#MNR: SING ABOUT ME

#MNR: SING ABOUT ME
“If art is a crime may God forgive me.”
Ramo
 
Genuine love is almost surreal. We witness and experience so much fake love that it often affects the interactions we have with those we meet in its aftermath. But when it’s real and authentic it is indelible. You and I are a half a generation apart in age. By the time I was figuring out who I was as a human, you were on your way up north on an attempted murder charge. I used to hear some of the stories about you. You got money and held shit down. And you loved to bust your ratchet. You gave the state of New York what you owed it and came home hellbent on picking up where you left off, and you did. Eastside get the money, long time no cash. You and I becoming palz was meant to be. Your family and mine fucked with each other heavy. I learned a lot from you. You loved my moxie and genuine nature. We trooped through the hundred blocks, from Spanish Harlem to Highbridge. You held me down. You made an out-of-town move with the homie and got caught up in some shit, but you returned to the hood after a few months of iron vacation. It wasn’t too much of a stretch (like I’m even qualified to say such a thing), but you weren’t able to properly attend to your health in a county jail five states away. That didn’t improve when you came home. I had no fucking idea. I’ll never forget the last call. It was after two in the AM. You told me that you were on the block and that you wanted to see me. I was on bullshit. I said I was coming down, but I was faking. It was late and my fat, lazy ass had no intentions of putting sneakers on my then edema-swollen feet and walking downstairs. I figured I’d catch up with you next time. Cousin called me three days later and broke the news. I cried so much that my boss gave me the rest of the day off and drove me to the bus stop, and the Lord knows I tried to hold the waterworks back with everything within me. I’ve never fully recovered in all the years since. I’ll never be able to make that one up to you. I apologize, my nigga. I promise to rep your name and essence until the day I am no more. Only you could leave this earth the exact same way Frank White did. How befitting. You were truly a King of New York.
You were such a beautiful soul. Your taciturn nature was the polar opposite of your big sister, yet you were just as demonstrative when necessary. You went from little sis to coworker, and children and adults alike were blessed by your presence. Little did we know that you were a talented artist, but we quickly learned. After reliability and a pleasant demeanor, the most important positive trait one can desire in a coworker is that they’re the same person each day. We don’t want to have to decipher which personality a coworker is going to display. You were the same ole D, every single day. It is imperative that I mention the difference you made in lil bro’s life. Your and his personalities meshed perfectly...fire and ice. His loquacious nature was the perfect complement to your lowkey demeanor. You two were a beautiful couple. He has always been a spark plug, but he glowed when he was with you. I knew that you suffered from an infirmity, but I guess (at the time) I was too wrapped up in my bullshit to really ponder its impact. I remember you missing work from time to time, but you always bounced back strong. Then I got the word that you passed. I was devastated. We all were devastated. But my God, I know in my heart that a piece of lil bro perished along with you. I thought of you two today. I texted him to see how he was doing. As always, he quickly flipped the script and made sure that I was ok. He’s amazing. So were you.
My biggest battles in life have always been internal. At times the glass mirror gets tough to watch. Am I a good kid from a mad city or a borderline sociopath with a good upbringing? Am I oft underappreciated and overlooked by those I love, or do I even deserve to be loved? Do I matter to anyone, or does it even matter if I’m some John Doe in a coroner’s freezer a few states away? The world has no idea how much I drift back and forth from Black king to Black trash. I know that I am somebody. But does it even matter? I don’t feel like I receive the love I give. I know I’m not a priority in anyone’s life, and that’s ok. I’m well beyond the woe is me treatment. I am at a point where I am acceptive of the ultimate letdown that life can often be. I’ve learned that being altruistic doesn’t matter to most people. I’m not disappointed in that because altruism isn’t based upon reception. I will remain selfless and help others because it’s the right thing to do as a believer. I no longer expect anyone to go the extra mile for me in any regard in life. That’s ok; no one owes me a damn thing. I do hope that the people who loved me tell my story in a proper manner when I am no more. And that’s if anyone even cares to hear it. I sincerely hope they sing about me, but I don’t expect them to.
Y’all know where the fuck to @ us.