“Laugh.” Somebody told me that recently. General consensus of fam—blood and bred alike—had it that I was takin’ shit too hard as of late. Too wound up. Too serious. But I can’t front; sometimes shit gets to me. Seemingly insignificant shit, like seeing the front steps of my building littered with blunt-guts, empty beer bottles and Lo Mein cartons.
Like having yet another taxi driver still jet by me when I try and flag him down, Danny Glover’s efforts notwithstanding.
Like reading about yet another taxi driver who got his face blown off by a “male, Black or Hispanic, 5’6” to 5’10”.”
Like seeing how outsiders and infiltrators bleed the shit out of hip-hop, and then try and regurgitate it to those who don’t know better.
Like hearing rap cats on the radio straight runnin’ off at the mouth, but having to take the moral high ground “b’cuz I should know better.”
Like watching the 2000 presidential election vote-count dip and dive by a margin of as little as 200 votes—and personally knowing at least two hundred mu’fuckas who didn’t exercise their right to choose.
Like knowing about half that number who couldn’t exercise their right b’cuz of their status as ex-cons.
Like not having the right b’cuz of my own status as a “resident alien,” who happens to know more about this country’s political structure than a lot of so-called citizens.
Like never getting a call back when I left my full (very Spanish) name on somebody’s voice-mail while on my year-long apartment-hunt.
Like always getting a call back when I don’t.
Like witnessing the increasingly growing glorification of doin’ a stretch.
Like hearing a whole lotta shout-outs to “all the soldiers on lockdown,” and knowing that everybody on lockdown ain’t a fuckin’ soldier.
Like reading indirect disses from annoying punks in wannabe magazines and havin’ to hold back from dusting their fuckin’ jackets because they’ll more than likely run straight to the precinct.
Like seriously disliking those mu’fuckas at the precinct, but knowing that were they to close up shop, the neighborhood savages would run buck-fuckin’-crazier than they do already.
Like bein’ subject to a “stop and search” whenever one of them boys from the precinct feels like I fit a certain profile, while feeling like the cats who mercked Big, Pac and even a few friends of mine got away with it.
Like hearing the same anti-rap rhetoric—over and over and over—about our music contributing to “the destruction of the youth.”
Like hearing the same pro-rap rhetoric—again and again and again—about our music being melancholy and violent b’cuz “that’s all we know.”
Like tossin’ a coupla quarters at the squeegee cat on the corner of Fordham and the Deegan, and wondering how psychologically fucked up he must be to have put himself in that situation.
Like handin’ a dollar to the same squeegee cat on the same corner, and wondering what the fuck is wrong with society that we would let somebody get themselves in that situation.
Like hearing intelligent hoods say they have no choice.
Like knowing that “Brad” or “Heather” will always have a choice.
Like people with dough telling me “money ain’t everything.”
Like people without it telling me the same stupid shit.
Like seeing maaad baby-daddies get shitted on in Family Court.
Like seeing maaad baby-muthas get shitted on by baby-daddies.
Like seeing maaad babies get shitted on by all of the above.
Like—aaah, fuck it; fill in the blank…
So, no, I don’t always wanna laugh. Or smile. Or even get the fuck outta bed. But I do. I got to. I’m sayin’, somebody’s got to.
See, if I can make it a point to get on up out the bed and do something—anything—even something as seemingly insignificant as sweeping my front steps every morning, and then the cat next door swept his, and homegirl two doors down swept hers, before long, we’d all live on the cleanest block in town.
Now that’d be some shit to smile about.
**originally published (minus modifications and updated info) a long-ass time ago, at a plantation, far, far away...**
Thursday, June 09, 2005
The Ex-Con
“When you’re locked up, and you’re not in New York, and you’re seein’ shit on TV, CNN, HBO, and everything is filmed in New York, downtown, y’know? You reminisce.”
Elloheim Tucker wipes his sweaty brow with an axle grease-stained forearm, squinting his eyes at the late afternoon sunlight. He absentmindedly reaches in the shirt pocket of his mechanic’s uniform, perhaps searching for a misplaced memory or two. But no; for experiences like the ones he’s describing, he won’t have to dig too deeply into his subconscious.
He laughs when he remembers the awe of finally returning home after having spent five years in prison. The overwhelming combination of relief, apprehension and pure joy that comes with sudden freedom clearly evident in his eyes, he tells his story with the self-deprecating humor of one who has been “through some shit,” and can now afford a chuckle or two.
“So, here it is I’m back in New York; I ain’t been in New York for five years, and when I touch down, I’m right in the heart of it. I’m walkin’ around the Empire State Building, Macy’s, lookin’ up and takin’ in the sights with the rest of the mu’fuckin’ tourists. I felt like a foreigner.”
During the time when the average American teenager was spending his or her post-graduation summer pondering the seemingly endless possibilities, Elloheim thought about gettin’ money. Fast money. Rubber-band stacks in a shoe box money.
That wasn’t always the plan, however. And he did have a plan, but as so often happens when one is faced with more choices than can be found at a local Baskin-Robbins, he changed his mind.
“My high school—Park West High School in Manhattan—gave a course, basically, on fixing elevators,” he recalls. “I studied that shit for four years. The school had the hook-ups with the elevator mechanics’ union, so I thought I could get a job after high school. After I graduated, shit got real crazy. The elevator union went on strike, and I got tired of goin’ through the bullshit. So, I just got my hustle on.”
Unfortunately for him, the Feds knocked his hustle after only nine months. And with the (then-new) federal drug laws being what they were, 18-year old first-time offender Elloheim Tucker was hit with a 60-month sentence, the first year and a half of which he spent concocting even more C.R.E.A.M. schemes. That is, until a conversation with an older inmate who was doing time for tax evasion caused him to re-evaluate his choices for generating income.
“I met this old guy named Mr. Hunt, who turned me on to gettin’ money the legal way, like with stocks and real estate. He would tell me that nothing was impossible, that I could achieve anything I wanted to. I just had to go for it. That right there changed my whole outlook on life.”
Another change of plans, but this time, he wasn’t after the ends so much as he was after the means. He decided to pursue a life-long dream that nobody, absolutely nobody knew about. Not his mother, not his girl, not his closest friends—nobody would have imagined that Elloheim Tucker, young Black male from Harlem, USA, had always wanted to be an actor.
“Peer pressure’s a mu’fucka,” he declares. “Not sayin’ I was a follower, but I had different groups of friends that I would only do certain things with. Like, for example, I hustled, but if I wanted to play ball, I wouldn’t play ball with the cats I hustled with because that wasn’t their thing. I had another group of friends who I’d play ball with. So, with all of that, I never had anybody that I could tell about me wanting to be an actor. Nobody ever thought about some kid from Harlem, growing up to be the next Denzel or some shit like that. I thought I’d probably get laughed at or something.”
But one of the flyer aspects of growing older is the maturity that enables one to ignore critics, naysayers and pessimists, and upon his release, Elloheim—five years older, wiser, and more cognizant of the need to set goals—set about pursuing his dream.
“I had a little bullshit job sellin’ toys and books ’n shit door-to-door so I could satisfy the requirements for the halfway-house, but then this union shit came through. Since I knew all this elevator shit from high school, I figured I’d do this to pay the bills. After that, I checked out this one acting school, and I liked what they were about, so I just took it from there.”
And like a satisfied Baskin-Robbins customer who—after tireless deliberation—has settled upon his final choice, he won’t be changing his mind for quite some time. Elloheim Tucker the ex-convict/elevator mechanic/actor has found his perfect flavor.
“Right now, I’m a nobody,” he says. His fingernails dirty from earning the day’s wages, he carefully ties the laces on his Tims. “Yeah, I was an extra in Howard Stern’s Private Parts, and HBO’s Subway Stories, but I’m trying to get to the point where casting directors know me. For now, I make sure that my home is tight, na’msayin’? I live with my girl, Tyshawn, who’s behind me one hundred percent. And we got a one-year old, Lil’ Heim, my little dawg. I need to make sure they never want for nothing.”
**originally published a long-ass time ago, at a plantation, far, far away...**
Elloheim Tucker wipes his sweaty brow with an axle grease-stained forearm, squinting his eyes at the late afternoon sunlight. He absentmindedly reaches in the shirt pocket of his mechanic’s uniform, perhaps searching for a misplaced memory or two. But no; for experiences like the ones he’s describing, he won’t have to dig too deeply into his subconscious.
He laughs when he remembers the awe of finally returning home after having spent five years in prison. The overwhelming combination of relief, apprehension and pure joy that comes with sudden freedom clearly evident in his eyes, he tells his story with the self-deprecating humor of one who has been “through some shit,” and can now afford a chuckle or two.
“So, here it is I’m back in New York; I ain’t been in New York for five years, and when I touch down, I’m right in the heart of it. I’m walkin’ around the Empire State Building, Macy’s, lookin’ up and takin’ in the sights with the rest of the mu’fuckin’ tourists. I felt like a foreigner.”
During the time when the average American teenager was spending his or her post-graduation summer pondering the seemingly endless possibilities, Elloheim thought about gettin’ money. Fast money. Rubber-band stacks in a shoe box money.
That wasn’t always the plan, however. And he did have a plan, but as so often happens when one is faced with more choices than can be found at a local Baskin-Robbins, he changed his mind.
“My high school—Park West High School in Manhattan—gave a course, basically, on fixing elevators,” he recalls. “I studied that shit for four years. The school had the hook-ups with the elevator mechanics’ union, so I thought I could get a job after high school. After I graduated, shit got real crazy. The elevator union went on strike, and I got tired of goin’ through the bullshit. So, I just got my hustle on.”
Unfortunately for him, the Feds knocked his hustle after only nine months. And with the (then-new) federal drug laws being what they were, 18-year old first-time offender Elloheim Tucker was hit with a 60-month sentence, the first year and a half of which he spent concocting even more C.R.E.A.M. schemes. That is, until a conversation with an older inmate who was doing time for tax evasion caused him to re-evaluate his choices for generating income.
“I met this old guy named Mr. Hunt, who turned me on to gettin’ money the legal way, like with stocks and real estate. He would tell me that nothing was impossible, that I could achieve anything I wanted to. I just had to go for it. That right there changed my whole outlook on life.”
Another change of plans, but this time, he wasn’t after the ends so much as he was after the means. He decided to pursue a life-long dream that nobody, absolutely nobody knew about. Not his mother, not his girl, not his closest friends—nobody would have imagined that Elloheim Tucker, young Black male from Harlem, USA, had always wanted to be an actor.
“Peer pressure’s a mu’fucka,” he declares. “Not sayin’ I was a follower, but I had different groups of friends that I would only do certain things with. Like, for example, I hustled, but if I wanted to play ball, I wouldn’t play ball with the cats I hustled with because that wasn’t their thing. I had another group of friends who I’d play ball with. So, with all of that, I never had anybody that I could tell about me wanting to be an actor. Nobody ever thought about some kid from Harlem, growing up to be the next Denzel or some shit like that. I thought I’d probably get laughed at or something.”
But one of the flyer aspects of growing older is the maturity that enables one to ignore critics, naysayers and pessimists, and upon his release, Elloheim—five years older, wiser, and more cognizant of the need to set goals—set about pursuing his dream.
“I had a little bullshit job sellin’ toys and books ’n shit door-to-door so I could satisfy the requirements for the halfway-house, but then this union shit came through. Since I knew all this elevator shit from high school, I figured I’d do this to pay the bills. After that, I checked out this one acting school, and I liked what they were about, so I just took it from there.”
And like a satisfied Baskin-Robbins customer who—after tireless deliberation—has settled upon his final choice, he won’t be changing his mind for quite some time. Elloheim Tucker the ex-convict/elevator mechanic/actor has found his perfect flavor.
“Right now, I’m a nobody,” he says. His fingernails dirty from earning the day’s wages, he carefully ties the laces on his Tims. “Yeah, I was an extra in Howard Stern’s Private Parts, and HBO’s Subway Stories, but I’m trying to get to the point where casting directors know me. For now, I make sure that my home is tight, na’msayin’? I live with my girl, Tyshawn, who’s behind me one hundred percent. And we got a one-year old, Lil’ Heim, my little dawg. I need to make sure they never want for nothing.”
**originally published a long-ass time ago, at a plantation, far, far away...**
The Death and Life of Hip-Hop Music
The organ moans a mournful tune, muted so as not to compete with the preacher just now taking his place at the podium. Behind the preacher, the diamond-encrusted handles of a metal casket gleam amidst the greens, reds and purples of flower arrangements and wreaths, “We’ll Always Miss You,” “Rest In Peace” and “Our Bad” among the many messages.
Somewhere outside, a church bell tolls its own sad beat.
The preacher, chewing on a toothpick, removes his fedora to wipe his brow all the way up into his long-since receded hairline. He flicks the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, then clears his throat.
“Dearly beloved,” he begins, “we are gathered here today to honor and remember our loved one, now on the way to the sweet forever, senselessly cut down after only thirty short, short years of a many-times blessed and yet equally cursed life.”
“Preach!” pipes out one mourner.
“Talk about it!” chimes another.
The preacher clears his throat. Before he can speak, another voice, this one harder, deeper, more melodic, and not afraid like the others, barks from the rear of the room: “Fuck is all this shit?!”
A small commotion breaks out in the back. The preacher cranes his neck to get a better look at the source of such disrespect --and can’t believe his eyes. One by one, then by twos and threes, the mourners look behind them to see what’s what. And what they see makes some of them cry out. A couple of the women --and one man-- faint.
A group of about fifteen men and women of varying sizes, shapes and colors storm down the aisle and up to the podium. One of them, a big, dark-skinned, heavy-set young man with a lazy eye and an asthmatic’s wheeze, holds his hand out to the preacher, and motions toward the microphone. “Come up off that shit, Preach...”
The preacher, still in shock, nods his head, moves out of the way of the small army now posted up in front of the casket. Another young man, just as heavy as the first, but shorter, and wearing a plate-sized diamond medallion designed to look like the Puerto Rican flag, politely nudges the preacher out of the way.
The first heavy-set young man grabs the mic, taps the head with his palm a couple of times then passes it to a bald, bare-chested young man with “Thug Life” tattooed across his torso.
The tattooed man brings the mic up to his mouth, gripping it like he’s holding on to life itself. He stares out at the audience of mourners, making sure to look each one of them directly in the face: “Don’t believe the hype. Reports of Hip-Hop’s death have been greatly exaggerated.”
Still with us? We knew you would be. And that ain’t cockiness; it’s confidence in our fellow heads. We figured that headline above would get your attention. The first time we read where some rapper or other made such a “declaration” (in an all-out campaign of self-importance, more than likely), we damn near tossed our collective cookies.
Man, oh, man, are the haters hootin’ and hollerin’, hyped on all the hoopla. Dancing in the streets (to Britney, Justin and Cristina, no less). Celebrating a world without rap. What more confirmation or coroner’s report do they need? If rappers are saying hip-hop is dead…
Well, we say ain’t much worse than an ungrateful child, especially one who’s too blind, too high or just too stupid to recognize his place at the dinner table. Especially after having gotten nice and plump at said dinner table, year in, year out.
Lucky for us, and for you too, not everybody got the BlackBerry kite regarding funeral services and where to send flowers.
After all, “they” might’ve chirped, why bother? Hip-hop is soooo over right now.
But in all fairness to those medical examiners out there who’ve taken it upon themselves to either endorse or give serious thought to hip-hop’s so-called demise, we will concede that until very recently, vital signs had been at a low not seen since the drought of ’85, when the wackness reached a toxicity that almost wiped us out. (Ask your grandparents: if not for timely injections from Run-DMC, Dougie Fresh and Slick Rick, you might all have grown up nodding your heads to the Rappin’ Duke).
Let’s face it, with all due respect, Lil’ Jon’s aural fuck-fests are like office-party quickies: you know you shouldn’t, but what the hell, they're fun, nobody gets hurt, and they don’t mean shit anyways. 50 and Company’s odes to the good life are but the latest in a very, very, very long line of hymns dedicated to good ol’ fashioned sex, money and murder, despite how bangin’ they may be. Buttery, crisp Ritz crackers, fresh out the box, but crackers, nonetheless.
Sometimes you want a full meal, dig me?
These forensic pathologists, usually pretty sharp of eye and ear, are not wrong in believing that hip-hop had gotten sorta/kinda stale lately. More like it was on life-support and not actually living. But we offer caution to said MEs, if only because we know all too well the dangers of declaring anything officially dead just because we can’t feel the pulse. Somebody bought all those Chingy records, even if it wasn’t us.
Still, there’s something to be said for the glory days, when we didn’t have to qualify hip-hop music with culture because they were one and the same. When hip-hop gear meant any item of clothing we could find (at secret stash-spots, of course) to match our kicks, before it became way too easy to stroll into the mall for a Hip-Hop Starter-Kit, enabling anyone with a couple hunnid to infiltrate right on in.
But we digress.
For now, we ask that you put your fears to rest. Fall back and let the Chicken Littles do their dance. Like us, you know the epic history of this thing called Rap, from before its Bronx beginnings to its Bayou bounce. You know that no Hip-Hop Police, no Grammy Award, no radio pay-for-play lockdown and no amount of MTV pasteurization process will ever cancel its ticket (any of you really surprised by M-2’s beats-and-rhyme heavy line-up?).
Hip-hop dead? Not hardly. So say we, so says the world. So when the trend-jumpers (read: dick-riders), so-called rappers included, claim to hear that bell ringing a sad song, tell them don’t ask for whom it tolls; more than likely, it’s the alarm on their 15-minute clocks of fame, lettin’ them know to get that ass off the stage.
**originally published (minus modifications and updated info) in america magazine, a year and change ago...**
Somewhere outside, a church bell tolls its own sad beat.
The preacher, chewing on a toothpick, removes his fedora to wipe his brow all the way up into his long-since receded hairline. He flicks the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, then clears his throat.
“Dearly beloved,” he begins, “we are gathered here today to honor and remember our loved one, now on the way to the sweet forever, senselessly cut down after only thirty short, short years of a many-times blessed and yet equally cursed life.”
“Preach!” pipes out one mourner.
“Talk about it!” chimes another.
The preacher clears his throat. Before he can speak, another voice, this one harder, deeper, more melodic, and not afraid like the others, barks from the rear of the room: “Fuck is all this shit?!”
A small commotion breaks out in the back. The preacher cranes his neck to get a better look at the source of such disrespect --and can’t believe his eyes. One by one, then by twos and threes, the mourners look behind them to see what’s what. And what they see makes some of them cry out. A couple of the women --and one man-- faint.
A group of about fifteen men and women of varying sizes, shapes and colors storm down the aisle and up to the podium. One of them, a big, dark-skinned, heavy-set young man with a lazy eye and an asthmatic’s wheeze, holds his hand out to the preacher, and motions toward the microphone. “Come up off that shit, Preach...”
The preacher, still in shock, nods his head, moves out of the way of the small army now posted up in front of the casket. Another young man, just as heavy as the first, but shorter, and wearing a plate-sized diamond medallion designed to look like the Puerto Rican flag, politely nudges the preacher out of the way.
The first heavy-set young man grabs the mic, taps the head with his palm a couple of times then passes it to a bald, bare-chested young man with “Thug Life” tattooed across his torso.
The tattooed man brings the mic up to his mouth, gripping it like he’s holding on to life itself. He stares out at the audience of mourners, making sure to look each one of them directly in the face: “Don’t believe the hype. Reports of Hip-Hop’s death have been greatly exaggerated.”
Still with us? We knew you would be. And that ain’t cockiness; it’s confidence in our fellow heads. We figured that headline above would get your attention. The first time we read where some rapper or other made such a “declaration” (in an all-out campaign of self-importance, more than likely), we damn near tossed our collective cookies.
Man, oh, man, are the haters hootin’ and hollerin’, hyped on all the hoopla. Dancing in the streets (to Britney, Justin and Cristina, no less). Celebrating a world without rap. What more confirmation or coroner’s report do they need? If rappers are saying hip-hop is dead…
Well, we say ain’t much worse than an ungrateful child, especially one who’s too blind, too high or just too stupid to recognize his place at the dinner table. Especially after having gotten nice and plump at said dinner table, year in, year out.
Lucky for us, and for you too, not everybody got the BlackBerry kite regarding funeral services and where to send flowers.
After all, “they” might’ve chirped, why bother? Hip-hop is soooo over right now.
But in all fairness to those medical examiners out there who’ve taken it upon themselves to either endorse or give serious thought to hip-hop’s so-called demise, we will concede that until very recently, vital signs had been at a low not seen since the drought of ’85, when the wackness reached a toxicity that almost wiped us out. (Ask your grandparents: if not for timely injections from Run-DMC, Dougie Fresh and Slick Rick, you might all have grown up nodding your heads to the Rappin’ Duke).
Let’s face it, with all due respect, Lil’ Jon’s aural fuck-fests are like office-party quickies: you know you shouldn’t, but what the hell, they're fun, nobody gets hurt, and they don’t mean shit anyways. 50 and Company’s odes to the good life are but the latest in a very, very, very long line of hymns dedicated to good ol’ fashioned sex, money and murder, despite how bangin’ they may be. Buttery, crisp Ritz crackers, fresh out the box, but crackers, nonetheless.
Sometimes you want a full meal, dig me?
These forensic pathologists, usually pretty sharp of eye and ear, are not wrong in believing that hip-hop had gotten sorta/kinda stale lately. More like it was on life-support and not actually living. But we offer caution to said MEs, if only because we know all too well the dangers of declaring anything officially dead just because we can’t feel the pulse. Somebody bought all those Chingy records, even if it wasn’t us.
Still, there’s something to be said for the glory days, when we didn’t have to qualify hip-hop music with culture because they were one and the same. When hip-hop gear meant any item of clothing we could find (at secret stash-spots, of course) to match our kicks, before it became way too easy to stroll into the mall for a Hip-Hop Starter-Kit, enabling anyone with a couple hunnid to infiltrate right on in.
But we digress.
For now, we ask that you put your fears to rest. Fall back and let the Chicken Littles do their dance. Like us, you know the epic history of this thing called Rap, from before its Bronx beginnings to its Bayou bounce. You know that no Hip-Hop Police, no Grammy Award, no radio pay-for-play lockdown and no amount of MTV pasteurization process will ever cancel its ticket (any of you really surprised by M-2’s beats-and-rhyme heavy line-up?).
Hip-hop dead? Not hardly. So say we, so says the world. So when the trend-jumpers (read: dick-riders), so-called rappers included, claim to hear that bell ringing a sad song, tell them don’t ask for whom it tolls; more than likely, it’s the alarm on their 15-minute clocks of fame, lettin’ them know to get that ass off the stage.
**originally published (minus modifications and updated info) in america magazine, a year and change ago...**
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