Just walkin'
Two twelve year olds, Aisha and Mike, discover that they are neighbours as they walk home from school somewhere on Chicago's South Side.
“So how come you don't like rap?”
“Wait a minute homie, I never said I wasn't down. All I'm sayin' is that I don't like some of the rap I been hearin'.”
“Spill it. What it be you don't like about the brothers' raps?”
“Well, I don't like the kind of rap that kicks our people to the curb.”
“How you mean?”
“Okay, I like raps that make me wanna be happy and proud. I mean what we got to be proud of in “doggie style” ... ? Speak up man! Do you know what I'm sayin'?”
“Yeah, I think I do.”
“Good, 'Cause see, when rappers be leanin' on that tired ol' gangsta-crutch they be sellin' us to the highest bidder. You want me to be down for that? I don't think so.”
“But hey, they bein' real. That's what life is like where we live at.”
“So what. We've been livin' a bad dream every day and night of our lives. We don't need any more misguided brothers remindin' us of the nightmare ... and gettin' low down fat off of the hurt, pain and shame of our people. Ain't you tired of that too? They need to be rappin' about some fresh and new ideas like how we can help instead of hurtin' each other.”
“I never thought of it that way before ... I guess you right.”
“You guess? Mike you got any sisters?”
“Nawh.”
“That figures.”
“Well, this is as far as I go.”
“Which house is yours?”
“The little one, in the back.”
“You goin' to basketball practice tonight?”
“I got big-time homework.”
“Word. Me too. See you in fifth period tomorrow.”
“Alright. Thanks for walkin' me home. Bye!”
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He is happy to receive letters commenting on his columns. He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G2-51, GD&CC, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA.]
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