I cooked this story up in my mind while sitting in a cell block, trying to understand the psychology behind the thug-lifestyle, realizing how strong of a hold it has on the young black youth. Like a contagious disease, it continues to spread through the broken homes and into the minds of fatherless children, searching for placement, acceptance and reason for existence. Those who are feeble-minded easily become victims to it, leading them to either death or imprisonment. It’s a shame, but who or what is to blame, Rap Artist? I guess the real question is; How can we overcome this?
Little Dre was a product of his crude and oppressive environment, born and raised in the streets of the ghetto, on the same day and time of his father’s death. Big Dre was en route to see the birth of his son before being gunned down by a rival gang member.
Little Dre, now a teenager approaching manhood, studied and took on the same pattering, adopting the lifestyle and gang affiliation that resulted in his father’s slaying. The environment was all he ever knew, as it was shown on television, broadcasted through music and advertised through the hood’s dress code. Without a father, Little Dre never had one clue what made a man, so he turned to the corner hustlers and neighborhood bangers to serve as a father figure, blending into the hood environment by donning the attire and speaking the slum language.
School no longer became the route to success, believing he could earn more selling crack in a week than a teacher could in a year. Money couldn’t come fast enough, as the apartment lights were often shut off, bills were overdue and Mother had to handle the workload on her own. Little Dre would frequently slip twenty dollar bills into her purse, but the money would magically return to him in his sock drawer. Mother knew he was up to no good in the streets, and there was nothing she could say that would turn him from the same lifestyle that took her husband, Dre Junior’s father.
Peer pressure had him deep in the streets, pockets bulging with folded hundred-dollar bills and bags of bottled-up crack rocks. Resting on his waist was a pistol with the serial numbers scratched away and duct tape covering the handle. Though he never had to use it, the gun gave him a sense of power, as if he held many lives in his hand. Godly, knowing he could kill a man if he wanted to, would often raise his shirt to prove to doubters that he was murderous. Little Dre never took a life, so he didn’t know what it felt like, he just seen death scenes from movies and thought it was that simple and easy.
One day, while posted on the street corner, Little Andre would make one move of the hand that would forever change the course of his life, serving an undercover cop two rocks of crack cocaine. The right side of his face burned while forced against the hot hood of a police cruiser, realizing the block had been under surveillance during the time he’d been posted up pitching. The feds, they knew it all and seen it all, and there was no doubt in Dre’s mind that he was headed to a cold and unforgiving jail cell. Continue Reading