The Hip-Hop Moses
“For many are called, few are chosen.” Matthew 22:14
So…
I was called a blasphemous sinner at best and an atheist at worst, the other day, which is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Well, not THE most ridiculous thing, but really REALLY close and:
So.
Not.
True.
Ok, I obviously uttered the most offensive blasphemous metaphor known to humankind regarding my larger than life-sized adult offspring, my description, not his. Expressing a mother’s pride I titled K.O. the Hip-Hop Moses and ruffled a few feathers. (Eh, what’s a few feathers? It’s not like I said he was the Messiah or something, which is what I was going to say but decided to demote him somewhat for the sake of avoiding argument *arms akimbo*. I mean, it’s not like he STARTED hip-hop! Maybe a more substantive genre of today’s hip-hop, but that’s a whole other blog…)
Anyway…after explaining my position the ruffled woman with steam rising from her ears, nose and throat, huffed that she would pray for my sins, for me and for my offspring and in that order, to which I thanked both she, her lack of metaphorical range and her God, in that order. (According to her, her bible said that our Gods were not one in the same. I don’t know what she was reading but clearly, she is a CONfused-ed *ding*…) I then walked away feeling a bit sad for the woman who complained that her son at 42 years of age had never flown the coop. A son that moved any number of women and children, his and otherwise, in and out of her house for some said number of years. So caught up in her particular righteousness she really wouldn’t see the forest for the trees, she was given a reprieve. I couldn't bare to bring her out of ignorance, for she was truly in bliss.
You, on the other hand, lucked up.
I shall explain to you, the masses, as I attempted to explain metaphorically to her. Agree if you choose, disagree if you like, respect regardless.
This is not fodder for thought, nor is it narcissistic conjecture, this is not opinion, nor is it fiction from which fantasy is made. It is a fact.
My son is, and has, a gift.
Born to individuals preoccupied with changing the world one seed at a time, people that planned his conception and prayed for his anticipated deliverance. Born to a father determined to erase the footsteps he would never allow his son to tread.
Kash Tha Ovadose was called to duty, at his first breath, born to a mother determined not to allow her son a permanent place on the statistical charts that were assumed to be his calling. It was known when he was born a 10lb. 2 oz king of the litter that he would guide many and follow few. He WOULD NOT JUST BE. She refused. He refused.
Sacrifices were made by any and all means necessary to the shock, horror and chagrin of family and friends. No one understood our reasons, our decisions, our minds. We had a plan and tired ourselves of translating and deciphering to the blind, to the deaf, to the dumb.
Let ‘em wonder.
When he devoured The Autobiography of Angela Y. Davis at the age of 11, I knew then that he would change the world. How he would do this and when he would do this was a bit of an enigma. Not long after that day, he formed his hip-hop group. He read everything he could get his hands on, asked a million questions and questioned every answer. Yes, he was a bit rough around the early edges, a strong determined piece of glistening hip-hop coal he was. He absorbed words from women like Angela and Assata and Nikki along with Sanyika* and Donald and other men that made it snow, fortifying the power of his pen that did bare fruit (Breaking News Volume I) after fruit (The Year of the Gods), (Operation Shut Down) after fruit (countless collaborations, solo tracks and unreleased material).
An unwavering core of coal pressured through wind and water and force and failure and confusion and knowledge and pain and learning and disappointment and growth and time into a rare black diamond solid and somewhat rough and rigid and cold and fresh and raw and uncut. In turn, his lyrics are biting and flesh-eating and in your face and uncomfortable and unrelenting and sticky and hurtful and valid and bold and harsh and grimy and compelling and hungry and acidic and beautiful and hard and reflective of Life and of the Hood. (Remixed from Black Philosophers/America the Beautiful)
“Cuz I’m of God, son of God, like Jesus is…” ~ Laugh At ‘Em
He is not dismayed by the destruction of hip-hop; he is decisive in his sowing. He has not fallen prey to all that glitters in the rap game. He isn’t caught up in the laffy-taffy hold of the general rap-seeking population. On the contrary, he seeks to untangle the nonsensical stronghold, apparently knotted in the belly of the Beast. He is an urban griot, speaking to the center of the struggle he is meant to reap. Given the gift to express the collective frustration of today’s young man using a mindset not equipped to follow fake-storytelling imposters. He knows who he is, his purpose in Life and how to show the world what that Hood Sh!t is really all about ;-)
In parting, I am truly blessed to call him “Son” and proud to say his soul is exactly that which it was destined to be. At his first breath, he was called to duty. He took control heeding his calling then as he continues to everyday in each letter, each lyric, each line speaking volumes in mere verses.
And.
If you know nothing of this U.G.C. movement, please know that whenever you hear him spew rhymes from his spirit, his soul too screams for the current state of hip-hop to “LET MY PEOPLE GO!”
(* Sanyika Shakur Monster Kody)
This is, for all intents and purposes...fortunate or un-, my Life ~ Aisis
