About JC Davies
J.C. Davies spent more than a decade managing money and writing stock opinions on Wall Street. After the market downturn of 2008, she began focusing on writing. She spent over a year interviewing real New York interracial daters of many races and cultures for her first book I Got the Fever. J.C. Davies' commentary on culture and dating has been featured in The Los Angeles Times, New York Post, New York Magazine, ABCnews.com, Daily Mail, BBC News, Sydney Morning Herald, Metro Newspaper and on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon, BBC Radio, Your Time with Kim Iversen, The Armstrong & Getty Show,"Tell Me More" with Michel Martin on NPR, Fox News, Radio Australia Today ABC Australia, The Mancow Show w/ Mancow Muller, The Jay Thomas Show with Jay Thomas as well as in Sing Tao Daily, El Mundo, and DStripped Magazine. She lives in Midtown Manhattan with her boyfriend and geriatric cat.
A little more about me…
Lots of degrees, but nothing in writing. I watched too many afterschool specials or something, but I really believed growing up that the only way “not to be po” was through education. And somehow for me, only the best would do. I went to University of California at Berkeley and then directly off to Harvard for grad school. My undergraduate degree is in psychology and my masters in public health. Clearly, nothing to qualify me for writing a book, but what I have found is that writing is more about life experience than degrees. I did write stock opinions for Wall Street for a decade, but that seemed to hurt more than help as my book’s editor would say things like “sounds too economist’” or “this is dense [meaning boring] business writing.” In my case, not the degrees or the work experience, but personal experiences are what made the difference in my writing.
Finding family through writing. Most famous authors seem to have a reputation as drunken recluses estranged from their f-cked up family. Some tragic, deeply disturbed figures. I am not a recluse, although I sometimes living among the millions in NYC I think I might like to be. I have over imbibed on occasion, but definitely not a drunk. But don’t count me out yet, as I have spent most of my adult life estranged from much of my family (ding, ding, ding, we have a winner!) But when I began to write my first book I decided that I needed help. My mother had mentioned my sister was writing a book and even though I hadn’t talked to her in 20 years, my desperation for writing tutelage seemed to outweigh my fears and I called her up. Each section of the book that I sent her (and received back with the most positive, but constructive criticism imaginable) removed a brick in the wall that had been standing between us for years. Completing my book (I Got The Fever, due out this winter) was not just an accomplishment for me, but the mortar that sealed a new relationship between my sister and me.
PWT. My father hates it when I say we were poor white trash, but as my mother now admits, we spent way too much time in trailers and homes with outhouses or no electricity to be called anything else. My parents both grew up middle class, but being hippie-dippy 1960s, after college they decided to “live off the land.” My father took jobs as a cattle rancher, cowboy, worked in a sawmill, and a gas station. In most cases his income did not cover our basic expenses so when I say “live off the land” I mean it literally. My father and my uncle Charlie (who lived with us at the time) used to hunt for our food, mostly duck. My father’s favorite story is of the time he got a $75 Christmas bonus. My mother, sick of plucking duck feathers decided that she was going to go to the nearest grocery store (more than 50 miles away) to buy a roaster chicken. Although I was only two years old I didn’t use a high chair, instead I just stood up and ate. With my first bite of chicken I jumped up in my chair. “Mom this is so good!” I exclaimed. “Who shot this Papa or Charlie?” At that age, I didn’t know food could come from a store.
Full time Fashionista, part time fashion designer. Growing up we used to get a new dress for the first day of school and maybe some clothes from relatives for Christmas, but that was it. By the time I made it to high school my mom preferred to take us to the five-and-ten-dollar store. A store which got its name because - you guessed it – the clothes cost either $5 or $10. As an adult I graduated myself to department stores, but still bought low-grade knockoffs - dressing nice in New York City is costly. But then I met Carrie, a close friend that worked for a huge national paper and used to get access to free clothes from off the runway and samples sales from New York City’s greatest designers. That is when I realized that fashion could also be a form of art, a way to express yourself, a way to create. I have had the fashion bug ever since. A few years ago I took my love for fashion into design. I designed the dress I am wearing in the picture here; I call it “diner chic.”
No Picasso. Growing up, my mother got us involved in every kind of art project imaginable, the house was covered with paintings, drawings, pottery, and more pipe cleaner/egg carton caterpillars than you can shake a stick at. Then for no reason, except maybe wasting my life working overtime for the man, I abandoned art for 20 years. But about five years ago I decided to go back. As an amateur ar-teee-est my best medium is probably paper and pencil. I have been known to stalk statues all over the Met and as such have tons of drawings of Roman women with missing limbs or Roman men with missing, um, equipment. Recently, after years of drawing, mixed media, and watercolor I took my first oil painting class. This photo is of my first painting. I call it my Blue Period, not to be confused of course with Picasso’s Blue Period (which I thought I would note as it is so likely you might confuse the two).
The first and only contest I ever won. Although I only won one contest as far as I can remember, at last it was a bikini contest, well sort of. One winter, my sister, the neighbor kids, and myself decided to enter the Pony Express Trail Parade (yes the Pony Express, the nations first coast to coast mail system did run through my hometown of Placerville, California, at one point right in front of our house). Pictured here in 1979 is me in my classy red coat (100% polyester with authentic faux fur trim), bikini, sunglasses and that hot 1970s straw hat as well as little sister Alyshia that for some reason looks like she is part of the Village People (Y-M-C-A!), and the neighbor kids. Look at the expression on my face, it clearly says: We won first place bitches! I guess I was Racy even then.
The best party held in my honor that I never attended. Since I was a kid I liked to run. In high school I ran cross-country and track. In 2000, I decided to run the New York City Marathon. I was working at a great firm then, we all got along from the beginning like we had known each other for years. When I told my friends I would be running they decided that I needed a party! Sounds great, right? My friends all were waiting at a bar on the route in the East 80s. And although I didn’t plan to cross through there until noon they thought it would be good that they get there extra early and get a front row seat. This party was a rager. There were women making out with other people’s boyfriends, two of my colleagues confessing that they had an undying love for each other, and everyone was 3-sheets to the wind by 10 am. By the time I finished the race there were only a few stragglers left for my post race dinner, the rest had already gone home to sleep it off. It was a rager, the party of the century, people still talk about it - too bad I was too busy running my ass off and missed the whole damn thing.
I like it hot hot hot. I am not sure why, maybe because my father practically raised us on Tabasco, but I have a very healthy love for all things hot. When I order Thai in the city I always say “I want it spicy, Thai spicy not white people spicy.” I have found that you have to make that clarification or it arrives too bland. That doesn’t mean I haven’t met my match a time or two. Once I went with my friend for Indian food, we asked for it “really spicy” (I was with an Indian so I felt that would be sufficient clarification). When the came it was so bland. Along with the food was a little bowl of skinny green peppers. I popped one in my mouth and then my eyes started watering, drinking water couldn’t cut it, so my friend gave me some of his yogurt. When I finally came up for air, I told my friend what happened. “A whole pepper, are you crazy, you are only supposed to take tiny little bites.” Lesson learned. But that hasn’t changed my mind. I still like it spicy Indian, Thai, Mexican, Chinese, Ethiopian – the spicier the better!
Little known fact. I have lived in New York City for over a decade, working in industry, on Wall Street, and now as an entrepreneur. Most people know me running the city streets in my four-inch high heels, so they would probably never guess that I also have experience running heavy equipment: a backhoe, tractor, skidder, and loader. For a couple summers I worked for my father’s logging company. I can’t say that I am any good at it, but I guess in a pinch I could sub-in as part of some lame reality-TV show like extreme logging or something. I wonder if they would let me wear my 4-inch heels?