No moment of silence will be quiet enough. No video will be somber enough. No editorial can be reflective enough to understand the suicide of Marshawn Kneeland. There will never be closure. There will never be understanding. We can only make inferences as to how a 24-year-old man could be so disenchanted with the world that he would kill himself only days after scoring his first NFL touchdown. Every little boy in America at one point or another dreams of scoring an NFL touchdown but Marshawn actually did—in real life. But alas, joy is only temporary. The feeling of euphoria comes down fast and then as quickly as you fall on a blocked punt in the end zone, you’re being pursued by police officers for a traffic violation. That’s when all the hatred, all the feelings of inadequacy, all of the trauma, and all of those insecurities ravage your consciousness at once. And you realize that you exist only in the space between how you thought success would be and what it actually feels like. It is in this chasm that Marshawn put a bullet into his 6’3 268 pound frame and ended all uncertainty.
I don’t pretend to understand. I will never actually get it. I just know that I once felt like an unforgivable burden, like a stain on my entire family and reasoned that if I were gone—If I were to leave this place then everyone else would be so much better off. Thank God I did not own a gun before my prefrontal cortex had fully developed. Thank God I had no fame. Thank God I was completely broke. Thank God no children looked up to me as if I was a hero when I was only 24 years old. Thank God millions of men around the country didn’t think that I had actually made it. I wouldn’t have been able to lie to them for that long. I wouldn’t have been able to lie to myself. For what does it mean to truly make it? To make what? To make money? To make the team? To be on nationwide television and still feel hollow. To smile through an entire interview yet feel like dying the whole time. Everyone feels like they know the formula for happiness, and although it may vary from person to person, money is always a part of the equation. No amount of money can make a person value life. There is no intervention that can save a person who is determined to kill themself. There is no reason, no rationale, no logic in this decision. All that young man knew was that he didn’t want to hurt anymore. And I just hope that he’s no longer in pain.Â
A beautifully spirited, slender light complexioned man with a Camel Menthol in his mouth and a pimp hat on his head helped raise me. In between his relapses he was the coolest thing walking. But when he did relapse on crack, he didn’t go to a rehabilitation center in Sonoma County, they sent his high yellow ass to San Quentin on a parole violation. This was the year 1989, way before Hunter Biden made the image of the family crackhead a brilliant yet flawed and ultimately sympathetic figure.
My mother’s family came straight from Arkansas to the Filmore district as teenagers and then eventually moved to East Oakland where they could afford to raise their own families. My Uncle, stubborn as he was, refused to ever claim The Town. He never lost his city energy. His words came out a half beat faster, and he kept a determined gait. Unlike the average Oaklander who was much more chill, he always walked like he had somewhere important to be—even when he was going nowhere.
We would get on the BART Train at Coliseum Station and get off at Embarcadero. He took me on the bus downtown with him to run errands and we went to Candlestick Park to watch the Giants play. The lineup starred Kevin Mitchell and Will Clark. It was the year of the big earthquake. It was the year the Giants got swept by the A’s in the World Series as well, and all my classmates playfully teased me because I was raised to root for San Francisco. I tried to defend my team like my uncle did. He always stood tall. He never lost a verbal spat to anyone. He spoke to me—which in retrospect is very odd—like I was a man, but he looked after me like I was a child. He helped me tie my shoes while telling me about hoes he used to pimp. It was so bizarre.
Everything in the 1980s was really strange. I don’t think we, as a society, had established what inappropriate truly meant. Indeed, it was the last generation where children were able to buy cigarettes for their parents. It was totally normal to see four kids and a dog in the bed of a pickup truck doing 70 mph on the 580 freeway. And we actually thought the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit was suitable for kindergartners because it had cartoons in it. Have you seen Jessica Rabbit’s titties popping out of her dress? It was wild fam. But anyway, back to my uncle.
I saw him when he had $1,000 in his pocket and wore $1,000 Gator dress shoes on his feet. I saw him when he had tickets to the Giants game, and when he had enough bread to send me and my cousins to the store with a $20 bill to get him some Camel cigarettes and let us keep the change. When he relapsed though, he became the invisible man.
The television and all of the furniture went missing from my grandmother’s house one day while she was gone, yet no police report was ever filed. We all knew what happened. He stopped coming over on Sundays to eat with the family after church. He even stayed gone on his own birthday. The grownups spoke around him on Holidays. They let his shoe collection get dusty in the backroom of the house. I suppose we all prayed for him, but we kept our prayers between ourselves and God. We refrained from speaking his name out loud, except for a few of my other uncles who said that they were going to beat his ass when they saw him for stealing from Mama. I knew they didn’t mean it though, and I’m pretty sure they knew it too.
One overcast Sunday afternoon while the family was over my grandmother’s house the phone rang, and she answered it. “Yes, I accept the charges.” We all looked at her from our respective spots in the kitchen. And we watched as our strong black matriarch began to cry.
I am not Carl Thomas and San Francisco is not Jamaica, or Houston, or Savannah Georgia—that is to say, we are not prepared for Summer Rain. The fog rolls in when it wants to. The cold may surprise you when the sun goes down, but actual precipitation is damn near non-existent. The tourists don’t know any better. They go the beach anyway because it’s on their schedule. They have to take pictures at the Santa Cruz, Beach Boardwalk or else they’ll be judged harshly by their social media followers. The drab sky brings a heavy depressive energy to the natives. We feel stifled. If we could protest God over this debacle then many of us would. We demand our mediocre 75-degree summers back now! We don’t want any weather patterns that would cause us to engage in introspection or even worse, one that may facilitate a process by which we would arrive at individual accountability. We don’t want to have anything to do with it. We were created to look down and not inward. This simply will not suffice.   Â
Maybe your version of happiness looks like a very well decorated prison cell to someone else. The acquisition of corporate wealth, along with a spacious condo that has a killer view, an investment portfolio, and an electric Audi in the garage may be totally unappealing to a free-spirited person. Is it conceivable that all a woman may need to find joy in life is a used car, a gym membership to take showers, and a few dollars in her pocket to buy food? For that is the life of 90s R&B singer Dawn Robinson from the hit groups En Vogue and Lucy Pearl.
She recently put out a YouTube video in which the stated that due to a series of unfortunate events or “life was lifein” as they say, she has been living out of her car for the past three years. The tabloids and blogs picked up the story immediately and used disparaging headlines that spoke about her like she was a charity case. Headlines such as “Dawn Robinson has been living out of her car for three years” and “Dawn Robinson offered job by her ex-husband amid homelessness” are everywhere. First off, who the hell wants to work for their ex-partner? But I digress. What struck me more than anything else is that none of these articles suggest that Dawn is actually happy. After watching her video, however, one can easily conclude that she is.
She divulged that she didn’t want to be a burden on her co-manager who had put her in a hotel room for eight months. She no longer wanted to live with her mother who she said had become angry and hostile toward her. So she took to the road, inspired by van life videos and the lives of legendary soul singers such as Marvin Gaye who had once lived out of their vehicles as well. She made a joke about being able to keep up with her hygiene by taking showers at her gym. “Just because I’m a funky diva” she said alluding to the title of En Vogue’s first album, doesn’t mean I’m funky. Her face looked unburdened, vibrant, and full of optimism. She made this video while on a very necessary spiritual journey in her life. She’s trying to determine what’s real and what isn’t. She’s totally doing away with the idea that people’s perception of her should mold her existence. She no longer cares what people think about her, and I believe that this is exactly why so many people will crucify her for her social sins. For if the mob of social reinforcement cannot bully people, and especially women, into conforming then that totally disrupts the natural order of things.
We need to be able to tell people how to dress, how to think, how to live. We need to be able to enforce our ideas of success, what dreams are appropriate to have, and how celebrities should present themselves. Dawn must always move in a way that inspires awe in her fans. She must wear makeup, be fashionable, and look like she achieved the dream that almost every single American is in pursuit of—and that is to be famous. She can’t be sleeping on the side of a road in the Mojave Desert no matter how beautiful the scenery may be. She isn’t allowed to take a hot shower at Planet Fitness, on the contrary, she’s only relegated to the bathroom in her condo in the greater Los Angeles area, or New York, or Atlanta. Because we don’t like the optics of our celebrities looking like normal struggling people—even if they are. We don’t like it because it presents the notion that heaven may not actually be heaven. Perhaps it’s just like Earth but with a much longer stay or, even worse, perhaps it doesn’t exist.
But if heaven doesn’t exist then why are we intentionally falling downstairs for likes and views? Why are we taking pictures as we tote pistols and show off the jewelry that we got in a high-profile robbery that we committed two days ago? And why are we posting these incriminating photos online? Why are we taking vacations for the sole purpose of gathering content to upload on our social apps? Why do we try to sneak into the shot when we see that Channel 5 News is doing a story in our neighborhood? Why did that man release his first rap album on sound cloud at the age of 41? Why does that teenage girl want to be an influencer when she grows up? We are literally willing to die to be famous, and we actually do! There are dozens of selfie deaths every single year.
When a person is famous then they can’t be still trying to figure it out. They can’t experience the same hardships as us folk down here at the bottom. We have no empathy for people like Dawn Robinson who has the audacity to move about the world as if she is a normal human instead of being a fixed object in the sky like the star that she is. We only have sympathy for her, because having your celebrity status die while you’re still alive must be the worst thing a human-being could possibly go through. There is no satisfaction in being an average everyday person. There can’t be. This can’t be as good as life gets. In America our celebrities are like Gods in human flesh. We must always worship them. Needless to say, Dawn has rendered herself impossible to worship. And what a terrible sin.
I was somewhat lost, extremely confused, and kind of frustrated. I was 10,000 miles from California in a city called Mombasa on the South Coast of Kenya. I thought that I had proper instructions from my host to get to my Airbnb, but she posted directions from the train station (Mombasa Terminus), however, I was at MOI international airport. So, I had to figure out how to get to my apartment rental near Diani Beach and I didn’t like the $4,000 Kenyan Schillings price that Bolt (an international ride sharing app which is cheaper than Uber) was charging to get there. So, I decided to take a taxi about halfway there instead. This would put me back on track with the route that my host had given me. It would also require that I take the Likoni Ferry. This ferry ride would be an unexpectedly healing experience for me. It was profoundly spiritual and deeply fulfilling.
I’m aware that this must sound absurd to the average Kenyan. It must be the equivalent of someone saying they were moved to tears by the beauty of the people on the BART Train, or they had a cultural awakening on the back of an AC Transit Bus. We tend to not recognize the potency of what we see every day. Sometimes it takes looking at the world through the eyes of the tourist to see what we take for granted. My ride on the Likoni Ferry represented one of those super rare occasions when you recognize that you’re in a moment within the actual moment. I walked onto a boat with no less than 1,000 other Black people who brought bikes, had babies on their backs, and carried bags. I was no doubt the only “American” and probably the only tourist on the entire ferry. My Bolt driver advised me not to get on. I’m glad that I’m hardheaded and refused to take his advice.
I had an enormous suitcase that was 2 kilograms overweight at the airport, but the nice lady at Kenyan Airlines allowed me to slide without a penalty. I also had a huge burgundy backpack that I once used to go camping in Yosemite National Park for three days. It has several compartments, zippers, and hidden storage space. It’s great for backpacking, but it’s extremely conspicuous when it comes to city walking.
“It’s not safe for you to take the ferry with those bags,” he said.
“Really?” I replied somewhat sarcastically.
My driver was a very long limbed but somehow average sized man named Peter. It took a few phone calls and me having chase him down in the Airport parking lot for him to see me when he arrived. This turned out to be a bonding experience for us. By the time I sat down in the backseat of his Hyundai I felt like we were homies.
“Yeah.” He said sharply. “Anybody can go through your bag on the ferry. Be careful.”
Every African that I have ever met in Africa thinks Africa is the most dangerous place in the world. When I tell them that major American cities are way worse in terms of theft and violence they refuse to believe me. I once tried to explain this to a Liberian woman in Accra, Ghana. She shook her head then told me with a strong conviction; “No, America is heaven.” Of course I didn’t tell Peter any of this. I just said:
“Ok, I’ll be careful.”
I actually appreciated his advice. It was just that my lack of speaking Swahili—the official language of Kenya— prevented me from explaining my perspective. I live my life knowing that I can be robbed, maimed, or killed any second. I’m always vigilant when I’m in public spaces and there was nothing that he could say to make me any more or any less aware of my surroundings. There was also nothing he could tell me to keep me from getting on that ferry. In fact, the more he spoke the more excited I got about boarding.
I was sick of being separated from normal Kenyan experiences because I was a visitor from a foreign country. The tourism industry is structured like a traveler’s ghetto in that the local government keeps you boxed in so they can control the outcome of your experience. The roads that you can walk down, the restaurants where you can eat, the people you encounter, and the way you commute is all predetermined. In the ghetto the ultimate objective is to keep you trapped at the bottom of society. In tourism the sole purpose is to manipulate your mind by giving you a watered-down version of culture while encouraging you to spend way more money than you should on items that you do not need. This stimulates the local economy and makes the billionaire hotel owners even more wealthy.
Think all-inclusive resorts. They keep you fenced in for most of the day. They give you a swimming pool, beach access, or both. They give you a menu with a few native foods and local juices alongside hamburgers, chicken strips, French fries and Coca Cola. They employ locals to serve you and perform for you. And they only allow you to move about the city in chartered vehicles that the hotels own. All of this while people live in squalor right outside the gates of your paid fantasy. Nah, I ain’t with it. I have never been with it. I was going to hop on that ferry with the people of Mombasa and I was ready to deal with whatever consequences came with it.
We had to get out of the car about 200 meters from the ferry station. Cars and tuk tuks are allowed on the ferry but the passengers must pay. Pedestrians and cyclists are free which was another major incentive for me to take the ride. Peter insisted on walking me to the security check-in. After I paid Peter, I was heading to the embarking point when three Kenyan security guards stopped me.
“Jambo! Jambo! You come here.”
I walked over to the men pulling my oversized suitcase behind me.
“What is in the bag?”
“My clothes. Most of them are dirty.”
“Open the bag.”
I opened my suitcase, and the main guard who was asking all the questions sifted through my belongings while noticeably avoiding touching my dirty drawers.
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from California.”
“Oh, USA. Do you bring a gun?”
“No, I left all my guns at home.”
We both laughed, then he zipped up my suitcase and let me go. I walked into a large rectangular area with benches that were being quickly filled up. People had bags full of fish, beans, and clothes to sale on the other side of Kilindini Harbor. A woman walked by while gracefully balancing a large green sack on her head. A teenaged boy pulled up on his bike. A mother and father sat down with their two boys. The males in that family had clearly come straight from the barbershop because their lineups were immaculate. The people kept arriving. Each and every one of them had business to attend to on the other side. All of them moved with the familiar mundanity of a morning commute as it was about 9:30am.
I’m certain that they saw diversity in one another. I’m sure they could determine tribal affiliations by body type, gait, or skin tone. They could probably tell who was from the countryside and who was from the city based on accent and attire. Perhaps they could decipher who was formerly educated versus who had been working on a family farm their entire lives. I could not figure out any of these things, nor did I try to. All I saw was Black people and all I heard was the intermittent sounds of a soothing African tongue that I did not know how to speak. I was calmed by not being able to understand sentiments that might ruin my day. I was unaware of who was gossiping, who was cursing, who was being offensive, or who had a different political ideology than I do. I was blanketed by my obliviousness. I was comforted by what I did not know. Then we began our descent.
It was time to be loaded onto the ship which was at the bottom of a cement hill. I walked in synchronicity with the people of Mombasa. I was in the middle of the crowd, in a country in Africa, headed into the bottom of a boat. I thought about the middle passage—the indescribably brutal tragedy that ripped my ancestors from the continent and forced them into chattel slavery for centuries—but this was not a kidnapping. This was a reconnection. This was an initiation ritual. This was a baptism into a culture that had the power to redirect my spirit. I was being reunited with everything that had been lost. I pulled my luggage behind me onto the vessel, and I carried my backpack like a thousand burdens on my back. I did not stop walking. I did not speak at all. Even when asked a question in Swahili I just shook my head, no. I did not want to speak English. I did not want to be an American. I did not want to be an individual. I wanted to be at peace. I wanted to be whole and move within a body of people striving toward a singular destination. As I found my position on the ship, I looked up to my left and saw black people going up the stairs to the next level. I was surrounded by the Kenyan people—my people, whether they knew it or not. And as the powerful motor of that ferry propelled the entire lot of us across the water, I knew that I belonged. And I knew that I was safe because everyone was far too preoccupied with their own bags to be concerned about taking mine
It came up on my YouTube algorithm that a 17-year-old basketball star had been gunned down in the streets of North Philadelphia. It gained national attention only because he was a talented athlete and therefore supposed to be protected from young killers in the streets. The story was told in a manner designed to demonstrate how truly depraved the Black underworld has become. This innocent kid with a bright future, only months away from making it out of the hood was gunned down as he prepared to be driven to school by his mother. What kind of a person kills a teenager in front of his mom? And not just any teenager, but a basketball player!
Noah was described as exceptional by the school district spokesperson Monique Braxton. He reportedly had the highest SAT score in the school and was an outstanding student. The more they reported on his good deeds the more savage the young Black men who presumably killed him appeared to be. “No one gets a pass. Anybody can get it. Kill them all. Make they mama’s cry.” Had to be the mantra for these urchins. But then the streets started talking, and they were saying that Noah Scurry AKA Joker was not innocent but instead he was very active in street life.
Social media has deprivatized all hood conversations. The era of having to be affiliated with a particular neighborhood in order to know who is committing robberies, who sells weed, who pimps, and who’s a killer is over. Now it’s all in online. There are YouTubers who cover hood politics in every city across the western world. And if the video has any inaccuracies, then people from that neighborhood will make corrections in the comments. To this point, I have never actually been to Philadelphia but in the days after the murder of Noah Scurry on January 14th, 2025, I felt as connected to the Philly streets as Meek Mill and Beanie Sigel.
Scurry, in addition to being a high school basketball player, was a rapper named JokerOTV. The day before he was killed, he had put out a rap video in a joker mask holding a gun talking about people that he had allegedly murdered. The Vlogs began to say that one of the people who Scurry killed was the son of beloved podcaster and former rapper Gillie da Kid (which was recently confirmed in an interview with Shannon Sharpe). This entire case has been extremely difficult for me to process. Indeed, it has kept me up at night. Even as the story is dying down in the blogosphere, it hasn’t relinquished in my mind. Scurry had to be 15 when he allegedly killed Gillie’s son. He was skilled at basketball, and he paid enough attention in school to do well on his SATs but neither of those things were enough to keep him from becoming entrenched in a criminal lifestyle. It was confirmed that he had been shot and per his own admission (to the extent that one can accept rap lyrics as truth) he had shot people. The answers, it would appear, are not the answers. If school and extracurricular activities can’t save us, then what can? And why would the school district release a statement that depicted Noah Scurry as an angel when there was so much evidence that confirmed he was indeed human. He was as susceptible to the gangs in his community as anyone else. He was as tainted as we all are. He was misguided, as youth and even adults tend to be. He was trying to figure it out, but he got it wrong–all wrong. Now he lay in his casket, reunited with the Earth. His death will beget more retaliations and more trauma.
We are all diseased. We don’t show our symptoms every day, but we are still terminally ill. The life and death of Noah Scurry has caused my sickness to flair up. It has reminded me that as hard as I have worked to become educated and somewhat successful, it really has more to do with luck than my ambition. What if I would have gotten shot as a teenager? Perhaps that would have caused me to hit the streets with all of my might and with no compassion or regard for human life. What if I saw someone get blown away as a young child? What if I had an abusive father and an emotionally unavailable mother? What if all of my uncles were in prison? What if my best friends started committing armed robberies and begged me to come with them? What if I got jumped by a group of boys from a rival neighborhood for no reason? Would I ever be to forgive them? I don’t know how many of these things happened to Scurry, but I know that even though we grew up in similar environments he was affected by it in a way that I never have been affected. Noah Scurry did not live long enough to find his purpose or to seek redemption. He did not even live long enough to go to his Senior Prom or graduate from high school. I stay up at night thinking about Noah Scurry. I wake up in the morning thinking about JokerOTV. I don’t know what could have been done to save him and that haunts me. It haunts me that we still don’t know how to stop the cycle from continuing.
In Ghana everyone drives crazy. But it isn’t crazy to them, it’s only crazy to the outsiders. In Accra there is big city traffic with very few traffic lights. There are roundabouts full of motorbikes, buses, taxis, vans, and Hyundai’s–yet somehow everyone is able to successfully merge. I have yet to see one accident. People always honk; however, they don’t lean on the horn for thirty seconds as the drivers in Chicago and New York do. It’s more like a courtesy. There is nothing manic about the way people drive in Accra. The people understand the basic fact that the road belongs to everyone.
Merging in Accra feels very dangerous if you’re sitting in the front seat of a Bolt. Your driver accelerates into oncoming traffic. He seemingly lurches right into another vehicle, and you brace yourself for an accident that never happens. He never makes contact with the other car. The other motorist breaks at the very last second. Miraculously, the other driver doesn’t put his head out of the window and scream something profane about your driver’s mother. Nor does he take out a pistol and start shooting. He just yields. That’s it. It always happens that way. I’ve seen evil looks and aggressive horn taps, but I haven’t witnessed any road rage, and I haven’t seen any accidents at all. This, in one of the most congested cities in West Africa with potholes one meter deep, very little white paint on the asphalt to indicate lane separation, and almost no stop signs. The Ghanaian people just make it work. I don’t know if car insurance is even a thing here. If you order a car from the ride sharing app called Bolt, then there is a 90% chance that the seatbelts in your car will not work. All you have in terms of safety are faith and prayer. The drivers though–to their credit–always get you to your destination. They must maneuver through motorcycles with entire families on them including three small children. They turn down blind backroads with pedestrians, stray dogs, and other vehicles only alerting their presence with the sound of their motor and two rhythmic honks of the horn; “Beep, beep.” Everything is harmonious. The drivers of Ghana loudly speak the language of their commute even if you can’t comprehend it just yet. They demand that you learn it through immersion. There will be no accommodating and no negotiations.
On November 13th I arrived at AfroTech in Houston, Texas. The energy was absolutely palpable. It was young, Black, and positive. In the name of transparency, I was much more enthralled by the Afro than I was the Tech. There were plenty of people vibing, networking, and being gorgeous. I did an interview with Bay Area journalist Reyna Harvey. I think it turned out pretty well. What do you think?
That was a G move. I can’t think of any other way to say it. If what is being reported right now holds to be true then Donald Trump is a certified gangsta. And I mean that in a very hood sense. I mean that as a superlative. I don’t mean it in the sense of him possessing political documents in his home or paying a prostitute from the wrong stash.
Donald Trump the narcissist, the egomaniac, the bully, the blah-blah-blah. Man listen, what he did on July 13th was hard. He was grazed in the ear by a bullet from an Ar-15. Had the bullet landed four inches to the right then his brain would have been on the floor of that stage, but it didn’t. Instead it streaked past his ear and he was tackled by secret service agents for his own safety. A few short moments later they got back up on their feet and escorted him off the stage, and with blood streaming down the right side of his face, he put his fist in the air and the crowd went bonkers. A couple of seconds later he did it again and they chanted “U-S-A! U-S-A!” I felt a rush of ice water flow through my veins when I saw this, and then I stood up straight. I was with him. Me, the man that did not vote at all in 2016 and voted for Kanye West in 2020. Me, the man that hates the U-S-A chant and refused to shout it in 2001 after the twin towers fell, and on the night that Barack Obama was elected in 2008. I do not endorse politicians and I very rarely do patriotism, but yesterday I found myself doing a little bit of both. For this incident conjured up a palpable sense of nostalgia in me.
When I was in primary school my cousins and I were playing football in my aunt’s yard on 55th Avenue in East Oakland and somehow the ball kept going over the neighbor’s fence. Her neighbor was a mean drunk named Stanley. He hated kids and he hated life. And he especially hated his life when me and my cousins, my aunties, my uncles, and my grandmother would all gather at my Aunt’s house for a family dinner. He begrudgingly threw the ball back to us the first time and then the second time it went over he refused to give it back. My older cousin, seeing how distressed we were about the ball, decided to hop the fence and get it for us. Stanley didn’t like that. So when he saw my cousin jumping over his fence from his window he went into his house and got his switchblade. He walked with vindictive intention toward my cousin.
He was one foot away when he flicked open the knife, and said;
“You went on my property mutha fucka?”
My cousin got in his karate stance and quickly retorted;
“If you gone stab me then stab me.”
We all circled the commotion then my cousin repeated himself with more confidence;
“If you gone stab me then stab me!”
Stanley wasn’t ready for this. A few of my aunties screamed; “Oh my god!” Then Stanley slowly retreated towards his house. “Yeah mutha fucka.” He said as if he had actually done something, and he went back inside. My cousin was 15 years old at the time and I was about six, but for the rest of my life I will never forget the moment when I realized that my cousin was a G. He wasn’t afraid to die. That’s what’s at the core of the gangster identity and that’s what Donald Trump exhibited last night. His defiance spoke to something very primal in me. The part of me that respects the inner savage in someone else. I saw into the soul of Donald Trump and it said “You gone have to kill me, because I’m not going to cower.” That’s hard. That’s gangsta and I don’t care what anyone says. I have to respect it.
ghettosun 