iron it bone-straight while greasing it with oil. Not lard; not petroleum jelly. Oil. It was a little trick Miss Jessie taught us, because safflower or vegetable oils were much better for the hair follicles and less heavy. Our mother, being into natural ingredients, also had a stash of oils and essences that we used to raid. The oils worked, but the result could be some funky-smelling hair, like it’d been cooked in the deep fryer.

  One time I left my brush at my then-boyfriend’s. He picked it up, sniffed it, and said, “What the hell is that smell?” Later on, he grew to love that burnt-hair scent, but it wasn’t exactly the perfumed hair we read about in romance novels.

  In the early eighties, a standard look was the ponytail. We would wear it greased back or damped down with water to smooth out the texture. We wore our hair loose in the back with two cornrows against a side or middle part. We also wore beads and did our hair up in a turban-like style, tucking our hair around a tube top. The final effect looked something like a giant hair mushroom.

  One thing nobody was doing back then was wearing it out and natural. Many girls were doing the Jheri curl that Michael Jac
kson was rocking, but some days I just let my hair go wet, wavy, and curly, a style now known as wash-n-go. It wasn’t a total curly look—I groomed and conditioned my hair with mousse and conditioner—but it was a textured look that caught some attention. “Miko, do your hair in that frizzy look. I like that,” my best friend, Neal, used to tell me. “It looks so different when you do that.”

  The age of innocence came to an end by the time we hit fifteen and sixteen, when so many of our friends got caught up in the drug game. The same boys we watched play handball in the park days turned up on the corner with BMWs and clothes just a little too fly for a sixteen-year-old from Queens with no job. By this time most of the guys had beepers on their hips. Many of our friends started experimenting with more than a little weed and graduated to the harder stuff by putting cocaine in their cigarettes, spliffs, and blunts. Some ended up getting hooked, and things got violent real quick.

  BRANCHING OUT

  When things took a turn, Daddy cranked up his protection mode, and we started focusing more on school. We grew to understand why he was being hard on us. There was a lot to save us from, but we’d already had enough of a foundation to know we were destined for bigger things. We also had each other.

  This was during the Ronald Reagan era, when money was pouring into the city, and our mother and father were both starting to benefit. Our mother landed a job at Grey Advertising as an art director, and our dad, who by then was running Branch Realty out of a building in Rockaway that he’d bought a few years earlier, was having a good streak selling properties. He even sold the famed Lenox Lounge on Lenox Avenue in Harlem.