Illegal: A Hip-hop Tale

By N.G. Young

This is a book they don't want you to read. Be careful because its subject is now illegal. This force is feared by the evil men of this world. Be careful because to speak of these things is now illegal. You have picked up a book that speaks of things that once were, that now is not, and yet millions now fight to have once again. Be careful because these things are now illegal. This will sound like heresy for those who don't understand, blasphemy to those who think they do, but it will serve as confirmation to those who have lived and died for it. What is it? Common rapped how he used to love "H.E.R." Lupe Fiasco said it saved his life. Naughty by Nature made us shout hooray for it. Why is it illegal? Because it has the power to change your mind. This is Hip-hop. Those who dare embrace this force are called true Hip-hoppas. Be careful because to let these words leave your lips is illegal and so are you! This calls for a mind with wisdom. Read if you dare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640826724

Book preview

Chapter 1

Don’t push me cause I’m close to the edge. I’m trying not to lose my head, a huh, huh, huh. It’s like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder how I keep from going under.

—Grandmaster Flash, The Message

Shortly after the failed Black Power movement of the 1960s, the rage and civil unrest that lie in the disillusioned hearts of the youth turned to violent means of expression.

Gangs began to recruit in the same manner as the Black Panther Party of the 1960s. Soon, there were more than 315 estimated gangs in the city of New York. After the mass exodus of white middle-class Jews, Germans, Italians, and Irish for the promise of home ownership in the suburbs, the South Bronx became a haven for crime.

Maybe it was the abandoned buildings or the trash that littered the streets. Or perhaps it was the high joblessness rate and the poverty, both politically and economically, that crippled those left behind. They could not afford to escape on the gravy train. Whatever it was, a beast emerged, and that beast was strong enough to punch a hole in the wall of mainstream America, which had ignored the cries from its forgotten ghettos.

No more would that pain be ignored. No more would the mainstream deny the power of what had grown beneath the surface of its false exterior of calm and comfort. Something was happening. Something was changing. Not just something, but many things. There was a new sound emerging. The environment was the beast that influenced the inhabitants of that hell on earth to create a new sound, a new style, a new way of coping with modern urban life. At first, it wasn’t for mainstream America. It was just for those who resided within the belly of the beast. At first, we only did it for one another. This energy was the original FUBU (For Us, By Us). This new thang was a true thang. At first, it was protected like the infant that it was. As for now, no one cared for the details, they just embraced it.

It was people like D. J. Dangerous who knew nothing of the whys and why-nots of what he did. This was his passion. Passion does not care about the whys. Passion only cares for the what.

D. J. Dangerous’s real name was James Kiefer. But everyone called him Dangerous D. James attracted much negativity for his stance on social issues. People often called him a wannabe Malcolm X, always preaching about systematic and historical injustices. He didn’t care. He was taught by his mother to speak and share his mind. You never know who may benefit from your wisdom. But for sure, no one will if you hold your tongue, she used to say this to him often. That was before she died, just two years ago when James was thirteen. Now he channeled her spirit in the art of being a DJ and the skill of tagging (that’s graffiti art for those of you who don’t know).

James’s art was sometimes just as unwanted as his preaching. He would travel to the other boroughs of New York City to tag the side of buses, trains, and buildings. It was near dusk on a Wednesday night, the nearly universal black church night for Bible study. In one of his many trips to Harlem, James encountered one of the most dangerous creatures known to man—a woman.

James usually avoided tagging buildings because he found that someone would always come along and chase him away with the promise of a phone call to the police. It was at the sight of one of his tagging sessions where he would meet his most vehement critic.

How dare you put that mess on the house of the Lord? A small-framed young African-American girl yelled at James as she clutched her black leather King James Version of the Bible in her right hand and placed the other on her left hip.

Yo, it’s cool. I’m doing this for the Lord. Read it.

Since when is gang signs the Lord’s work? she said, ignoring James’s question. The beautiful girl with a caramel complexion and relaxed shoulder-length hair continued to shout at James. She shook her head with every bit of black girl sass as she could muster. James was immediately attracted to her.

These ain’t no gang signs. Read what it says. A nearby streetlight flickered and provided little help in deciphering the writing. But that’s not the only reason. Some graffiti artists purposely made the writing difficult to read to prevent others from copying their style. This is much like emcees purposely obscuring their handwriting when writing raps just in case someone reads them and attempts to steal them.

The young girl’s coffee-candied doe eyes squinted, trying to read the big, bold graffiti letters. The colors red, black, and yellow blended together like an urban version of one of Picasso’s paintings. She stood there all of five minutes, trying to make out the words formed in the freshly sprayed aerosol paint’s scent that still hung disrespectfully in the air. After growing even more frustrated, she angrily responded, I don’t care what it says, it—

Says God is love, James finished her sentence.

The girl tilted her head to the side as if her brain would shift inside her skull to render understanding. Oh, I see. Instantly, her mood changed from sassy to cool and classy. James noticed her sudden relaxed demeanor.

Hi, I’m James, he said, extending his hand after removing the paint-stained glove covering the brown flesh underneath.

Regina, she smiled and responded in kind.

Chapter 2

We don’t live for Hip-hop. Hip-hop, it lives for us.

—Talib Kweli

In just one encounter with her, James knew she would either bear his child or become his wife, perhaps both. The greatest thing, however, was that they became friends.

Her full name was Regina Campbell, and she was born and raised in Harlem. Her parents met and later married after serving in Vietnam. Regina’s mom was a nurse and met her father while he was being treated for non-life-threatening injuries sustained during the war. Regina, however, had no memory of her mother and father because she was orphaned at only a year old when her parents’ plane disappeared on its way to Bermuda for their two-year anniversary. Because of this, Regina was placed in foster care and, eventually, adopted by an interracial couple who loved her and cherished Regina as their very own.

Neither her parents’ plane nor their bodies were ever recovered from the search. The last transmission of the flight was of a panicked pilot screaming something about a swirl of clouds up ahead that he never had seen the likes of before. After that, the plane just completely disappeared. The strange thing about the pilot’s last transmission was that there was no record of a storm. Along the flight path, the weather couldn’t have been more ideal for travel.

James and Regina’s relationship was bound together by both passion and philosophy. Regina and James would spend hours on end just talking. In the early years of their relationship, they talked more than they made love. James was like a walking library, much like a griot in an African village.

In these conversations, both would explore, debate, and present each of their particular views about everything from art to zoology. One night, James and his wife of three years spoke about Jesus while they watched the classic movie, The Greatest Story Ever Told. James turns to Regina while her head rested upon his chest and asked rhetorically, "You know Jesus was black, right?’

Actually, he was a Palestinian Jew, Regina responded, not breaking eye contact with the television.

How did you know that? James fought against the surprised look on his face though not visible in the dark with only the TV screen to illuminate.

You’re not the only one with a brain, James.

Then why do you wear that cross around your neck?

What do you mean?

Crucifixion was the Roman Empire’s way of capital punishment, babe. That’s how they put people to death.

So what’s your point?

Well, do you know how many other people the Roman’s crucified the same way as Jesus? If the Romans killed Jesus by electric chair, would you then wear a small golden electric chair around your neck too?

It’s to show respect for the sacrifice Jesus made to save us. You shouldn’t disrespect the Lord! Regina’s voice was more defiant than it had been since the conversation began. Her words sounded like they were desperately trying to escape through her clenched teeth and tightened jaw. Regina’s voice reminded James of the day they met long ago by her church in Harlem.

Babe, Jesus was a divine man, God in flesh. I have no doubt about that. But so are we! In the Bible you cherish, Jesus says, ‘Is it not written in your law, you are Gods?’ Babe, that’s John 10:34. James’s good memory came in handy.

At this, Regina lifted her head from his chest and stared into his eyes with a strange curiosity. Her stare turned quickly to disgust before she stood up and ran quickly to the bathroom. For sure James thought that he had gone too far debating against his wife’s strong faith in Christianity, and because of this, she grew angry. However, when he heard the familiar sound of someone vomiting, he knew she wasn’t sick of him, just sick. He wondered why.

Are you okay, babe? I’m sorry if I made you sick. You know how I get to talking and—

You’re not the reason I’m sick . . . uh . . . I mean you are . . . well . . . you . . .

Her words were interrupted by the violent onset of bile rising from her stomach then escaping out of her mouth. Following the sound, James gently pushed the bathroom door to find his wife on her knees before the toilet as if worshipping a porcelain god.

What’s wrong, babe? Was it the fish we ate earlier? I told you it didn’t smell right. I knew we—

I’m pregnant, James.

Pregnant? Are you sure? James kneeled to the floor close to Regina where he met her watery eyes.

Yes, I’m sure unless the three pregnancy tests were all wrong and the doctor’s blood test too."

How come you’re just now telling me? How long have you known about this?

Does that really matter? When my period was late before, I thought it was stress. Sometimes, I didn’t have my period for two straight months and that was when I was a virgin, so I knew I wasn’t pregnant unless I was the reincarnation of Mary, mother of Jesus.

Don’t you mean Yeshua? That’s what Jesus’s name was in Aramaic, the language he spoke.

So not the time for your intellectual ego display, Regina added with a little chuckle. You’re not upset about this?

Of course I am! It’s gonna take me three hours to clean up this toilet!

They both erupted into excited laughter. Baby, you’ve just gave me the best news since you said you’d marry me.

Really, babe?

You are my Mary, and I am God that got you pregnant.

Yeah, but that was an immaculate conception. We had sex.

Can we have some more now? But first you gotta hit that toothbrush.

My husband, you are so crazy.

No, I’m your God, or don’t you remember John 10:34?

How could I forget that or you?

Let me make sure you don’t. James leaned into his wife for a kiss before he stopped short.

Brush teeth now, kiss later. He laughed, however, and then kissed her anyway.

Chapter 3

Jesus turned to the women and said, Daughters of Jerusalem do not weep for me. Weep instead for yourselves and for your children; for days are coming when they will say, ‘Blessed are the barren, wombs that never bore children, for they will say to the mountains ‘cover us.’ If men do these things when the wood is green, what will happen when it is dry?

—Luke 23:28–31

James may have won Regina’s heart with God-inspired graffiti art when they first met, but he could never convince her of the positive side to the art of rap. James pleaded with his pregnant wife to attend the Sugar Hill Gang concert happening at a local night club.

The group’s single, Rapper’s Delight, was the first rap song to ever go platinum and forever change the face of music industry. In the meantime, Regina’s belly had swelled with life. She radiated pure joy and beauty from her glowing face, except when her husband begged her to attend the concert at the club.

Babe, I just want you to come and see for yourself. It’s real positive and upbeat music. If you don’t like it, we’ll leave right away, I promise.

How can you call that crap music? All they are doing is talking over beats, loud beats at that. Music is singing, pianos, violins, drums, not talking!

All singing songs are talking if slowed down. Plus rap is art in motion, like poetry. It is poetry.

Whatever. Regina waved her hand disapprovingly at her husband.

So is that a no? James moved in closer to his six-month pregnant wife. He smiled at her and stretched his arms to envelop her in a hug of both patience and persuasion.

You promise we can leave if I don’t like the music or the crowd?

You already don’t like the music. I wanna show you the energy, the fun, and art of rap music.

You see, that’s why I don’t wanna go, James. You see only the light side of rap. Everything that has to do with that so-called art is not positive. If you would just admit that it has a dark side because everything does.

Would you say that about your gospel music?

No, because God is glorified with that music and that is real music.

Gospel music reinforces the apathy of black people. For example, that song, ‘Jesus He Will Fix It after While.’ It enables black people to do nothing to help themselves because, someday, in the near future, Jesus will solve all our problems while we, in the meantime, remain long-suffering. God helps those who help themselves. Watch, one day there will be gospel rap songs, maybe even albums.

That’ll be the day. James, you—

Will love you through it all. So will you come? James tilted his head to the side, waiting for his wife’s response.

Yeah, I guess so. Regina agreed reluctantly.

Maybe it was the excitement of his wife coming to one of his shows for the first time. Or perhaps his perfectly round hazel eyes that matched his caramel complexion failed to survey the area before approaching the side entrance to the club. Maybe because he stood all of 6’9" and weighed over 275 pounds, he figured, in his blind arrogance, no one would dare attempt to harm him. Whatever the reason, he made a grievous mistake.

James held out his hand to steady his wife on her feet. Careful now, you’re carrying my seed, very precious cargo indeed.

James, please stop rapping and rhyming. You have been doing that since before we left the house. Regina smiled wide before quickly frowning as she saw three large men approaching them both.

One was reaching for a silver handle sticking out of his waist. Regina gripped the arm of her husband before whimpering his name. There was no time to act. The man with the handle revealed that there was a gun attached to it. He slowly pulled out the weapon of death. Give me all yo money, nigga.

James stepped in front of his wife as if to block her, having no regard for his own safety. The other two men grabbed James by his arms and pulled him away. They beat him, delivering menacing blows to both his face and stomach. The blood-curdling screams of his wife were followed by a single shot that echoed in the dark empty night. James saw his wife stumbling and fought against the pain of his own injuries to prevent her from falling. He couldn’t make it to her in time. Regina held her belly and pulled away a bloody hand before she collapsed. Regina dropped face-first onto her belly, resulting in a loud crunching noise once she hit the pavement, unmistakable sound of bones being broken. The men quickly ran off into the darkness of the alley from which they emerged.

Regina spent several hours in surgery. Both James and Regina would survive. Their unborn baby girl would not be so fortunate. The bullet did not exit Regina’s belly. Instead, it rested in the heart of her unborn child. Nothing could have saved her. Even if as a result of the fall and the child’s bones were not broken, the murder bullet shot straight to the baby’s heart. The little girl inside Regina’s womb died before her mother hit the ground.

Afterward, the guilt felt by James was enough to sink the sun in the depths of the ocean. From that day forward, James never practiced the art of the turntables. He also never spoke of rap music or Hip-hop in front of his wife again. As a fitting metaphor for Hip-hop culture, both James and real Hip-hop—the fun of it, the love of it, and the true face of it—became invisible. What