Nice For What?

Big ups to Aubrey Drake Graham for the summer’s first official banger. Shit, big ups to the video, with all those tenders. Stop hating on Aubrey and give him his MF creditó. He knows how to make good music. And your baby mama DL all his records on her iPhone. No Apple Music. And I sneak saw a couple of his hits in your menagerie. I’m not gon out you though...for now. Sike!!! I’m on my Marty Mart on Word On The Street. But for real, It’s me. I’m the culprit. Sike! I’ve liked Drizzy since HoustonLantaVegas or whatever. Well, let’s get on with it. I actually have a point.

I’m no male basher. I don’t hate on the next man’s progress. If that’s your cheese or your fuck buddy, play on. I don’t do that type of shit. You know, openly career hate. Niggas like that are career haters. But at the same time, I don’t respect you disrespectful, born when a Bush was president type niggas either. Sho nuff, a bitch is a bitch. No snow coning frozen pee pee. It is what it is. And 9.9 out of 10, she won’t take any offense to your choice of noun. But some of you cum stains have the worst communication skills imaginable. Everything out your jibs is bitch this, bitch that. Then we got the niggas outchea two and three timing their queens. Marriage is a serious thing to me. I respect vows and the idea of my ride or die going all out with me. However, I’m not married because I refuse to do my queen dirty. When it’s my time and Ms. Wonderful is in my life, party over (she may indeed be).

For reasons like the above, our ladies today are on some different type shit. And...shit...I can’t blame them. A lotta women you meet in the streets are mean AF. Bad attitudes out the ass. But truth be told, they deserve to be upset, cuz a whole lotta bruvas ain’t shit. And it’s been that way for a while now. So, sexy ladies deserve to be nice for what on these pussy ass niggas. Y’all don’t have time to cater to the bullshit. Ya put up with it for far too long. Just fuck em. Fuck em girl, fuck em! (You So Crazy!) And be...nice for what to these niggas? They don’t deserve it. But when you’re in the presence of a Don such as myself, relax yourself and enjoy the music and aromatics. A sip of cognac, perhaps, and remember: I’m not the nigga or niggas who did you greasy. Return the respect that’s given, and we’ll have a MF ball. I don’t mind you feeling some type a way about not shit niggas, just don’t ever assume that I’m one. I deal with sophistication. Anything less is non cypher. I’m certain my real nuccas agree. If you take offense, I musta pulled your card.

(Drops the mic and walks off stage)

The Hate(r) Theory

hate
—verb (used with object), hat·ed, hat·ing.
1\tto dislike intensely or passionately; feel extreme aversion for or extreme hostility toward; detest: to hate the enemy; to hate bigotry.
2\tto be unwilling; dislike: I hate to do it.

haterh
—-noun, hat•er
1 any motherfucker who adopts the aforementioned verb as a mentality and/or lifestyle simply because of another’s success: My baby mama is a punk ass hater.

I’m almost certain the origin of of the hood usage of hater comes from the Bad Boy camp at its height of dominance in the mid-90s. But then it was used exclusively attached to and following the word player. Player...hater...(sing it BIG fella) PhD (player hater’s degree), just cuz I hate you don’t make you a player (tell em Bumpy Knuckles)...it goes on and on. And rightfully so. There’s a hater born every 15 seconds.

The world is full of hating ass MF who will stop at no end to undermine or train wreck your progress/movement. And the saddest part is that you’re not even taking a single morsel off their plate. No type rough hustling. You’re just out striving for your piece of the American Patti LaBelle sweet potato pie. Nevertheless, here comes Johnny Hater. Undermining your achievements. Tryna divert the shine somewhere else or shift the discussion into his or her own light and subsequent praise. Flat out lie. They’ll do what they gotta. No holds barred. No type of shame.

One of life’s biggest misconceptions is that love and hate are opposites. WRONG. Hate and love are both emotions, essentially one in the same. Hence the thin line theory. For the record, the opposite of both is indifference. For the learning impaired, that means you just don’t give a 757 jumbo jet flying fuck one way or the other. Get to the point, Monday. Basically, all I’m saying is that hate is actually repressed love. Haters really love you. They love your style (ask Nasir about Hov). They love your success so much that they hate you for it. But mostly, deep down they hate the fact that they can’t do what you do. Either that or they’re unwilling to grind the way you had to grind just to begin your travel on the road to the riches. They’d rather sit back, blow aromatics and talk about the shit they could do, all of which is better than what you actually do. I hear you hater. And I love you back. With yo ole evil, hating ass. Catch me on top of the globe, slightly above Greenland.

If you have 2 kids, 3 baby daddies, a shaky work history, live in public housing with your mamma and two siblings, suck dick in the B-Stairs for light ups, no class, and 14,653 IG followers cuz your ass is thicker than the SAT study guide and you dance weekends at Slore’s Playground, STFU about how you have X amount of bitches hating on you. No. No. No. They’re mad cuz they’re tired of their tax money supporting your trifling ass. Get off social media and get a life.

All and all, I’ve always been candid and grounded enough to freely admit that I don’t really have any haters. At least none within vision or ear shot. Hell, I’m pretty damn nice with the pen. And seeing as how I get paid for my craft, I am by definition a professional. We all know I’m NASA certified fly and the chocolate fat boy is easy with the ladies. All types and flavors. Ask your Auntie. Yet, I don’t get hate from folk out and about. I get love in these streets. My folk love to see me eat. I could draft an army if need be. Simple and plain it’s cuz I’m a man of my word and well respected, ufrom the gambling spot to the chuuch house. Or perhaps I’m just an anonymous nobody. Ha.

Check my team out on theunbearablescrew.com. Don’t just browse. Scoop some fly apparel. Spend some of that tax money you lied to Uncle Sam about and just found where you hid it two months ago. Big ups to my lil bro D. Peebles on his support of the squad and his engagement to baby girl. I’ll be at the wedding. One love.

We Gon Make it

I got a little sister in heaven, and bredren up north finishing sets that would love to see the Don in a Seven...Six Five LI—-before I die—-if I don’t sell a million plus, fuck it I tried.

Only a select few know where that comes from. Refer to the title of this essay (fuck a blog, I write literary essays). Then remix it.

It’s been a long time. Whatever. We done took our share of losses. But we’re still standing. Let’s get straight off into it.

There shall be no ignorance in this body of work (outside the 2 fux I previously gave). These days I won’t waste your time unless I have something to say (and it may be ignorant, just not today). Today I have something to say.

One day last week in after school while I (Operations Director) was setting up the front desk (which doubles as a security desk during the school day), Ms. Gillespie, the lady security guard at the school asked me a simple question semi out of the blue. I mean, it wasn’t from left field at all, but it was the perfect counter question to our discussion. I came in a bit down over prior work related angst (I work in a high school during the day). Anyway, at the end of our brief discussion she asked, “Do you feel like you make a difference [with these kids]?” I immediately answered YES. Ironically, I never explained why. She never asked. The conversation continued in another direction.

These days, as I enter the twilight of my time as an educator/counselor in my third hometown of Englewood, NJ, I candidly admit that I have often questioned my efficacy. Have I really made a difference? Hell, I’ve even doubted myself at times. But today, tonight I can certainly reaffirm YES. But I gave it a bit of further thought tonight, and I can explain exactly why.

First, I’ve never failed to admit the fact that I’m human. I let my babies (any kid I’ve taught/counseled/mentored) know this all the time. I make mistakes. I’ve made some of the mistakes you make (if not most). We all eff up. But redemption is what makes us beautifully human. We have to stop lying to our kids about what’s real and what we’ve been through. I don’t mean small children. But before that young man or woman enters middle school (yes, that early if not earlier, depending on the child), he or she needs to know the real. Lies from adults lead a child to distrust. Especially at a time when a child yearns to know the real, real things only a parent should explain to and educate a child. Distrust leads to experimentation. You finish it. Stop acting like you were Kenny off The Cosby Show (youse are too young to know who Eddie Haskell was), and let them know. It’s a damn good chance that they’ll trust you enough to not make the same catastrophic mistakes you may have made. I mean, I’m damn near 40 and I’ve never smoked crack. I learned fast.

Next, which shoulda been first, I listen to the babies. And I do mean babies. Not just my high school, novella living teenies, but also my preK babies. If they wanna talk about why Mr. T’s belly is so fat, I explain why. If they wanna know why I always wear that horsie on my clothes, I introduce them to the Lo life. It means the world to a child of any age. I just cool out, cool out and listen to them...But most important, I don’t betray their trust. If they tell me something in confidence it stays there. That not only comes from my personal integrity, but also my oath of confidentiality as an educated journalist. They know they can trust me. They know there’s always an adult they can call on to talk to. An adult who’s been where they’re going. An adult who isn’t an undercover sicko. An adult who isn’t trying to be down cuz he was a lame in high school. An adult who’s real enough to confide in.

Third, I pay attention to popular culture. That sounds simple, if you’re a dumb ass. But I don’t mean the things I like or the things a forty year old likes or the things a man likes. I mean damn near everything. I listen to G. Herbo, A Boogie and Logic. I love music. Some of today’s music that the babies listen to is actually ok. And even if I can’t stand it, I readily admit that it’s not for me. It’s for them. I had my time. And I lived it up. I’m not mad. Rock on youngn’s. I WATCH RATCHET TELEVISION. At least as much as I can stand. They watch it. I gotta keep an ear on it. I listen to the slang. I picked that up from the streets, vital whether out of town or living on a Bloody Bronx block.

Last, I don’t switch up. I’m the same with my babies regardless of the venue or whomever is in front of me. I could care less about brownie points from some duck ass administrator. I’m not here to impress them. I’m here for the babies. I’m not a stoolie. I’m not finna runteldat. Sorry. Do your own research. If I do see a problem, I’m stepping directly to the kid. If not I’m gonna converse with a parent or guardian or trusted family friend. I’m not gon be responsible for Child Services prematurely running down on an ethnic household and tearing apart another home. Sorry. Not Ty. However, I am a mandated reporter. ANYTIME I see or strongly suspect harm or negligence to a child, I’m calling dem peoples. Trust and believe. I have to. Don’t you know I’m a mandated reporter? Moreover, I love my babies.

Last, Last...When one of my babies is wrong, I tell them they’re wrong. I’m not worried about hard feelings or falling out of like with them. I love them, I’ll battle for them, but I’m not their friend. Years down the line when they’re adults, possibly. But wrong is wrong. I don’t promote wrong. When I am wrong I admit it and apologize, irrespective of how hard it may be. I hold my babies to the same standard. I tell them all the time if you bought the ticket, you gotta ride the ride. Stand tall. That’s a life lesson. In time, I’m certain this will make them productive persons in life if they maintain this ethic.

LAST, Last, last I BELIEVE IN THEM. ALL OF THEM. AND I TELL THEM ALL THE TIME. WHY? BECAUSE I REALLY DO.

I am a flawed man. But my heart is pure. I wear my emotions on my sleeve. I tell the truth. I’m loyal to anyone I consider a loved one. I pay my tax. I present myself as such to anyone I come in contact with, especially my babies. That’s why they love me. That’s why I’ll do anything (within reason) that I can for any one of them.

You ain’t my crew, who are you? Beat it!
But if you are or would like to be, check us out on theunbearablescrew.com. See you on the way to Pulitzer Ave. Many blessings.