Witness the strength of street knowledge…
I am a long way away from the basketball courts in ‘Dena
where I first listened to N.W.A. being played on the biggest
boom-boxes. I can only sit and fume, twist-and-turn as I
trying to understand the breakdowns of society, the same
breakdowns that existed when I walked into the halls of the
Pink Prison, where no one was ever told they were going to
be a leader in the community—where you were considered
lucky to not end up in gang-life and in a real prison.
The father in me is worried that America isn’t ready for the
movie. I don’t want to see imitators in Mariopa trying to be
something they are not. With the continued rage over flags,
examples of police brutality, and cell phone videos that are
played, shared, over and over again—this watched by the
wrong crowd, by wannabe gangstas, could trigger some
senseless violence that only drives a deeper wedge in our
soundbite and video clip society.
I’m a father now, with a lot to lose. I don’t play N.W.A.
in front of my kids, because they need to find their own
rebellious anthems that fit their realities. It goes beyond
that though, I don’t play any music in front of them where
the “N “ word is dropped or women are disrespected. I grew
up. I realized profanity laced lyrics didn’t fit into my life
anymore. I grew up and learned to love instead of hate. I
grew up and got wiser. I learned to play a game knowing the
rules and odds were against me. I don’t forget the struggles
but if I know the game is rigged, I have to figure out how to
deal with the obstacles and I can only blame myself if I don’t
counter-maneuver to failure.
The other part of me realizes this is what N.W.A. is all
about—provocative art. Artists know when they are pushing
the boundaries to touch a nerve and N.W.A. always wanted
to push buttons. However, their art form is just a reflection
of our society—and sometimes you need art to go where the
Al Sharptons and Fox News clowns cannot go—to where
there is a calloused hand gripped over your heart, and that
calloused hand just squeezes you until you can’t breathe,
and all you can do is open your eyes to the realities.
I know many of my generation are looking forward to the
movie. Having extinguished much the angst I grew up with,
I think I am ready to remember the times and the music. It
wasn’t all madness—there were a lot of good memories at
those house parties or ballin’ on those basketball courts...
Friendships were made that last to this day. Quite a few us
avoided prison and became pretty swell contributors to the
community—even cool parents that don’t mind listening to
“Let it Go” a million times. I think for the