I used to sneak around my childhood home listening to Lil Wayne’s “The Block Is Hot” and “Lights Off” albums. My room, covered in red and black paint, Michael Jordan posters and Chicago Bulls bed sheets, was a place of getaway. “A young n**** screaming f*** the world and let em die” would blast through my Walkman as I occasionally took one ear bud off to listen for anyone coming close to my door. Although I didn’t grow up completely like Lil Wayne did, I was hooked. I wasn’t too far off anyway. I would barely see my father, I wanted the image that Lil Wayne portrayed, and many of his stories reminded me of things that went on in my neighborhood. Outside of drawing, the NBA and playing drums, Hip-Hop was my everything. The way I dressed, talked, and perceived life, was largely influenced by my favorite rappers of that time. This vivid life shaping music transferred an attitude that gave me power. Power to do what I wanted to, to say what I wanted to say and to ultimately explore the things it spoke of. Things that were forbidden in my home. I lived with my mother, Dorothy, and my step-father, Clintel. My parents got divorced when I was young and I didn’t see my real father much. My mother remarried and became heavily involved in church. I hated church. Outside of the girls, my social status, and being paid to play drums every Sunday, I had no care for it at