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Sister Souljah’s New York Times bestselling sequel to The Coldest Winter Ever—this time told by Porsche Santiaga, Winter’s fiery younger sister.
THE INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING SEQUEL TO THE COLDEST WINTER EVER
At last, mega-bestselling author Sister Souljah delivers the stunning sequel to The Coldest Winter Ever that fans have been eagerly waiting for. Frighteningly fierce, raw, and completely unpredictable, this coming-of-age adventure is woven with emotional intensity.
A Deeper Love Inside is written in the words of Porsche Santiaga, Winter’s sharp-tongued, quick-witted younger sister. Porsche worships Winter. A natural born hustler, Porsche is also cut from the same cloth as her father, the infamous Ricky Santiaga.
Passionate and loyal to the extreme, Porsche refuses to accept her new life in group homes, foster care, and juvenile detention after her wealthy family is torn apart. Porsche— unique, young, and beautiful—cries as much as she fights and uses whatever she has to reclaim her status.
Unselfishly, she pushes to get back everything that ever belonged to her loving family. In A Deeper Love Inside, readers will encounter their favorite characters from The Coldest Winter Ever, including Winter and Midnight. Sister Souljah’s soulful writing will again move your heart and open your eyes to a shocking reality.
- Sales Rank: #12702 in Books
- Brand: Souljah, Sister
- Published on: 2014-02-18
- Released on: 2014-02-18
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.25" h x 1.20" w x 5.31" l, .76 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 432 pages
Review
"Sister Souljah has taken her talents from the stage to the page."
-- Essence
"The #1 author of the hip-hop generation."
-- Sean "P. Diddy" Combs
"Winter is nasty, spoiled, and almost unbelievably libidinous, and it's ample evidence of the author's talent that she is also deeply sympathetic."
-- The New Yorker
"Winter is precious, babacious, and as tough as a hollow-point bullet."
-- Salon.com
"[Souljah] spread[s] messages that are clear, concise, and true to the game."
-- The Source
"Intriguing....Souljah exhibits a raw and true voice."
-- Publishers Weekly
“It was a great followup and I highly recommend it.” (My Less Three)
“Well worth the wait.” (Tiffany Talks Books)
“This is one sequel you cannot put down until the end.” (Literary Marie)
“Readers can expect another fine story as Sister Souljah writes in a heartfelt manner that will leave readers wanting more.” (The Guardian Express)
“Readers are sure to be drawn to this coming-of-age story, told in Sister Souljah’s magnificent signature style” (Blogging With A Purpose)
“A thought provoking coming-of-age story that was definitely worth the wait.” (Urban Reviews)
About the Author
Sister Souljah is best known for her work as a political activist and educator of underclass urban youth. A graduate of Rutgers University, she is a beloved personality in her own community. She lives in New York with her husband and son.
Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Deeper Love Inside Chapter 1
Not every bitch is a queen. Most chicks are just regular. Most of them know it and accept it, as long as nobody points it out. A queen is authentic, not because she says so, just because she is. A queen doesn’t have to say nothing. Everybody can see it, and feel it, too.
A bunch of bootleg girls been try’na come up. That’s what they supposed to try and do. But their borrowed, stolen style sucks cause it’s borrowed and stolen. A queen knows who she is, inside and out. She wouldn’t imitate anybody else. In fact, she creates original styles, waits for the bootleg bitches to catch on and copy, then switches, making their heads spin, eyes roll, and their short money pile disappear.
I’ma tell you what I hate first. Then Im’ma tell you what I love. Every word that I say is straight, cause I don’t have no time to play with you. The majority of my time is spent stacking my status and plotting to get back my stuff.
I hate conceited girls. They’re played out. You may think that I’m one of them, but there’s a difference between conceit and quality, or should I say conceit and truth. Matter of fact, some of the ugliest females I know are conceited. We living at a point where this shit is all mixed up on purpose. The ugly ones pretend they look good, when everything they got is cheap and fake, including their personalities. The pretty ones play themselves down, cause jealousy is more realer than the air we suck in and blow back out. I, Porsche L. Santiaga, am a real, real pretty bitch. I try my best to stay in my lane and mind my own business, to keep all the envious ones from talking shit, mobbing up and jumping me.
It isn’t easy being the sister of a queen. Naturally, I look up to her. But still, I gotta be me. Imitation gets no respect. I would never live my life trying to look like or be someone else. Regarding my sister, Winter Santiaga, every day for eight years I had my big brown eyes trained on her. She’s a queen, not because she’s beautiful, which is automatic, not because she’s a badass, with endless styles and personality, not because she’s my older sister, my mother’s best friend, and my father’s most loved jewel. None of those are the reasons.
Ricky Santiaga has four daughters. His firstborn, Winter, seemed to have occupied his whole heart. My handsome father was not to blame. Everyone loved her. When she was in a crowded room, everyone was looking her way or trying to stand or sit right beside her. Even in our home she soaked up all the love, as though she were the only child. But she wasn’t the only child.
Me, I’m the “middle daughter.” Maybe you know a little something about how that goes. Everyone’s eyes were either on the oldest daughter, because her young figure was ripe and ready, her eyes so mischievous, and her face so feminine and perfect that they were all scared she might get pregnant. Or, their eyes would be on the youngest, because they are the babies and they might get hurt.
The middle girl is too young to be fucking and too old to be falling down. So everyone forgets where she is and what she’s doing. I got mixed feelings about being invisible. There are benefits. I can’t lie. But sometimes, quietly, I was yearning for Poppa and Momma to�pay�more attention to me simply because their love for me was as�true and as strong as my love for each of them. I didn’t want to have to beg them for love. I didn’t like the idea of having to be annoying�to get attention or having to make a dramatic or phony scene. I hate pretense.
Winter was a queen in my younger eyes because she didn’t have to ask for love, but she was always receiving it. When she did receive it, no one cared if she returned it. They loved her whether she loved them or not. She didn’t seek attention. She commanded it. Winter had the best of everything without working or obeying. Her friends, who were coming and calling constantly, surrounded my sister. Even my young friends wanted to grow up to be Winter. My old aunties wish they could be young again only to try to look and live like Winter.
More than that, in my younger eyes, Winter was above pain and punishment and mostly no one else in the world can claim that. In the chaos of any crisis she walked in looking good, stylish, clean, and untouched. She’d shift her pretty eyes right and then to the left and come up with the swiftest plan, which only she knew the details of.
I was home when they arrested my father. Winter wasn’t. I was left at home when they arrested my mother. Winter wasn’t. I was home when the kidnappers, “social services,” snatched up me, Lexy, and Mercedes. Winter wasn’t. We three sisters were separated and trapped in the system. Winter wasn’t.
In fact, Winter and Momma came to check me one time at a “state-supervised visit,” where I was being held and watched over by the kidnappers. When they walked in, my beautiful momma’s head was shaved bald. Shocked for some seconds, I still wanted to hug her and have her hug me back tight enough to signal to me silently that she knew that this shit was all wrong. That she would take me back home with her.
Momma’s eyes were filled with rage and sorrow. Winter looked rich. She was sparkling and free, like she had a thousand little light-bulbs outlining her entire body. Her caramel-colored skin was glowing. Her hair was fresh, soft, long, and second only to her pretty face. She looked unbreakable, untouched, and unaffected. Then it was confirmed in my eyes on that exact day, that Winter was straight royalty, above everyone else who suffered on a regular, including now my momma and me. That so-called visit was the first time I saw my mother and sister after being tooken, and the last time I saw both of them together ever again.
I miss Momma so much I ache, like when you have vomited to the end and there’s nothing else to throw up. Only a thick yellow fluid comes out, that one nurse said is called bile. Have you ever been in the emergency room strapped to a bed, screaming out “Momma” 156 times, “Poppa” seventy-seven times, and “I want to go home” thirty-three times?
As for Poppa, six one, light-skinned, strong, and suave with not even a teaspoon of bitch in him, no man on earth is better than him. Momma is like a cup of hot chocolate on a freezing morning. Poppa is like a cup of black tea with a whole lot of heavy cream mixed in. Dark and light, they complemented one another.
Winter was the best parts of both of them, all in one. I love her, and fuck anybody else who doesn’t, no matter his or her reason.
Listen when I tell you, I am 100 percent loyalty. If you can count, you’d know that there’s nothing left over from that.
Unique, I know I’m different from her, but we sisters. We’re full blood related. So I’m royal. I inherited these looks. Like Winter and Momma, my beauty is undeniable, captivating, and offensive to many. No, I’m not light-skinned. Stop that silly shit, as if there is only one shade to be deeply admired. I’m honey-brown like an expensive Godiva that can only be purchased in a specialty shop. My brown-gold eyes are outlined with a thin black line that circles around the pupil, like an exotic bird. When people first notice them, they pause and look again.
Every day I fight. Not because of anything I did, just because of who I am naturally. I fight young angry bitches cause they wish they had these same eyes and can’t get comfortable until they poke mines out. My skin is flawless like satin, or an unaffordable diamond. I’m a dancer, not a stuck-up ballerina or a fucking stripper. Back on our Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, block I had an all-girls dance crew. We used to rock. We even won first place at our block party over some girls that was older than us. People were amazed at how our young bodies could bend and move, flow, bounce, and shake like we knew shit we couldn’t possibly have known, and experienced shit that none of us had experienced yet. We tore it up, moving to a Rob Base throwback titled “It Takes Two.” That night, Momma placed her hands on my hips and said I would grow up to be her “moneymaker.” I liked the feeling that I was doing something that made Momma look my way for more than a few moments, and believe in me.
My hair is black. It grew from my own scalp and lays on my back. Momma says it’s long because I’m loved. She says, “Other bitches don’t know or don’t want to keep their daughter’s hair clean, oiled, combed, conditioned, and clipped.” Back then Momma would say, “If you see a bald bitch she’s unloved. Or, she cut her hair off because she don’t want to be loved. Or, she cut it off because she ran up on some rotten love.”
Me, I know mine is real nice, but I don’t worship my hair. I keep it neat and never throw it in nobody’s face. Apparently that ain’t enough. In a two-year stretch, I had seventeen fights. Nine of them were brawls over hair, with half-bald bitches with homemade weapons. I fought a conceited ugly girl named Cha-Cha four out of the nine hair fights. In arts ’n crafts class, I grabbed the one pair of scissors shared by twenty girls and chained to the desktop, and cut off my hair and gave it to her, so she could stop fucking sweating me. She wore my hair braided into single box braids on her head the next day.
I didn’t say anything to her. I had gotten comfortable with my short cut overnight. Then she got mad cause I wasn’t mad. So she fought me again. The authorities, that’s what we call them, they locked me up in isolation for fighting. Every time they act like they don’t know what the fight is all about. Every time they act like we fifty/fifty involved in the fight when they know damn well that chick hates herself and is gonna fight till somebody kills her and puts her out of misery.
Even with my wrists locked and my ankles chained, headed to isolation, I don’t react. They release me into that little space butt-naked. Then I dance. Repetition makes my legs beautiful, strong, and tight. I don’t eat, so I don’t have no body fat. I taught myself to accept hunger, cause people try to use it against you when they think they got something you really need, even if it’s only a sandwich. I dance until I’m drenched. The music plays in my head, sounding crisp like it did back in Brooklyn. I stop when I collapse. Then, I wake up in another wing with a tube in my arm and a bad-breath nurse faking concern and whispering something like, “You could’ve died last night.” I close my eyes and wish I had enough fluids in my mouth to spit on her, just to clear my throat.
When they would bring me back into the population mix with the rest of the bitches, 522 of them to be exact, I’d see most of the girls from my section gasp like they seen a ghost. I know certain ones of them won’t be happy until they slit my perfect skin open, or at least put a permanent stamp on it. That’s why I plot.
In one of the monthly head sessions they make us have, one of my enemies told the therapist that she fights me because I think I’m better. I told her she fights me because she thinks I’m better. These regular bitches don’t get it. It’s not my hair or eyes or legs or none of that bullshit that makes me who I am, plain and simple. It’s that I’m Porsche L. Santiaga, born rich. My daddy was rich. My momma was rich. My sisters were rich. I’m not gonna act like a regular bitch when I was born royal. They never had nothing, so they don’t know no better. They got nothing to miss. I had a queen-sized bed when I was seven years old. Even before then, back in Brooklyn at my sister’s sixteenth birthday celebration at Moe’s, in the dead of the winter season, my whole family was styling. I rocked a three-quarter mink, and mink earmuffs, and a mink muffler instead of gloves.
I have a mother who taught me the difference between everything cheap and high quality. I had three sisters, all dimes living swolled in a beautiful Long Island palace. The last thing my poppa promised me was a pony so I could trot around our property. It’s the police who are the criminals, kidnappers, and thieves. The authorities know the deal, they all in it together.
That’s why I jammed the sharpened number two pencil in my caseworker’s neck as she was driving me in her state-owned vehicle. She tried to say something slick about my family, about Winter in particular. I don’t play that shit. “Family sticks together.”
If a bitch believed she could say something rude about a Santiaga out loud and in my face, I obviously wasn’t on my J.O.B.
Now I don’t know if I was trying to kill her. I just wanted the bitch to pay attention to what I had been telling her for many months. I am Porsche L. Santiaga, sister to Winter Santiaga, the twins, Lexus and Mercedes Santiaga. Brooklyn-born, we chill now in a Long Island mansion. Stop driving me around and dropping me off to the broke, broken, perverted, ugly-ass, foster-care providers and introducing me to strangers who wanna pretend to be my parents. I don’t pretend at nothing. I don’t like fake shit. Take me home. I have a house and a family. I told her clearly in a respectful tone. I recited to her my exact Long Island address.
“You shouldn’t look up to a girl like Winter, even though she is your real sister,” the bitch said one autumn morning when I was seated and trapped in the back seat of her state vehicle, where I had been seated and trapped many times. She must of felt good and big about herself with her files filled up with dirty talk about my real life, and her folded newspaper that must have reported some lies that she decided to believe. So, she started saying something foul.
“Winter,” my caseworker said, referring to my well-loved sister�.�.�.�.
My caseworker is paralyzed now. So she got a lot of time to sit still and think about all the lies she been telling little kids, about taking them to live in a better place, in better circumstances. She knew what the fuck was up. She’d say and do anything, no matter how evil it was as long as they paid her to do it. She’d drop me off anywhere, including hell, and leave me with anyone including the motherfucking devil, even if she knew for sure I was in serious danger. As long as that was the address printed on her paper, she’d leave me without looking back. So they got me locked up in juvy. It’s better than playing house. Everything is clear in here, the way I prefer things to be. No one is pretending to love me, or the rest of us. We damn sure ain’t pretending to love them or each other either. In here, there’s only friends and enemies, no in-between.
Most helpful customer reviews
237 of 257 people found the following review helpful.
A big let down...
By Red Reader
I am a big fan of Coldest Winter Ever. I remember being enthralled with the book in high school and not putting the book down until it was finished. I could not wait until the movie came out. I was let down when the movie deal fell through but the light at the end of the tunnel was the sequel to the book. I couldnt wait for kindle to get their act together so I purchased it for Nook on Barnes and Noble. So the book picks up with Porsche being 10 years old and what happend to her from the point when she was taken from the family home that fateful day by BCS. First off, some of the words, thinking and ideas this little girl has in this book makes it UNBELIEVABLE that a 10 year old is thinking these things, writing these things, experiencing these things and understanding these things. The first 22 chapters were boring and I found myself not interested in reading the book anymore and having to will myself to continue reading. From juve, to an indian reservation and back to Brooklyn I just couldnt get into this book.
After attempting to read the last two Midnight books and losing interest I had a vague notion that Souljahs writing style had changed and thus her books are changing too. However, when you write an urban masterpiece like Coldest Winter Ever, you cannot change the flow of the story by writing something that is totally opposite. In CWE you felt Winter, you could see Winters reality through her words. The way she talked, the way she thought, the way she moved you understood it and most importantly it was believable. The book did pick up somewhat when Porsche finally got off the Indian reservation and ventured the Brooklyn streets in search of mom only to find out that her mother was a crackhead, but again she was 10 YEARS OLD! I just cant picture a 10 year old little girl roaming the streets of Brooklyn, at night looking for her mother in an area she hadnt been in for 4 years. I wish Souljah would not have wrote this book and labeled it a sequel if she wasnt going to keep the same writing style and flow as CWE.
DLI is very thought provoking, and wonderfully written I can admit. And in another instance and situation might have even been a 5 star book. However, since this was geared as the sequel to CWE it fell really short. If you are expecting this great enthralling book that picks up where CWE left off and are hungry for the urban situations and issues that CWE had you will be sadly mistaken. Everyone should read it to satisfy your mind from CWE, but as a sequel to one of the best urban novels of all time I was totally unhappy.
190 of 223 people found the following review helpful.
Did you read Midnight? Then you've read this book.
By Maxine Shaw, attorney at LOL
Look, I know what you're thinking. You grew up on TCWE and Flyy Girl books. You feel like Souljah couldn't possibly mess this up. And hey, the first chapter is pretty interesting, like the old Souljah. So how bad can it be?
Very bad. Very, VERY bad.
If you read the Midnight books, you've read this one. A preteen kid who is able to hustle up tens of thousands of dollars while apparently nobody - and I mean NO DAMN BODY - seems to care that she's never in school. A prepubescent child who writes and talks like a 40-year-old. (I'm an educator who gives writing prompts on a near-daily basis, so Porsche's so-called journal entries are all that more ridiculous.) Seriously, 80% of this book is Porsche from ages 10-12. Bored yet? You will be after the first 300 pages.
Let's not forget Souljah's Islam fetish, where Muslims are never presented as real people and Islam is some magical cult that would save black America from itself. Does Souljah even KNOW any Muslims? Because they are never people in her stories, only caricatures. Souljah's penis envy is also in overdrive by the end - her definition of "patriarchy" could have only been Babelfished from ancient Greek, it's so off-base. Let's not even get started with the inconsistencies! Even the ones she tries to explain away (like her relationship with Buster) are appallingly bad.
Pick this up at the library if you just have to check it out, but do NOT put your money towards this project. It's time to stop supporting mediocrity - and long-winded mediocrity at that. TCWE was either a fluke or was ghostwritten. Midnight, Meaning of Love, and now this. One...two...three strikes, Souljah. Hang it up.
81 of 98 people found the following review helpful.
Let down ... Sequel? yea right
By Reader
*spoiler*
Listen, i understand know hard it is for writers to write their next "great" after their first one. TCWE was Souljah's great. So i can imagine how hard it was to her to write something as good, meaningful, and as powerful as it was. but this was aweful
using the word "Sequel" was obviously a way to get reads because this was in NO way a sequel. I was very disappointed in EVERYTHING. The writing has went downhill. I didn't like Porsche's character, she was very poorly created. In fact Riot's story was more interesting. SO many things did not add up about. FIrst off, it starts off with Porsche as a 10 year old, unruly child who doesn't pay attention in class but she's saying things like, "She had clout," (28). What 10 year old would say this? especially the one Souljah has carved for us?? Then when describing music she says, ". . . Bk's B.I.G was the best, but on the low a Queens dude had put all our hoods on the map painting authentic scenarios with words rhymed more better than Shakespeare."(97) Okay, she says "more better" which gives it that improper feel, but still what does she know about Shakespeare? she didnt learn anything about him in school before getting locked up. Lets remember her parents weren't exactly pushing for education, i can argue this because WInter says in TCWE that she stopped going to school, and there wasn't any mention of her parents fighting her on that. SO are we led to believe that this is something Porsche could have learned prior to being there in juvy ?Or in juvy for that matter, where she says she doesn't pay attention? come one.
The whole "Siri" character is soo annoying and its easy to find out early on that she's not real- just a figment of Porsches imagination. It irks me that this is drawn out for so long like readers wouldn't figure out she's imaginary. And if it is going to be drawn out, no one even addresses it as a problem.
the only interesting things that happened that perked me up was when she goes to bk and finds her mom, talks with Midnight, then meets with Winter at the end.
Reread the the last few pages of TCWE. THAT Porsche seems like a replica of Winter. So much so that even Winter says that she wont warn her about the troubles of the lifestyle she was getting herself into and that she would have to find out for herself. THis implies that Porsche is heading down the same road as Winter. in that last chapter of TCWE, Porsche even says that her boo "Busta" brought her the car she was pushing at the funeral. but in this one, when Winter brings up Busta, porsche says to herself she was listening to Busta rhymes not talking about a man who brought her the car. Come on really? that wasn't a smooth clean up at all Souljah
Let me tell you what happened with this. Souljah tried to re-sculpt a character she already gave us concrete hints of in the first book. Then she tried to write a book around this character, but have the character completely different from the one she originally created. It doesn't work for me. These hints in the last chapter in the first book are what made people like me purchase this second one. Is she gonna be like WInter? Does Winter get out of jail, Will the story pick up when Winter comes out, is this story about Porsche while getting details from her sister in living that particular life style?
Souljah's agenda was to create a story that captured the trials and tribulations of young, abandoned females in the system. And this is cool. But she forced that story onto Porsche when she already gave us a different piece of her. Dont market it as a sequel when it is not! I wish i never spent money on this. I brought it for the sequel, not for this story and i feel people brought this for WINTER or at least something close to her. Those that are saying it was good do not mean it was a good SEQUEL. THey simply mean that it was a good story about a girl dealing with being the invisible child, breaks out of juvy, finds her crack head momma, and puts her life together.
P.s story ends with Porsche being 16 or so, a famous dancer making million engaged to a film director who is also her age, 2 babies, and her crazy ass still talking to Siri and no one thinks its anything more than peculiar. Really? I should have followed my gut with the chapter review i found on wordpress. there were only about 5 chapters of it on there, but it sounded like crap
you know what tho, maybe the problem is me. i expected more
on second thought . . . nah.
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