I hate you, you hate me. We hate each other so there is nothing else to see. My car is bigger than your car, my dad is stronger than your dad, and my sister is better at turning your tricks than your wife is. How do I know these things? Because I am the black man who hates himself, and I tell myself these things every day. The various contradictions bouncing around inside our minds, and as numerous as the justifications we use to explain them. I use the N-word everyday. I sing it in songs and I enlist other people to sing along and do the same. I advise teenagers to smoke dope, so that they can be like me — draped in bling and gold rope — all the things that will depreciate along the way, but that’s not what I say. I know that it enslaves people mentally and in so many other ways.
I hate myself and I know this each and every day. I will shoot my brother for getting in my way. By any means and at any cost, I will make them pay. I will get them addicted, and leave them infected and afflicted. I am the man, can’t you see, riding in big expensive cars — don’t you want to be like me? I have expensive gym shoes and an expansive tennis shoe collection, so what if I don’t use protection? These are the things you will kill for and I’ll encourage you to keep going and do it some more.
Can’t you see? I’ve got tattooed money up and down my arm, and I’ll use the symbolism to seduce you and charm. I’ve got the dollar
bill pasted on my face, and next to it an ice cream cone that I will never be able to erase. No, you can’t tell me anything, because I have the money the dope and more. So I’ll look you in the eye and call you a whore. I have it here and now, and that in my mind makes you a cow or a sow.
But I love myself, I think, although I am shooting dope and admiring my ink. Here I am looking at the man in the mirror. I start out brown but by the time my life comes to an end, I am all torn down. But while I’m here, I am dancing and grinding, and grabbing my crotch, “ooh, ooh baby,” you can’t help but watch.
Oh yes, you’re lost, but I’m watching the throne. I tell white people that we are top n—-rs in Paris, and that makes them moan and groan. But that’s Jigga. They don’t want to be where I lay my hat and call it home, ‘cause I am still a n—a.
I am fat and diabetic, and I still eat fat food whenever I can get it. Yes, I care so much about myself and my race that I call my woman a b—- right to her face. I don’t see the disgrace. I’ll say it to my sister, my mama, my aunt and my grandma, too. What are any of them, or you going to do?
For all of my b—-es and h–s, don’t act like you didn’t already know. You are going to by my album that I have designed to plant that seed of hatred in your mind. I tell you what you can’t be, but want you to be like me, and then you’ll see. And if that’s not enough, then my ex-girl will be on TV, and she’ll act like a real coon too. You know fighting and all that foolery that you do.
At the end of the day, here is my hope for you. I hope that none of you graduate, that way I can get you working the street and moving weight. And then you can chant “Black and Yellow” and smoke weed, too. You w
on’t look for a job or plan a career, you won’t run off to the army and do anything worthwhile year after year. You can’t pass the drug test, you won’t get through the door. There are so many avenues you will never explore.
So roll one up and smoke your future away. I am a famous black rapper, I am a celebrity athlete, I am what keeps you from accomplishing or even attempting any feat. I’m just saying …
Peace.
Munson Steed
