I HAVE LESS MONEY AND WORSE CREDIT THAN THE average rap superstar. My court cases and those of my comrades bled me dry, but I’d like to see us rappers take care of the communities whose life we rap about. I’d like to hold a town hall meeting for the young brothers out on the block. I’d tell them they can be bigger and better than me. I was once where they were. I was on that corner with that work on me. I was once broke and fucked-up. Hell, at times I forgot to wash my ass out there on the corner. I wrote this book on behalf of myself and the brothers I came up with to let the young brothers know they don’t have to suffer the pain we did. Opportunities are out there for a black man. A black boy can grow up to become president in this motherfucker. He won’t have to stare down a life sentence.
Black has been locked up since 1989 and I’ve never heard him make an excuse or blame anyone for his situation. I’ve never heard him talk bad about his partner and codefendant, Shrimp, whom he’s serving life with. When we speak, he’s always amused at the new gadgets out on the market. If he ever gets out, I’ll have to teach him how to use an iPhone. In many ways I owe him my life.
I ask one thing of the rappers who choose to mislead our kids while becoming pawns for an industry with no good intentions for our community.
Go shoot yourself. Slit your wrists. Hip-hop was our escape out this hell called the projects. It’s not okay to write rhymes that make kids believe college isn’t the place to be. We have the entire world dancing and jiving to the rhythm of our pain while AIDS and incarceration destroy our community.
Some would say Trick Daddy is a hypocrite for speaking some righteous shit. My response is, listen to the entirety of my albums. As an artist I can only paint the picture society presents. Brothers, take care of your kids. Stop leaving them for the streets to devour.
The coke life and the pain it causes is real. Those of us lucky enough to escape it live with lifelong nightmares. I’m sure the drugs I used to chase away those demons affected my lupus. Maybe the dope I sold caused someone to overdose. It may have left a child orphaned. It may have caused an addict to rob, even kill, his mother for money to get high. What if one of the bullets that left our AKs during shoot-outs killed a little girl or boy? She may have grown up to become the next Michelle Obama. That boy may have grown up to be Barack. I wish all the made-for-television, studio hard-core rappers would think about all that when they sit to write some make-believe cocaine rap.
Rappers, let’s get together and build some community centers. Some child-care centers would be dope. I’ve always wanted to open a night-care center so the single mothers could go have fun while someone watches the kids. Mama gotta have a life too.
I’d like to tell my brothers who stay hustling in the street to deal with the consequences. Understand that when you put your hands on that white girl, there’s a good chance her father will lock you in a six-by-nine-foot cage for the rest of your fucking life. Don’t take down everyone with you to avoid that alternate ending. You made that choice. You made that bed. Now lay in the motherfucker.
In closing, I’d like to clarify something. I answer to God, because He’s the only one I have to answer to when I leave this Earth. I’m trying to get into His big house, so I have work to do to earn my bunk. The media likes to criticize me for boasting that I’m a thug. They don’t understand my definition. A thug isn’t someone dressed in baggy jeans and Timberland boots ready to pistol-whip your ass. A thug is someone who stands on his own. He lives by the decisions he makes and accepts the consequences. Most problems stem from the fact that most people don’t know who they are. A thug is comfortable in his own skin. I wear mine like a glove.