Young, Black & Gifted

September 13, 1996 will forever stand out in my mind. I began it like any other day of my teenage life. My last class for that day was Civics. That day my teacher decided to take a break from his regularly humdrum lectures we had come to detest. He instructed us to arrange our chairs in a circle and asked each of us to share our “creative side.” When it was my turn, my friend loudly whispered, “Read that poem you wrote to Tupac.”
Days before, it was more than common knowledge that Tupac Amaru Shakur had been shot several times in a drive by shooting. As an avid fan, I was deeply concerned about the prolific entertainer. Of course there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t actually go see him, hold his hand or whisper in his ear that everything was going to be ok. So, I took out my pen and paper and began to write. I can’t recall every word I wrote that day, but I do know that I talked about Tupac, the man…a part of him that everyone seems to forget.
The media and “close confidants” are too far wrapped up in the dozens of publications, the “behind the music’s” and the round table discussions about “who knows ya best.” There are certain outlets of the media that still portray him as if the “thug life” tattoo that was etched across his stomach defined him. Then there are the die-hard fans that actually believe the ludacris acquisations that he is still alive and kicking on some remote island. And who can forget the most horrendous…the “authentic autopsy” pictures plastered across cheesy websites?
Whenever someone I know dies, I rarely go to their funeral. I always have the same reply when someone tries to get me to go to them, “I want to remember them the way I knew them best.” Well, when I think of Tupac, I think of the title of Lorraine Hansberry’s autobiography, Young Black and Gifted.
Rest in peace my brother.