Cherise Jackson

Three hours.  The most tedious, ridiculous three hours Cherise Jackson had ever suffered.  Three hours spent trying to pry an interesting conversation out of a syruped-up idiot who claimed to be the best rapper alive.  Cherise shifted the weight of her oversized Tracy Reese bag and sighed.  She really hated rappers.  Well, not all rappers.  She still had an eternal crush on Common that had lived in her heart since the very first time she heard “I Used to Love H.E.R.” And she couldn’t forget about Nas, whose “I Gave You Power” still gave her chills whenever she heard it.  And there was of course the original God MC, who was the author of her all-time favorite song “I Know You Got Soul.”  Why was she complaining?  This career was what she had worked for her entire life.  Ever since she had written that review of the “The Chronic” for her junior high school newspaper, she knew that it was her destiny to write about hip-hop.  Before she even knew that hip-hop journalists existed, she knew that she wanted to be one.

Four years at Howard University’s John H. Johnson School of Communications, a brutal two year sentence at Columbia University’s J school, multiple internships, and survival through the financial murkiness of the freelance world and Cherise had finally hit pay dirt.  Or something like it.  She had secured a job as a writer for Vibe Magazine, immediately following an unsatisfying stint at XXL that ended when she realized that hip-hop as she knew it was indeed dead.  Vibe was a better fit for her, and allowed her to cover some more interesting artists.  After a year of paying dues, she had finally earned her dream assignment-a cover story.  It just had to be about one of the new breed rappers.  She hated to feel old or out of touch, but in comparison to the artists that she’d grown up listening to, these cats left a lot to be desired.  Especially when they gave her barely a page worth of material that she was supposed to magically morph into a cover story. 

That dumbass.  She’d spent a good hour and a half of the interview trying to ignore his disgusting flirtations.  Ick.  That was another hazard of her profession, fighting off the sexual advances of  clown ass rappers.  Despite how much she tried to downplay it with her honey brown dreadlocks and neo-soul style, Cherise was still a sweet-faced, thick redbone underneath it all.  While she was perfectly comfortable in her own skin and loved the way her curves poured into her size 10 jeans, she hated the way her Coke bottle figure seemed to distract interviewees from the fact that she was indeed a journalist and not the second coming of Karrine Stephans.  This was especially the case with her last interviewee, who had a well-documented fetish for the curvy light-skinned breed.  Every girl he’d been linked to in the industry certainly fit the bill.

And to think, that idiot had made her late for her weekly lunch date with her girls.  Cherise was a good ten blocks away from the sushi bar and the little bit of cash she had was for lunch and train fare back to her Harlem apartment.  That meant that a cab was not an option.  She would have to truck those ten blocks in the knee-high chunky heels that were sure to murder her feet and endure the verbal lashing she’d receive from Peyton for her tardiness.  Why had she resigned herself to  the lifestyle of a starving artist again?  Well, there certainly were perks.  The press pass that allowed her admission into any concert she wished to attend.  And the free CDs and MP3s that kept her music collection on point.  And the hot industry parties she sometimes covered.  And the greatest perk of all, being an insider.  Cherise’s words helped to dictate what was hot.  Her voice was heard and her opinions mattered.  So, her interviewee had been a moron, her feet were killing her, and she was late for lunch.  She was living her dream and would not have it any other way.  With a sigh of acceptance, Cherise plugged her ears with the sound of Maroon 5 and began her trek.  The life of a writer in NYC…