Growing up Gucci Mane With a new book, new album and new reality show, the Atlanta star is ready for prime time

Radric Delantic Davis wanted the Christmas his mother couldn’t afford to give him — and the eighth-grader was willing to sell slabs of dope to make it happen. Toward the end of 1993, Davis, then 13, had his eyes on a pair of jeans, some new Air Jordans and a Starter jacket. Going back to school, postholiday break meant his classmates would show off their gifts from Santa.

But when his mom told him that bills were really tight and that she could only give him $50, Davis, today known as hip-hop star Gucci Mane, left the apartment with the money and walked to the other side of Mountain Park in East Atlanta’s Zone 6. Davis, who was already selling marijuana for his older brother, Duke, handed a dope man his mother’s $50 in exchange for two tightly wrapped slabs of crack cocaine, roughly 1.5 grams each.

“Now you owe me $50,” Gucci recalls the drug dealer telling him. “Get it?”

It was the moment Gucci realized he was officially waist-deep in Zone 6’s drug game — even if he didn’t have a clue of what he was getting himself into. “I remember … trying to carve out my own individuality,” he said. “I felt like fashion [was] a way to express myself, and I knew the only way I could get it at the time was that route: selling crack. I felt like dope would be the best route … at that time. That wasn’t one of the best decisions I ever made, but I was young.”

“There’s a lot of pain and heartache associated with the drug game that kids need to know about.”

Gucci’s family life, drug dealing and arrests — as well as the perfection of a musical style that would help elevate the careers of a slew of young Southern artists such as Migos, Young Thug and Zaytoven — are on full display in the new The Autobiography of Gucci Mane. In the book, co-authored by Neil Martinez-Belkin, Gucci, who has four top-10 rap singles — including this year’s hit with Migos, “I Get the Bag” — digs deeper into his upbringing than ever before, offering insight into how a kid caught up in Atlanta’s drug game made it through violence, rap beefs, a crippling addiction to the drug lean and run-ins with the law, including a 2005 murder charge (which was eventually dropped), to become the undisputed king of trap music.

“I finally know what it’s like to be a professional, to feel what’s going on,” Gucci said just ahead of the release of the book and his 11th studio album, Mr. Davis (due Oct. 13). The BET reality show Gucci Mane & Keyshia Ka’Oir: The Mane Event, featuring his fiancée, is set to debut Oct. 17. “I now appreciate that, and I’m not trying to take my talent or those opportunities for granted.”


By the time Gucci moved to Atlanta with Duke and his mother, Vicky, in August 1989, he had already experienced the highs and lows of family life.

Growing up in his grandfather’s house at 1017 First Ave., an olive-green two-bedroom near the train tracks in Bessemer, Alabama, young Radric took to his grandfather, the closest thing he had to a father. Gucci remembers Walter Davis Sr. as someone he’d run to and help walk with the rest of the way. He’d dive under his bed in laughter when his granddaddy chased him. But his granddaddy was a drinker, with bourbon often fueling those drunken stumbles home.

Amanda Dudley

When Radric was 7, his grandfather suffered a fatal heart attack. Losing the patriarch of the family triggered infighting that went on for years — his mother and aunts spilled blood on multiple occasions. “My granddaddy’s death divided the family,” Gucci said somberly. “Eventually, we figured it out, to be a tight-knit family again. But I learned a lot in that house.”

“I didn’t want to get caught up in that corner again, so I had to get creative.”

His brother Duke would head down to the Bessemer Flea Market and come home with whatever hip-hop cassettes he could find. The brothers would listen to the albums they could get their hands on, from Run-D.M.C. to N.W.A., committing lyrics to memory, rhyming back and forth. Soon, the bedroom they shared was covered in posters ripped from Word Up! magazine. “He definitely helped shape my taste in music,” he told me. “It kind of formed my love for hip-hop.”


This was long before Gucci’s idea of reaching out to local bootleggers (as a way to get his music out to the locals) came to fruition. With Bessemer in the rearview mirror, Gucci was living in deep financial fear in East Atlanta, worried about how his mother was seemingly always behind on rent and why they couldn’t pay the light bill. “I learned young that if I ain’t got s—, then I just ain’t got s—,” Gucci writes in the book. “If I wanted something in life, I would have to find a way to get it myself.”

Gucci said that while he’s glad he experienced what it was like to sell drugs, it’s a part of his life he never wants to return to — a point he’s trying to make clear to young people tempted by the hustle and the money. “Everything isn’t as glamorous as it seems,” he said. “It ain’t all glitz. … There’s a lot of pain and heartache associated with the drug game that kids need to know about in order to deter them from taking that route.”

Brandon Putmon

By the time he was 21, Gucci was hustling every day on the corner of a Texaco gas station, which had become a place of trade. He was in college at Georgia State University’s Perimeter College when his formal education came to an end. In April 2001, he was arrested for criminal possession of a controlled substance and sentenced to 90 days in jail. It was the first time Gucci had been charged with a crime — and the experience made him think about pursuing music.

“It forced me to make a choice,” he said. “I didn’t want to get caught up in that corner again, so I had to get creative. It made me go, What else can you do? I wanted to challenge myself to try to make a career of being a rapper.”

More than a year removed from a stint in a federal prison in Terre Haute, Indiana, for possession of a firearm by a convicted felon, Gucci, who started writing the memoir while incarcerated, knows his comeback was never a sure thing. If he could do some things over again, he would. But the trap king’s roots, and his past, remain close to his head and his heart.

Cam Kirk

“I would tell my young self, ‘Hey, Gucci, you got an amazing future ahead of you. You’re a fascinating person. You’re going to be one of the most remarkable people to ever walk the face of the earth,’ ” he said. “So with that being said, you gotta conduct yourself with class, you gotta conduct yourself professionally, because the world is going to watch you and the world is going to imitate you.”

Marshawn Lynch was fined for flipping the bird and other news of the week The Week That Was Sept. 11-15

Monday 09.11.17

Musician Kid Rock, who is both the “KING OF DETROIT LOVE” and the creator of “Sweet Home Alabama,” said he is not racist because “I LOVE BLACK PEOPLE.” Right-wing radio host The White House, whose high-profile occupant believes the human body has “finite amount of energy,” went into lockdown after a yoga mat was thrown over the north fence. Cable morning show Fox & Friends, once compared to a children’s show by The New York Times, compared Sept. 11 memorials to those of the Confederacy. New Orleans Saints running back Adrian Peterson, who averaged just 2.5 yards per carry during the preseason and 1.9 per carry last season, said he wanted to run the ball up the Minnesota Vikings’ “Donkey” after rushing for 18 yards on six carries. An employee of the Chelan County (Washington) Emergency Management Department posted a meme of a stick figure being run over by a vehicle with the headline “ALL LIVES SPLATTER.” Sen. Ted Cruz (R-Texas) was caught “liking” graphic pornography on his official Twitter account; the senator’s communications team said the “offensive tweet” was “posted” to Cruz’s account despite that not being how likes work on the social media platform.

Tuesday 09.12.17

Musician and habitual line-stepper R. Kelly attempted to promote new music by tweeting a message that said, “All it takes is one ‘yes’ to change your life” followed by a graphic of repeating “Noes” with a “Yes” nestled in the middle. A student loan refinancing company reportedly maintained a work environment where the (former) CEO slept with multiple employees who were not his wife; an executive drunkenly crashed his car after sexting a subordinate; and where colleagues had sex in parking lots and public restrooms, where multiple toilet seats had to be replaced. A separate company, once again proving you never eat at the company potluck, had one employee stop breathing and others fall severely ill after they ate a shrimp casserole. Golden State Warriors forward Kevin Durant, definitely not mad online, released a new NBA Finals-themed shoe that includes every critique directed at him over the past year imprinted on the insoles. Former NFL wide receiver Steve Smith,

who had 2,641 yards and 12 touchdowns in his six-year career, was nominated for the Pro Football Hall of Fame because voters confused him with five-time Pro Bowler Steve Smith Sr. Black conservative radio host Larry Elder, who once tweeted, “The welfare state has done more to destroy the black family than did slavery and Jim Crow,” tweeted, without a hint of irony, that “ ‘Uncle Tom’ is a more destructive pejorative than ‘n—–.’ The latter is an insult. The former stops blacks from independent thinking.”

Wednesday 09.13.17

The White House misspelled African-American Republican Sen. Tim Scott’s name as “Tom.” The Minnesota Vikings, a team that built a new stadium that kills a lot of birds, hired an 18-year-old author and public speaker to serve as its “Gen Z Advisor.” The New York media is upset that professional dancers and part-time athletes Odell Beckham Jr. and Russell Westbrook had a dance-off during a live Wyclef Jean performance. A day after Kid Rock told protesters in his hometown they “can protest deez nuts,” the Detroit Lions declined to comment on a season-ticket holder posting a photo of two African-American fans on his Facebook page with the caption “Ignorant n—–s.” A Shelby County (Tennessee) strip club, where in 2016 a man was shot in a restroom and left a paraplegic, turned out to be illegally owned by the county, a new lawsuit revealed; the establishment, formally named Babes of Babylon, was ordered shut down in 2011 after “drugs, assaults, and prostitution got so bad at the club.” Retired boxer Floyd Mayweather Jr., outside of the strip club he owns in Las Vegas, told an inanimate Hispanic puppet that he has seven girlfriends because “having one is too close to having none.” Hawaii walk-on quarterback Hunter Hughes had to twerk to the sounds of a trombone at a WWE event to earn a full athletic scholarship.

Thursday 09.14.17

Philadelphia Eagles owner Jeffrey Lurie, who employed Michael Vick when the quarterback was released from prison after a dogfighting conviction, Riley Cooper after the receiver was caught on camera saying, “I will fight every n—– here,” and Wendell Smallwood after the running back was arrested for witness tampering related to a murder case, said he wouldn’t sign Colin Kaepernick because “I don’t think anybody who is protesting the national anthem … is very respectful.” Peterson, still not letting it go, said he “didn’t sign up for nine snaps” when he signed with the Saints this season despite the team already having a starting running back and a quarterback who threw for more than 5,200 yards last year. Oakland Raiders running back Marshawn Lynch, best known for repeatedly stating, “I’m here so I won’t get fined,” was fined $12,000 for “raising the middle finger on both hands” during last week’s game against the Tennessee Titans. Trump once called his attorney general, Jeff Sessions, disloyal and an “idiot” and told him to resign after a special counsel was appointed to lead the Russian investigation earlier this year. Wrestling legend Hulk Hogan, who recently was awarded $31 million for a sex tape he willingly participated in, called those without water and power in Florida because of Hurricane Irma “crybabies.”

Friday 09.15.17

Two weeks after being traded to the Indianapolis Colts, quarterback Jacoby Brissett, who has had only 13 days to learn the playbook and plays a different style from starter Andrew Luck, is expected to start for the 0-1 team. A former St. Louis police officer who reportedly yelled that he was “going to kill this m—–f—–” before fatally shooting an unarmed black man was found not guilty of first-degree murder. In completely unequivocally unrelated news, Kaepernick was named the NFL Players Association’s Community MVP after the first week of the season. Former White House strategist Steve Bannon wears no fewer than three shirts at all times; “Never two. N-e-v-e-r t-w-o,” his spokesperson said. Police officers in a Chicago suburb sold $10 raffle tickets at a Labor Day festival for the chance to win an AR-15-style semiautomatic rifle; the town banned assault weapons in 2013.

Life before Death Row: The brief football career of Suge Knight The scariest man in rap was a star lineman at UNLV — and a scab Los Angeles Ram

Marion “Suge” Knight’s original terrordome was the defensive line. It’s where he starred for four years at Lynwood High School, 20 minutes from Compton, California’s much-loved Tam’s Burgers. Knight faces murder (among other) charges stemming from a January 2015 incident at Tam’s in which he is accused of barreling a Ford F-150 into two men.

Knight’s friend, Terry Carter, 55, was killed. Cle “Bone” Sloan, 51, was injured. All of this followed an argument near a filming location for the 2015 N.W.A. biopic Straight Outta Compton. For the better part of three years, Knight has been held at Los Angeles County Jail, where he awaits a January 2018 trial. He is claiming self-defense. “He left the scene,” attorney James Blatt said in February 2015, “because he was in fear for his safety, and life.” Knight has shuffled through more than four attorneys since.

Wealthy white kids at Hollywood high schools were often the target of Knight’s shakedowns when he was at Lynwood. During the early ’80s, however, Knight was far more focused on sports than thugging: He earned letters in track and football all four years.


Harvey Hyde became the head football coach of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas in 1981. At the time, the UNLV Rebels (recently on the wrong side of the most lopsided college football upset of all time) were new to Division I. The school, established in 1958, had gained national prominence via basketball coach Jerry Tarkanian’s “Runnin’ Rebels” program. It was up to Hyde to make UNLV a two-sport school.

Hyde still calls Marion Knight “Sugar Bear,” Knight’s childhood and neighborhood nickname. They met on a recruiting trip that Hyde made to Los Angeles County’s El Camino Junior College, where Knight excelled in the defensive line’s trenches. The Compton native was 6-foot-2 with big hair and an imposing frame.

“How would anyone know who he was at the time? He was one of the guys that the Rams players were throwing eggs at.”

Hyde, a player’s coach, brought Knight to Las Vegas. As a junior, he started at nose guard and defensive tackle and immediately became one of the Rebels’ best defensive players. Knight was voted UNLV’s Rookie of the Year, named defensive captain and won first-team all conference honors. In a city full of sins, Knight was apparently UNLV’s biggest blessing.

“[Knight] played his butt off,” said Hyde, whose coaching portfolio includes NFL stars Randall Cunningham, Ickey Woods and 2017 Hall of Famer Terrell Davis. “[Knight] was a ‘yes sir, no sir’ guy … the type of player any college football coach would love to have on his team.” Hyde was let go in 1986 after a string of damaging events for the football program, including burglary, the beating by a player of an off-duty policeman, the embezzling of video and stereo equipment, sexual assault and domestic violence, among other issues. Knight, a part-time bouncer at Vegas’ then-hot Cotton Club, wasn’t a blip on Hyde’s disciplinary radar. “He never, ever gave me a problem in any way.”

To many members of the UNLV team, and his close friend Tarkanian, Hyde was the scapegoat for a program he helped save. The lack of institutional control, they believed, wasn’t Hyde’s fault. Hyde has never spoken ill or shifted blame to anyone.

Knight may have been yes-sir-no-sir, but he was side-hustling: Books. Jon Wolfson, who in the early 2000s was a publicist for Death Row Records and is now the manager of Hall and Oates, recalls a conversation he had with Knight about his UNLV days. “He’d say something like, ‘Then I’d play the dumb athlete role and say, ‘Oh, Coach, I lost my books.’ ” The staff never second-guessed Knight, said Wolfson. “They’d give him brand-new books, and he’d sell them to make some extra cash.” Knight enjoyed two impressive seasons at UNLV in 1985 and 1986, lettering in both.

Yet, per Randall Sullivan’s 2003 LAbyrinth: A Detective Investigates the Murders of Tupac Shakur and Notorious B.I.G., the Implication of Death Row Records’ Suge Knight, and the Origins of the Los Angeles Police Scandal, Knight’s demeanor became more ominous and reclusive during his senior campaign. Visitors from his hometown of Compton were frequently sighted, as Sullivan reported. Knight, too, moved in an apartment by himself, and was seen in several late-model sedans. And his reputation on campus evolved far beyond that of the friendly jokester he was the year before. He seemed a man involved in far more sophisticated situations.

Yet when Wayne Nunnely took over as coach in 1986, Knight’s athletic demeanor apparently remained consistent. “He wasn’t a problem guy at all,” Nunnely told the Las Vegas Sun in 1996. This was three days after Tupac Shakur was shot five times near the Las Vegas Strip by a drive-by assailant who remains unknown. Shakur and Knight were at the intersection of Koval Lane and Flamingo Road. Shakur, of course, died. Knight, by then better known as “Suge,” was then gangsta rap’s unquestioned, unrivaled and undisputed emperor. “You didn’t really see,” said Nunnely, “that street roughness in him.”

The gridiron roughness is something Knight didn’t hesitate to talk about. “I think the most important thing, when you play football,” Knight told comedian Jay Mohr in 2001, shortly after being released from prison for serving half of a nine-year sentence for assault charges stemming from the fight with Orlando Anderson in Vegas’ MGM Grand the night Shakur was shot, “you get the quarterback, you stick your hand in his helmet and peel the skin back off.”

He jokingly suggested, even after selling tens of millions of records and doing nearly a five-year bid, that he could still play in the league. “I think I could strap up and intimidate most of those [guys]. I think we could make a few deals and I’ll be like, ‘OK, look. Lemme get ’bout three, four sacks. I’ll let you get a few blocks. We’ll enjoy it.’ ”

According to teammates, Knight dropped out of UNLV before graduation. By 1987, he was back in Los Angeles. One of the biggest songs on the streets was Eazy-E’s gangsta rap bellwether “Boyz n Da Hood,” which dropped in March of that year. But before turning to hip-hop to plant the seeds of a future empire, Knight had one last gridiron itch to scratch: the National Football League.


The first overall pick in the 1987 NFL draft was Vinny Testaverde, who played until he was 44. The second overall pick was defensive stalwart Cornelius Bennett. There was also current University of Michigan head coach Jim Harbaugh, Christian “The Nigerian Nightmare” Okoye, 2002 NFL MVP Rich Gannon and Rod Woodson, the only Hall of Famer from this class. Former University of Oklahoma megastar linebacker Brian Bosworth and future Hall of Famer wide receiver Cris Carter were chosen in the supplemental draft. Marion Knight was not one of the 335 players selected. But the NFL eventually did come calling. The league was desperate.

As documented in the new 30 for 30 film “Year of the Scab,” NFL players went on strike shortly after the start of the 1987 season. Today, football players influenced by exiled Super Bowl quarterback Colin Kaepernick fight for their freedom of expression. Thirty years ago, players bucked back at ownership for freedom of agency. In 1982, players went on strike demanding 55 percent of revenue. The 57-day standoff cost the league seven games and $275 million in revenues. And another $50 million returned to networks. While united in both strikes, the NFL Players Association (NFLPA) gained little ground in either.

“Free” agency in the 1980s wasn’t the spectacle it is today, with hundreds of players changing teams annually. “This was before free agency,” said veteran Los Angeles Times sports reporter Chris Dufresne. “[NFL players] really were indentured servants. They couldn’t go anywhere!” Players were, for lack of a better phrase, property — bound to teams for life. With rare exceptions, they did move to new teams, although many times those were star players with leverage, a la O.J. Simpson’s 1978 trade to the San Francisco 49ers.

Teams could sign free agents, but the cost was steep. The “Rozelle Rule” stated the NFL commissioner could reward the player’s original team with draft picks, often first-round selections, or players. NFL salaries did rise in the ’80s, primarily because of the brief existence of the United States Football League (an entity that featured team owner Donald Trump) and its willingness to lure NFL players with large contracts. But by 1985, the USFL was defunct. Even that era couldn’t hold a candle to the second strike. “The 1987 Rams season,” said Dufresne, “was the craziest I’ve ever had in journalism.”

In a city full of sins, Knight was apparently UNLV’s biggest blessing.

Training camp started with star running back Eric Dickerson warring for a new contract. On Aug. 21, 1987, running back and former Heisman Trophy winner Charles White, after drug issues that plagued him while with the Cleveland Browns and at USC, was arrested after being found in a field. “[He had a] trash can lid, pretending to be the Trojan Warrior,” Dufresne recalled. “That’s how the summer started.” White led the NFL in rushing that same strike season, with 1,374 yards.

The strike started after Week 3. Players said they wouldn’t show up for Week 4, owners called what they thought was bluff, and then had to scramble to fill rosters with replacement players: former college players, undrafted players, construction workers, bartenders, even ex-cons. Replacement players, otherwise known as “scabs,” were ridiculed.

Somewhat like Faizon Love and Orlando Jones in 2000’s The Replacements, Knight was one of those replacement players. Dufresne, 30 years later, doesn’t recall the future head of a gangsta rap empire. “I have no recollection of Suge being there. I must have seen him,” he said. “[But] why would I remember him? How would anyone know who he was at the time? He was one of the guys that the Rams players were throwing eggs at.”

The strike lasted only a few weeks, but it got ugly. It sounds ridiculous to say Knight was bullied, but such was life in the NFL during the 1987 lockout for “scabs.” Knight, a man who would evolve into an intimidating pop culture tour de force, had eggs thrown at him. First-year Rams offensive tackle Robert Cox smashed the window of a van carrying replacement players after union players began rocking the van.

These incidents were common throughout the league. Frustrations were at a boiling point. Once stars such as Dallas Cowboys’ Tony Dorsett, San Francisco’s Joe Montana, the Oakland Raiders’ Howie Long and Seattle’s Steve Largent crossed the line, the NFLPA recognized the ship was sinking. “They had a weak union compared to the baseball union,” Dufresne said. “But the things they were fighting for were real.”

The strike lasted 24 days. Knight officially played two games as a Los Angeles Ram, against the Pittsburgh Steelers and against the Atlanta Falcons. Although Knight’s official stats are all but lost to history, this YouTube video compiled his official NFL stat line: eight plays, zero sacks, zero tackles and one penalty. John Robinson, Rams head coach from 1983-91, said the team had too many bodies that year between union and replacement players. He, too, has no recollection of coaching Knight.

“Suge,” said Dufresne, “was just an anonymous nobody in the surroundings.” The anonymity wouldn’t last long.


In October 1987, as the regular NFL players reported back to work, Knight’s rap sheet ballooned and his boogeyman persona began to take shape. In Los Angeles, Knight was charged with domestic violence after grabbing future ex-wife Sharitha Golden (whom he’d later implicate in Shakur’s murder) by the hair and chopping her ponytail off in the driveway of her mother’s home. That Halloween, he was arrested in Vegas for shooting a man in the wrist and in the leg, and for stealing his Nissan Maxima. With felony charges looming, Knight skated away from any serious penalty in part because of a contrite courtroom appearance and his history in the city as a famed football player. The felonies were reduced to misdemeanors: a $1,000 fine and three years probation. “I shot him with his own gun,” Knight told The Washington Post in 2007.

Three years later, in Vegas once again, he pleaded guilty to felony assault with a deadly weapon after pistol-whipping a man with a loaded gun and breaking his jaw. Knight again evaded serious penalty.

Knight by then was immersing himself in the music industry, serving as a bodyguard for superstars such as Bobby Brown. He eventually maneuvered his way into the circles of rappers like The D.O.C., Dr. Dre, Ice Cube and Eazy-E. Knight partnered with Dr. Dre to create Death Row Records in 1991. Dr. Dre’s 1992 The Chronic (Death Row/Priority) and Snoop Dogg’s Doggystyle (Death Row/Interscope) the following year became instant pop gospels and solidified Knight and Death Row as not only major players but also undeniable and controversial cultural focal points.

It’s been years since Coach Hyde has seen his former player. He’s not sure if he will again, but, “You can’t get me to say anything negative about Suge Knight,” he said. “Whatever somebody is accused of, he’s still a football player of mine. He’s still part of the family when I was at UNLV.” Hyde pauses momentarily, then continues, “I’m not endorsing all the certain things they accuse him of, because I really don’t know. I have no idea! He doesn’t judge me and I don’t judge him. We just have our old feelings of each other. I just think that’s what it’s all about. You don’t forget people.”

“When I watch the news, it’s like I’m watching someone else,” Jon Wolfson said. “That’s not the guy I know.”

As for Dufresne, he’s not on either side of the aisle. He’s more shocked that Marion Knight, a guy he only mentioned in passing through roster lists, morphed into Suge Knight, the Death Row Records impresario who was once worth more than $100 million. Suge, he recalled, wasn’t the only notorious figure to come about during his time covering the Rams. Darryl Henley, a former cornerback for the Rams (1989-94), was convicted of cocaine trafficking in 1995. He is currently serving a 41-year prison term for conspiring to murder the federal judge who presided over his trial, as well as the former Rams cheerleader who testified against him. And the Rams’ 1996 first round pick, running back Lawrence Phillips, received a 31-year sentence for domestic violence, spousal abuse, false imprisonment and vehicle theft and was later charged with first-degree murder of his cellmate. Phillips committed suicide in 2016.

Dufresne recalled the bitterness of rap in the ’90s, the “East/West thing” as he dubbed it. And he remembered the personal sadness that followed Shakur’s murder. Yet, it wasn’t until this phone call where he put one and one together. Marion is Suge. Suge was Marion. Suge Knight was a replacement player during the most untamed year of my career.

“Marion Knight, out of UNLV, who did what a lot of guys did and had a dream to play [in the NFL] and maybe didn’t understand what the players were fighting for, he was just another guy,” he said. He stops, as if he’s shocked. “Little did we know.”

‘Insecure’ recap: Love in a time of gentrification, glass ceilings and Carl Thomas sweaters Issa and Lawrence might be soulmates. They might be meant for each other. But that doesn’t mean they’re meant to be together.

Season 2, Episode 8 | “Hella Perspective” | Sept. 10

There are a lot of ways we can go about breaking down Sunday night’s Insecure season finale. So let’s just go through some.

Gentrification. We’ve all seen it firsthand. Areas that were once majority people of color are suddenly lined with juice bars and Harris Teeters. Not that it’s a bad thing in the most technical sense. But the technical sense fails to account for the history of an area, the people who inhabit said area and what that history means to those people. It’s baldly noticeable as Issa walks down the street at the beginning of the episode. It’s subtly noticeable as a white woman jogs in front of Issa’s complex.

Tiffany and Derek. Anyone else put one and one together? So check, when Lawrence, Chad and Derek are all in Lawrence’s semblance of a living room, the latter two tell Lawrence why Aparna having sex with a co-worker multiple times is bad for business. Chad agrees, but Derek absolutely agrees and tells the story of how he had to get rid of one of Tiffany’s old co-workers for the same reason. One, you can’t give Lawrence advice like that because he’ll not only take it, he’ll implement it at the absolutely wrong time. Case in point: bringing it up in the car to her, thus leading to an argument, Aparna getting out and leaving Lawrence 0-2 in post-Issa situationships. But what’s really intriguing here is Derek says Tiffany (who is pregnant now) went to Issa’s apartment to watch Due North. Yet, when the scene shifts to Issa’s, we find out Tiffany can’t make it. I wouldn’t be surprised to see the Derek-Tiffany dynamic play out more during next season. They’ve alluded to issues in the past. Maybe season three is when we find out that baby isn’t Derek’s. It’s Work Bae’s. Just something to ponder.

The Untouchables. Which brings me to my next point. Insecure is a show where everyone catches a proverbial bullet, except these three: Kelli, Chad and Thug Yoda, aka The Neighborhood Blood, were the only ones not to take an L all season. They provided a sense of relief and lightheartedness for a show that can stress you out. Hoping they have more screen time next season.

Maybe season three is when we find out that baby isn’t Derek’s. It’s Work Bae’s. Just something to ponder.

Molly’s therapy and Issa’s job. Issa is essentially being demoted — and Freida promoted — to new director of student outreach. At the same time, she’s moving out of her apartment in one of those hellish collisions of professional and personal life that hit all of us at least once (or 38 times) in our lives. Life has a way of humbling you when it wants. We knew the way Issa was handling her gig would come back to haunt her. She was essentially running a segregated after-school program. As for Molly’s therapy, it was nice to see it return. Given everything that’s going on in her life right now, talking to a professional will be more important than ever.

Molly’s glass ceiling. The conversation that Molly, Issa and Kelli had regarding Molly’s future — working for black people vs. working for white people — is a common one. It’s been frustrating to watch the glass ceiling Molly runs into at work. That “Rising Star” certificate? A piece of paper doesn’t pay the bills. They gave Molly a participation trophy and patted her on the head.


Some feel the finale was a bit of a letdown. And that’s because it didn’t pack the one signature moment — like Tasha calling Lawrence a “f— n—–,” Lawrence’s threesome, Daniel and Issa’s couch scene or last weekend’s dinner party from hell — and it left doors unopened and questions unanswered. All of which may be true.

In a season full of over-the-top antics, it came down to decisions for Molly, Issa and Lawrence. For Molly, it’s simple. People return to where they feel most comfortable, even if they know the situation isn’t in their best interest. Ask yourself how many times you’ve seen this in person. Ask yourself how many times it’s been you.

This is the type of decision Molly makes when it comes to dudes. Actually giving Quentin (LilRel Howrey) a chance, a guy who vibes with her on an authentic level, outside of work or professional motives, would’ve been foreign territory for her. She’s just not willing, at this time, to give herself that opportunity to find peace. Until she does, we’re going to see her walk through the revolving door that is love with all the wrong people.

Dro, on the other hand, is going to play this as long as the rules allow. How much does his wife, Candice, know? Molly’s brilliant and is deserving of a lot more than what her current gig is offering her. But because of that chaos, she’s doubling down on the chaos in her personal life.

If any moment resonated, Issa, Lawrence and Lawrence’s vintage Carl Thomas sweater reunion was the show’s axis.

But if any moment resonated, Issa, Lawrence and Lawrence’s vintage Carl Thomas sweater reunion was the show’s axis. Sans last week’s episode and the argument that followed outside the restaurant, the two hadn’t spoken to each other, or been in the same room since the season opener. Issa and Lawrence both hurt each other. Issa’s transgression was just more blatant. Lawrence’s complacency was more below the surface and a gripe that built up over time until the consequences became inevitable. But Lawrence’s admission that the shortcoming in his own ambitions had more far-reaching ramifications than he realized was and is a very real ego check. It was the most honest moment he had all season. The conversation is one to which the entire series has been building. Both are struggling to establish themselves professionally while barely keeping their heads above water outside the office. Both needed the secure blanket that the other provided.

It’s part of the reason Tyler, The Creator’s “Boredom” song played such an integral role in the finale. Find some time to do something/ Find some time to do something, the hook suggests. As it turns out, that “something” is exactly what Lawrence and Issa needed, the one thing they’ve avoided all season: an honest conversation. And one that absolutely needed to be on TV in the manner it was.

Speaking of the musical direction, the one dope part of Issa’s elaborate daydream that included her and Lawrence not only getting back together but also getting married and having a kid was the song selection of Daniel Caesar’s “Blessed.” The standout from the Toronto’s Freudian project was tailor-made for the moment. But I’m glad Issa was daydreaming. It rarely, if ever, happens like that.

Issa and Lawrence might be soulmates. They might be meant for each other. But that doesn’t mean they’re meant to be together. One of the hardest lessons love teaches is knowing when to let go. Letting go of someone or something that was such a large part of yourself, your vulnerability and your strength is a lot to accept. It’s hard to remember life before their impact, and it’s even scarier to imagine a future without it. The thing they don’t tell you about love is that not everybody gets to keep it.

What this means for next season, I couldn’t tell you. With Aparna out of the picture and Lawrence seemingly taking some time to himself, might we see less of him? How in the world does an Issa/Daniel living arrangement even begin to work? And we’ve already addressed the 6 million WTFs that keep Molly running back to Dro. For now, we all need a break. Perhaps the most accurate part of last night’s episode was its title: “Hella Perspective.” That much is for sure.

Ten years after Kanye West’s ‘Graduation’ — and mine Yeezy and a whole generation meet real life and wonder ‘what it all really mean?‘

A cloud of marijuana smoke hovered in the apartment. It was early September 2007. Some of us lay on the floor. Some on the couch. Some at the kitchen table that had been used to roll the seven or eight jays. None of us said much. Per the rules of that summer’s “listening sessions,” no one spoke over the music. In this case, Kanye West’s new LP, Graduation, was the reason for the cypher.

Over that summer, these sessions had become a fixture. Thanks primarily to Lil Wayne’s run of mixtapes (it felt like they dropped every week), there was always a reason. But this session was different. On a day leading up to the start of our senior year at Hampton University, West spoke into existence our own existence.

Up to that moment, his music had always held collegiate and coming-of-age allusions, starting with 2004’s The College Dropout and Late Registration the following year. Often forgotten in the grand scheme of his catalog, West’s May 2007 Can’t Tell Me Nothing mixtape featured “Us Placers” featuring Pharrell and Lupe Fiasco (aka the short-lived supergroup Child Rebel Soldiers), “C.O.L.O.U.R.S.” featuring Fonzworth Bentley, Wayne and UGK, and my introduction to a rapper named Big Sean on “Getcha Some.” Graduation arrived when we were all about 21 years old — adults by age, but kids with so much life and the hurdles that came with it in front of us.

Kanye West spoke into existence our own existence.

At that time, it seemed West spoke for our entire generation. On Sept. 2, 2005, with New Orleans crippled by Hurricane Katrina, close to 2,000 people dead and even more displaced, West stood next to comedian Michael Myers and famously declared that President George W. Bush “doesn’t care about black people.” He spoke for us and to us. Several students who evacuated from New Orleans-based historically black colleges and universities (HBCUs) such as Xavier and Dillard transferred to Hampton. We read the reports. We watched CNN in horror, like the rest of the country. The anger we felt about seeing (mostly) black people referred to as “refugees” in their own city while their entire lives were submerged underwater left us enraged. Even when it’s a natural disaster, it’s somehow still our fault. West’s angst reflected our own.

Kanye West performs on stage at the Concert for Diana at Wembley Stadium on July 1, 2007 in London, England.

Dave Hogan/Getty Images

He was confident — or arrogant, depending on the crowd — but inquisitive about himself and a world moving at warp speed. West seemed poised to carry rap into the next decade and beyond. And his music spoke louder than even he did. These were the pre-Tidal, pre-Apple Music, pre-Spotify US days. New albums leaked online roughly 10 to 14 days early, and it felt like blank CDs were single-handedly keeping places like Circuit City open. The summer-long wait for Graduation was an event itself, and “Can’t Tell Me Nothing” and “Stronger” were the summer’s anthems.

With senior year washing ashore, and us thinking the world lay at our fingertips, hearing West’s defiant proclamations — Man, it’s so hard not to act reckless — were more a way of life than a hot single. Plus, we all knew Yeezy was good for a cohesive, intricate and beautifully sequenced album.

So when the word traveled, via text, Facebook and word-of-mouth, that the album had leaked, we all knew what to do.

Each person bring a pre-rolled jay — something to drink, too, and a stash for one more if the vibe called for it. (Spoiler: The vibe always called for one more.) None of the seven of us, roughly an even mixture of guys and girls who just loved chiefing and good music, believed we were doing anything illegal. We were college kids getting high and listening to great music — an American tradition if there ever was one.


You ever wonder what it all really mean?/ You wonder if you’ll ever find your dreams? — “I Wonder

In retrospect? We probably looked like the HBCU version of the cutaway scenes on That 70’s Show. Via nonverbal communication, we vibed out. I can’t forget what it felt like hearing “Good Life” for the first time. The Michael Jackson “P.Y.T.” sample is classic Kanye. But T-Pain’s outro — Is this good life better than the life I lived? / When I thought that I was gonna go crazy / And now my grandmamma/ Ain’t the only girl callin’ me baby — now that was a moment.

Rapper Kanye West performs onstage during the Hot 97 Summer Jam presented by Boost Mobile at Giants Stadium June 3, 2007 in East Rutherford, New Jersey.

Roger Kisby/Getty Images

“Flashing Lights” felt more like a movie than a song, and the hook from “Everything I Am” (Everything I’m not made me everything I am) became away messages on AOL Instant Messenger — they seemed like the world’s first tweets (Twitter technically existed then). And, in the moment, we didn’t know what to think about West’s ode to Jay-Z, “Big Brother.” We couldn’t see the joy of “Otis” yet. We couldn’t see how friendships sometimes go.

We ran West’s third effort back two or three times that night. The number of jays in rotation is lost to history, but the discussions following were incredible: Where does this place Kanye in terms of the game’s current greats? What is Kanye’s ceiling? And, of course, is anyone trying to order food? The Graduation listening session, at an off-campus apartment with smoke billowing from the screen door balcony, ranks as one of the most innocent moments of my entire college experience. We understood the magnitude of the senior year ahead of us, but what a time to be alive — just being there, in the moment.

That kind of innocence also applied to West. None of us, including West, knew it then, but life would forever change after that album. Most of us in that room graduated the following May and entered the “real world” just as the economy was diving into the worst pit since the Great Depression. Two months after Graduation’s release, West lost his combination best friend/mother, Donda West, who died as a result of complications from cosmetic surgery.

Donda West and Kanye West

Johnny Nunez/WireImage

By April 2008, Kanye West and then-fiancée Alexis Phifer called off their engagement. West secluded himself as he prepared for his celebrated Glow In The Dark Tour (with Lupe Fiasco opening, and N.E.R.D. and Rihanna on the bill as well). Within months, West lost the first woman he ever loved and had broken up with the one who was by his side when it happened.

The summer-long wait for Graduation was an event itself, and “Can’t Tell Me Nothing” and “Stronger” were the summer’s anthems.

By 2009 he was running up on stage interrupting Taylor Swift and then escaping to Hawaii. So now what? It’s a question we both had to face. A question that would haunt us both. Where West fled to the islands to create new music, I fled to Georgetown University. Not necessarily because I wanted to go back to school, but it provided an escape and a way for me to think I wasn’t just wasting my time working dead-end jobs in the restaurant and retail industries. In college, it’s customary to think “graduation, job.” That’s embedded in your head since high school, if not earlier. But by ’09, the economy had completely tanked. Some of us had jobs, more of us didn’t. A lot of us were living at our parents’ homes, humbled by bedrooms we grew up in. Applying for jobs was no more than uploading resumes into a digital Bermuda Triangle: CVs were never heard from again. About the only positive from that year was the Obama family in the White House.

By 2012, the Obamas had returned for an encore. West held his first ready-to-wear show, married Kim Kardashian in Florence, Italy (as featured on special episodes of Keeping Up With the Kardashians), and captured Grammys with Jay-Z for 2011’s “N—as in Paris,” which sold 5 million copies alone. The recession apparently ended in late 2009. Some of us moved to new cities to chase original dreams. Some did OK. More were left wondering when and how the sleepless nights, rejection letters and no callbacks would be worth the heartbreaks.

Kanye West attends the Louise Goldin fashion show during MADE Fashion Week Spring 2014 at Milk Studios on September 7, 2013 in New York City.

Ilya S. Savenok/Getty Images

And West’s celebrity increased. As he continued to search for peace in his, we searched for our own. At what point is sacrifice for a dream worth the pain? And at what costs do dreams become real? Life after Graduation, figuratively and literally, came with no road map.


Kanye West in 2017 is of course different from the one who created his own Graduation 10 years ago Monday. We all lose our innocence — it’s what happens if you’re blessed to live long enough.

West has a son and a daughter now (and another baby girl on the way carried by a surrogate) and is married to a mob. With Yeezy, he doubled down his dream of being a fashion innovator and changed for the better the fortunes of Adidas. West and Jay-Z aren’t on speaking terms in part because of West’s unpredictability. West’s life has become progressively more discombobulated: Paparazzi rants. Calling out Jay-Z at his shows. Blasting Wiz Khalifa in Twitter rants. Shaming ex-girlfriend Amber Rose. Supporting Trump. The hospitalization. But the three albums that follow Graduation — 808s & Heartbreaks, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy and Watch The Throne — still get burn.

The few from that original Graduation-day cypher who I keep in touch with have gone on to find some sort of peace in life, even in these times. We remain connected to Graduation because it helped define us with its unabashed confidence and unfiltered vulnerability. That’s what West represented perhaps more than any artist at that time. Volatile, charming and impulsive, he was rap’s most astute mama’s boy — and its most massively sensitive Gemini since Tupac Shakur. West’s waves not only topped charts and made headlines but also stirred emotions on a deeply personal level.

I know people wouldn’t usually rap this/ But I got the facts to back this / Just last year, Chicago had over 600 caskets / Man, killing’s some wack s—/ Oh, I forgot, ’cept when n—as is rappin’ / Do you know what it feel like when people is passin’?

We laugh about the cypher during Hampton homecoming weekends. But we also talk about how it doesn’t seem like West has found any peace. I don’t know. But I do know his mother was an integral part of the making of his first three albums — of the “old Kanye” he rapped about on last year’s entertaining, uneven The Life of Pablo. According to bereavement expert Phyllis R. Silverman, we lose not only the person who has died but also a relationship and the sense of self that existed in that relationship. It could be that West is searching for a sound that no longer exists because a large part of the inspiration for that sound no longer exists.

We remain connected to Graduation because it helped define us with its unabashed confidence and unfiltered vulnerability.

A couple of months ago, around the time West was seen chopping it up with Donald Trump, I had a conversation with a homey from that Graduation cypher. “I can’t believe this n—- is rocking blond hair now. … I wasted good weed on this dude,” he told me. “But I really believe this all boils down to his mom’s passing. He never took the time to cry, it seems.”

I mostly remember Graduation as the last album Donda West heard. The closest West’s come to addressing the effects of his mother’s death, and his burden living with it, came on 2015’s “Only One” — the meaning of his birth name. I can’t help but hear Graduation songs in “Only One.” If for no other reason than the 2007 Kanye could have never believed he’d have to make that song.

Positioned as an open letter to Kanye and Kim’s daughter, North, from her grandmother Donda, the record is a very specific emotional canvas of the pain Kanye carries. I talked to God about you/ He said he sent you an angel / And look at all that he gave you, Kanye sings. You asked for one and you got two / You know I never left you / ’Cause every road that leads to heaven’s right inside you. Playing the record back, with North sitting on his lap, Kanye couldn’t recall singing the words. He came to the conclusion that the words didn’t come from him, but through him. “My mom was singing to me,” he said, “and through me, to my daughter.”

It’s this burden, and this pursuit of peace, that Kanye Omari West has been living with since Graduation. In 2015, he said his biggest sacrifice was his mom. “If I had never moved to L.A., she’d be alive,” he told the U.K. music magazine Q. “I don’t want to go far into it because it will bring me to tears.”

That’s what Graduation means. It’s not just the album itself and some of the greatest songs he’s ever recorded that live on there, and how we were higher than telephone wires that late summer night. It’s not just how Graduation accurately reflected a period when so many of us believed we had life under control — and then we didn’t. Life happens. We found out the hard way, after graduation. Kanye, too, found out after Graduation.

The viral, meme-inspiring #InsecureHBO hashtag is as much a smash hit as ‘Insecure’ itself Team Issa vs. Team Lawrence. Molly’s married man. What are y’all mad about today?

Don’t underestimate Issa Rae because of her awkward manner — she knows exactly what she’s doing. Last month, an hour after the second season premiere of HBO’s Insecure, the star, writer, and executive producer of the Golden Globe-nominated show tweeted a picture of herself studying the episode’s abundance of Twitter interactions.

The mushroom cloud of data is a testament to Insecure’s knack for transporting the dialogue of group texts, weekend brunches, dinner parties and boozy game nights to the small screen. These divisive vignettes, many of which involve dating and sex, become hot buttons on platforms such as Twitter, where they’ve always been oft-discussed topics. (This past Sunday’s episode revived trite discussion about the racial dynamics of oral sex and handled it about as smoothly as Rae’s character handled the act itself, but started conversations nonetheless.) This stratagem, combined with Insecure’s expert use of social media, is why viewers tune in, react and come back for more every Sunday.

The #InsecureHBO hashtag trends well into Mondays, with many tweets drenched in the passion stirred only when personal feelings are activated. Many of the tweets address the complicated relationship between Issa (Rae) and ex-boyfriend Lawrence (Jay Ellis). When their fading romance finally met its end at the first season’s close, both were pulled from the ashes as idols in a long-waged battle between black men and women that’s found new life via social media’s ability to initiate simultaneous arguments through a single stone cast into the ether.

Because so many people are unable to see the nuances in why relationships fail, the death of Issa and Lawrence’s union saw the birth of #TeamIssa vs. #TeamLawrence. At its best, their relationship was a tender, if not mundane, snapshot of domesticity. At its worst, a case study in how complacency begets emotional malfeasance. Every charged reaction to the disintegration of their union, and to the rest of Insecure’s threads, has found a home at the branded hashtag. Watching this phenomenon — a deluge of debates, admissions, insight and comedy — play out on Twitter every Sunday night is equal parts frustrating and fascinating. Either way, Rae surveys the action with observant eyes.

“I follow the hashtags,” she said on Viceland’s Desus & Mero last month. “We always gather at a writer’s house to watch the episodes live and follow the tweets, and then we discuss … because it’s fun to us, how people dissect the episodes, how they receive them. It’s been really rewarding to watch that.”

According to the social media monitoring tool Brand24, #InsecureHBO has an estimated reach of more than 11 million and growing since season two’s premiere (mostly from Twitter interactions) — evidence of Insecure’s vise grip on popular culture. This tightened significantly during the new season after the show earned one of television’s most coveted time slots: after Game of Thrones (which lured a series-record 12.1 million live tune-in viewers for its seventh-season finale after earning a network-record 10.1 million viewers for its season premiere) and Ballers, HBO’s top-rated comedy. Insecure’s season two premiere drew 1.1 million same-day viewers, twice the audience of season one’s finale, and HBO rewarded the return on its investment with a renewal earlier this month. Insecure owes this success, in part, to well-written characters and situations that viewers from Rae’s world of upwardly mobile black college grads easily identify with — although the show’s reach extends beyond that. As an extension of this, Insecure is brilliant from a viral marketing perspective because it’s loaded with triggers mined from the real world and polished in the writers room.


Never mind the platform; social media is anything that is shareable. Whether it’s static or moving, 30 seconds or 30 minutes long, it must connect with its audience instantaneously to succeed. Insecure understands that television, so often an exaggeration of real life, is an arrangement of shareable moments. Each scene is an opportunity to establish a connection, and Insecure uses its half-hour-plus to leave an impression on a weekly basis. Rae, who gained popularity on the wings of her 2011 web series The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl, comes from the world of YouTube, where results are displayed immediately.

“We were creating in real time,” she told Elle last year, “and with audience feedback, so you could automatically know if something worked or if it didn’t.” Those cause-and-effect roots were training for Insecure, which elicits dramatic real-time responses from viewers who see themselves, or people they recognize, in the characters.

But instead of simply creating a show that’s “relatable” to black people as some monolithic entity, Rae made one for a wide-ranging demographic she knows quite well. “The most important thing,” she told Complex ahead of Insecure’s premiere last fall, “is telling a very specific, authentic story, not trying to answer for all black people.”

The #InsecureHBO hashtag trends well into Mondays with tweets drenched in passion.

Representation is one-dimensional in the absence of quality or accuracy, so it’s imperative that Insecure be written and performed from a place of authenticity for its triggers to work. The sex scenes, like Lawrence and attentive bank teller Tasha’s (Dominique Perry) spine-annihilating encounter at the end of season one, have a voyeuristic realism. The intimate conversations, such as Molly (Yvonne Orji) interrogating Issa about her and Lawrence’s abrupt hookup in the new season’s premiere, have a similar fly-on-the-wall quality. That’s because Insecure is most effective when it’s holding the mirror up to its characters.

None are safe from the truths the show reflects. Not Lawrence, whom Tasha finally called out for being the fake “nice guy” that he is. Not Molly, whose personal struggles were offset by her professional success — until striking the glass ceiling struck a blow to her self-worth. And certainly not Issa, whose lone moments of self-actualization and assertion come when she’s staring herself down in a mirror or otherwise detached from reality. What’s more, Insecure is at its most provocative when holding the mirror up to its characters because it’s simultaneously doing the same to its audience.

Insecure’s characters are so thoroughly crafted, even at their most unlikable, that viewers reflexively use them as proxies for their own lives. In Issa, Lawrence, Molly, Tasha, Kelli (Natasha Rothwell), Tiffany (Amanda Seales), Daniel (Y’lan Noel), Derek (Wade Allain-Marcus) and even Chad (Neil Brown Jr.), people see familiar traits and situations. But #TeamLawrence, at its most toxic, is no more than a cabal of hurt men seeking retribution through a fictional character they believe represents their misunderstood “good guy” struggle. #TeamIssa, at its most blind, is women who apparently believe their frustration with lazy, physically and emotionally unavailable men justifies transgressions.

And be it from #TeamLawrence, #TeamIssa, #TeamTasha, or #TeamMolly, a large share of the noise emanating from social media on Sunday night is people projecting their own situations and issues onto whatever scenario or character they identify with the most. Right or wrong, people defend Insecure characters as vociferously as they do their friends, family, or themselves. In perplexing instances, that passion blurs the line between fiction and reality, leading to overzealous fans posting up in Rae’s Twitter mentions to call her a cheater (or worse) because of her character’s infidelity. Only a show as visceral as Insecure could evoke reactions so strong that they occasionally surprise Rae.

Insecure is successful because people are insecure. And what better display of that than social media?

“It was crazy to log in and then, just independent of looking at anything, just see people talking about it and going back and forth about Lawrence and Issa,” Rae said of the season one finale during her appearance on Desus & Mero. “That tripped me out in the best way possible. And then we started the writers room the day after the finale and we were all glued to our phones like, ‘What [are] they saying now? You see this meme?’ ”

At the same time, that’s why blind support for any character on Insecure is questionable: They’re written with such detail, flaws and all, that a willingness to die on a hill for any one of them conveys a willingness to miss the point. Insecure, even in its missteps, illustrates life as a spectrum of personal and professional highs and lows, yet people are content to reduce it to fruitless gender wars. But as detrimental as hive mentality is to critical thinking, it’s great for the show because it’s hard proof of how it has created communities eager to mobilize around it. Rae and the rest of Insecure’s family recognize this and stir the pot accordingly.

Insecure’s Twitter account actively welcomes discourse during and between episodes. It encouraged followers to share bad dating stories, which, on social, is akin to asking someone to breathe. Rae and Ellis, remaining in character, engaged in friendly banter during the fourth episode in which Lawrence engaged in the interracial threesome that caused the expected chain reaction on Twitter.

In a nod to the very tool responsible for boosting the show’s profile, Brown Jr. referenced the GIF of Martin’s Jerome that Chad texts Lawrence before the latter realized he wasn’t built for the porn-fueled, hypersexualized stereotype the other two-thirds of the threesome fetishized him to be. The allusion resonated with the intended audience: people who interact with their friends in the same fashion.

Although 61 percent of Insecure’s audience is non-black, the volume of its online support is amplified by blacks ages 18 to 34 who over-index on Twitter. According to Nielsen, 48 percent of that demographic uses Twitter, compared with 46 percent of its counterparts. The extra stimulus is helping this new generation of black shows succeed: For example, Donald Glover’s Golden Globe-winning Atlanta has a similarly devoted following that’s equally active on Twitter. Robust online engagement, coupled with strong ratings, better quantifies the success of shows such as Atlanta and Insecure. And beyond that, both succeed because they understand people — i.e., their audiences — and the platforms used to reach them.

Doubling down on social media is a canny move by Insecure. Twitter, in distinctly head-scratching moments, devolves into debates about $200 dates or whether you’re broke if you make $100,000 annually, and exalts passports as status symbols. It’s a torrent of self-doubt and posturing, so it’s only natural for a show that scans the breadth of insecurity to use that to its advantage. Insecure is brilliant because people are insecure. Insecure is successful because people are insecure. And what better display of that than social media?

New Air Jordan 32s channel the swag of Michael Jordan’s Air Jordan 2s The new sneakers draw inspiration from shoes made more than 30 years ago

Nike senior designer Tate Kuerbis must’ve packed his bags, whipped out his passport and hopped into a DeLorean while crafting his latest Jordan Brand creation.

The new Air Jordan XXXIIs, which debuted on Tuesday in Turin, Italy, are the second coming of the legendary Italian-manufactured Air Jordans IIs that dropped more than 30 years ago during Michael Jordan’s third season in the NBA. Both pairs of shoes feature a similar structure, collar wings first seen in Jordan’s signature line on the IIs, and the iconic “Wings” logo on the tongue.

“Our goal with the AJ XXXII was to combine the essence of the AJ II with today’s best innovation to create a distinct design language both on and off the court,” said David Creech, Jordan Brand’s vice president of Design. That new technology is incorporated into the Kuerbis-designed XXXIIs through a “first-of-its-kind Flyknit upper,” formed by high-tenacity yarn. What does that actually mean? In layman’s terms, the XXXIIs boast components that make them the most flexible Air Jordans in history.

That means we should expect nothing less than for Jordan Brand athletes Russell Westbrook, Kawhi Leonard, Jimmy Butler and Carmelo Anthony to get busy on the court in the XXXIIs during the upcoming 2017-18 season. The question is, can they channel the same magic that His Airness delivered to the IIs, which he played in during the 1986-87 season.

Here are the top three performances and moments that Michael Jordan had in the Air Jordan IIs — the sneakers that served as inspiration for the latest release on his signature Air Jordan line.


1987 NBA SLAM Dunk Contest

Remember when Jordan soared through the air in his first career NBA Slam Dunk Contest in 1985, with his gold chains swinging and Air Jordan Is on his feet? There was also 1988, when he threw down a dunk from the free throw line while rocking his Air Jordan IIIs. But never forget: Jordan first won the dunk contest in 1987, while rocking the Air Jordan IIs. On his final dunk of the night, Jordan connected on an acrobatic, leaning windmill from the left side of the hoop that earned him 50 points and the win over Jerome Kersey of the Portland Trail Blazers. A day later, Jordan wore the IIs in the 1987 NBA All-Star Game.

Not One, but TWO 61-point PERFORMANCes

Michael Jordan lays the ball up past Portland Trailblazers guard Clyde Drexler at Memorial Coliseum in 1987.

USA TODAY Sports

Jordan had the best scoring year of his life during the 1986-87 season, which he finished with a career-high average of 37.1 points a game and his first league scoring title. Two performances from that season especially stick out. First, on March 4, 1987, against the Detroit Pistons, Jordan scored 61 points, including 26 points in the fourth quarter that he capped off by draining a nearly impossible jumper to send the game into overtime. A month later, on April 16, 1987, Jordan put up 61 points again — while scoring 23 straight at one point in the game. The Bulls lost, but for Jordan, it was a record-setting night. He became the second player in NBA history, along with Wilt Chamberlain, to score 3,000 points in a season and the first player since Chamberlain to score 50 or more points in three consecutive games. Jordan was unstoppable in the IIs in both 61-point performances.

UNC vs. UCLA Alumni Game

Fun fact: The first player exclusives (PEs) Jordan ever received from Nike were a pair of Air Jordan IIs. After the 1986-87 NBA season, Jordan suited up for Dean Smith and his alma mater UNC in a charity alumni game against UCLA at Pauley Pavilion in Los Angeles. Jordan took the court in a pair of Carolina blue-accented IIs that were specially designed for him. Earlier this year, Jordan Brand paid tribute to the classic alumni game, and His Airness’ first pair of PEs, by releasing the same IIs that Jordan wore 30 years ago.

The “Rosso Corsa” Air Jordan XXXIIs are scheduled to be released on Sept. 23 for the retail price of $185. The “Bred” Air Jordan XXXIIs, in both mid ($185) and low ($165) versions, will be released on Oct. 18.

Daily Dose: 8/24/17 Cardi B is officially in takeover mode

Everyone, I have good news and I have bad news. First the bad news: I didn’t win Powerball. The good news: You might have! There goes my shot to become a professional sports owner.

We’ve seen a lot of lists about the number of quarterbacks who have signed in the NFL since Colin Kaepernick opted out. But have you thought about another number regarding what he was kneeling for and speaking out against in this country? As it turns out, police have killed more than 200 black Americans since Kaep first decided to protest. Think about that. So, whether or not you agree with what he and many NFL players have chosen to do, those numbers regarding law enforcement are not good.

You all know how I feel about Cardi B. As far as I’m concerned, she saved hip-hop this summer with her banger “Bodak Yellow,” which goes so hard it’s almost hard to believe. For those of us who’ve been fans for a while, her ability to handle the big stage is not a huge surprise. She’s been about this superstar life from the beginning. She also bought a Bentley — and she doesn’t even drive. When it comes to making it in New York, there are many levels of success. Getting recognized by The New York Times is certainly one of them.

Let’s take a trip around Hollywood. You might know Yvonne Orji from her role on HBO’s Insecure. You might not know that in her real life, she’s actually a virgin and plans on staying so until marriage. Moving to the basic cable package, Lakeith Stanfield, while promoting his new Netflix movie, said that you can expect season two of FX’s Atlanta to tackle today’s political climate as a subject matter. Good. Lastly, from the “truth is stranger than fiction, sort of” file, the guy who played Suge Knight in Straight Outta Compton caught an assault charge.

There was a half-second earlier this week in which I considered buying the fight. I don’t know what came over me, but in a moment of weakness, I thought, I don’t want to waste my time running all over town trying to find a fun environment in which to watch it. Heck, I’ll get it and if someone wants to come over and pitch in, sure. But after watching that super low-wattage presser Wednesday, I’m definitely out. It seems these two can only go outrageous, vulgar yelling match or near silence. No in between, alas. Mayweather-McGregor is losing steam.

Free Food

Coffee Break: As a child, Chuck E. Cheese was a fun, if not slightly terrifying, experience. Why the latter? Because as much as they were supposed to entertain us, that animatronic band was absolutely a scary situation if you were a kid. Now they’re phasing it out, to which I say good riddance.

Snack Time: People get drunk and drown all the time. People get drunk and crash cars all the time. Not a lot of people get drunk and then get swallowed by a sinkhole on the beach and get buried alive. This story is nuts.

Dessert: The new Action Bronson/Rick Ross track is pretty smooth, kiddos.

 

Kennedy Center is bringing hip-hop center stage and Simone Eccleston is making it happen A full season at the nation’s premier performing arts venue signals the art form is adulting

Four decades after its birth in the Bronx, New York, hip-hop has moved into the era of adulting. Among the many markers of maturity, one of the most significant happens today when the nation’s premier home for the performing arts announces its first full season of hip-hop programming.

The performance season at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., was curated by A Tribe Called Quest co-founder Q-Tip along with the center’s first director of hip-hop programming, Simone Eccleston.

And while this moment says something important about the evolution of a still-young art form, it also marks a necessary evolution in the tradition-bound world of high art. After years of lower-profile partnerships with hip-hop festivals and free performances in its lobby, the Kennedy Center is moving hip-hop out of the programming D-League to join theater, opera, jazz, dance and classical music as featured art forms.

The season will open Oct. 6 with a performance featuring Q-Tip and Jason Moran, the Kennedy Center’s artistic director for jazz, and closes in spring 2018 with a multimedia performance of Ta-Nehisi Coates’ 2015 book-length letter to his son, Between the World and Me.

Besides the big-name acts to open and close the season, the schedule is light on live performances, relying heavily on curated dance parties. The center is also re-upping its longstanding partnerships with hip-hop advocacy organizations Hi-ARTS and the D.C.-based Words Beats & Life. The programming, which isn’t limited to music, includes a staging of Chinaka Hodge’s Chasing Mehserle, a performance piece about Oakland, California, and gentrification.

The Kennedy Center will host a 35th anniversary screening of Charlie Ahearn’s Wild Style, a documentary about the early days of hip-hop, followed by a panel discussion including Fab 5 Freddy, Grandmaster Caz and Busy Bee.

The commitment of full-time staff and space to hip-hop sets the Kennedy Center apart from other marquee arts institutions such as Carnegie Hall or Lincoln Center while expanding the definition of American culture. Like jazz and the blues — and even the iPod one might play them on — hip-hop is a uniquely American invention, a beacon of coolness that shines brightly around the globe.

“As the nation’s cultural center, that’s a heavy-duty title that we hold,” said Kennedy Center president Deborah Rutter. “It’s important that we have all of the nation represented here. And candidly, we still have a long ways to go. … Hip-hop is a 40-plus-year-old art form. It ain’t going away. It isn’t a fad. This is an art form that continues to develop and grow and have impact, and it is broadly seen throughout several generations as the voice of their generation, and how could we not have it fully here at the center? The sophistication of the work that’s being done has to be brought here.”

The hiring of Eccleston, 37, and the announcement of the new season are only the latest in a series of events that suggest hip-hop is thriving even as it starts to get gray around the temples. That maturation isn’t just an accounting of raw years of existence, but also the emotional growth in the genre’s most high-profile acts. Certainly, earlier hip-hop featured adult, introspective voices such as A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, Little Brother, Consequence and Talib Kweli. But witness the confessional nature of Jay-Z’s 4:44 or Dr. Dre confronting his past sins as a woman beater in the HBO documentary The Defiant Ones.

Simone Eccelston

André Chung for The Undefeated

Hip-hop is now old enough to inspire nostalgia and reflection. In the past few years, there have been the retrospective gazes of The Get Down and The Breaks, and Jigga’s induction into the Songwriters Hall of Fame — heralded by consummate Jay-Z fan President Barack Obama. And don’t forget about Snoop Dogg pooh-poohing misogyny, releasing an album one critic called “the audio version of linen pants and fish fries,” and co-hosting an Emmy-nominated reality show with an ex-con 30 years his senior, Martha Stewart. Even Atlanta trap god Gucci Mane seems like a new man after exiting federal prison last year. Rather than touting his time as a signifier of masculinity, Gucci was candid about just how unpleasant the experience was.

It was only roughly 20 years ago that Eccleston was hopping on the D train from the Kingsbridge stop of her childhood home in the Bronx to go to her first rap concert at Madison Square Garden. Now, her task of making hip-hop a fixture at the Kennedy Center seems obvious, if not overdue.

Wait. Wasn’t this already a thing?

When the Kennedy Center announced in 2016 that it had netted Q-Tip as its artistic director of hip-hop culture, the move was part of a trajectory that had been in the works for years. Moran had been lobbying Rutter for more hip-hop programming. So had former White House social secretary Deesha Dyer, who had covered the scene in Philadelphia as a freelance journalist.

“[Dyer] and Jason really pushed me over the edge to say, ‘OK, we should do this more than just one-offs and really make it something,’ ” said Rutter, whose background is in classical music. “We have programs for young artists rising, and then we were doing these big names … but how do we really have that bigger impact? We were going to need somebody to curate it all. And that’s where having an artist and then an administrator [came in], because you can’t really have an artist who’s not supported by an administrator.”

Q-Tip offers name recognition and communicates something about the center’s intentions tastewise. Eccleston, on the other hand, is an experienced arts administrator well versed in the nitty-gritty duties needed to realize an artist’s vision. Before traveling south to Washington, she spent more than 11 years at Harlem Stage, finishing as its program director.

Previously known as Aaron Davis Hall, Harlem Stage is known for promoting artists of color. Eccleston was a natural fit for its hip-hop ambitions: a product of the borough whose Latino and black musical influences melded to birth the genre in the first place, she completed graduate studies in arts administration at Drexel University and studied curatorial practice in performance at Wesleyan University. She also holds a bachelor’s degree in African-American studies from the University of Pennsylvania. Eccleston’s first job was at Artistas y Músicos Latino Americanos, a nonprofit in North Philadelphia.

Rutter and Harlem Stage executive director Patricia Cruz say Eccleston possesses a valuable skill set: She’s got a good ear for finding new talent, she’s passionate about nurturing relationships with artists, and she’s got a knack for developing community outreach and education programs.

While at Harlem Stage, Eccleston took responsibility for an initiative to connect New York City students with playwrights, choreographers, musicians and dancers from around the world. Also, Cruz said, “She developed programs that were scholarly, that really communicated to an audience what this artist’s intent was, what their philosophical approach to what they were doing was, so that audiences could understand this was not just performative.

Simone Eccleston

André Chung for The Undefeated

“We’re not just putting people on the stage and saying, ‘Here. Enjoy them.’ It’s not entertainment, in that regard. It’s about the ideas the artist is representing. … For us, if art is to have a meaning for people in their lives, I think it is critical to have a context and talk about the history.”

Q-Tip may be the initial draw, but if you want to see your favorite act on stage at the Kennedy Center (cough OutKast cough), Eccleston’s the person you want to lobby.

Let’s talk about sex music!

Perhaps surprisingly given her age, Eccleston is not an evangelist for ’90s hip-hop. Sure, she grew up loving De La Soul, A Tribe Called Quest, Kwamé, Queen Latifah, MC Lyte and Lauryn Hill. She watched WNYC-TV’s Video Music Box and remembers dancing in the street when someone would start playing their radio in Kingsbridge.

But she’s not stuck in the decade.

“We’re always like, ‘It’s the golden age, it’s the golden age,’ ” Eccleston said. “I think that that doesn’t allow for the music and the artists to evolve. I think it’s about creating space for the next generation of artists. Who knew Kendrick [Lamar] was coming? When you think about the fact that [’90s artists] created space for alternate views of black masculinity, just the joy in music, just the intellect. It’s like being brilliant and comfortable with that. Not having to necessarily play to specific ideals of what masculinity looked like, what it meant to be black at a specific point in time.

“I think that they created space for us to be complex, diverse and really tell our stories. They were able to create these pathways within that generation of artists. I think that it’s interesting to see people that kind of take on the mantle and continue to move it forward.”

When it comes to revealing her musical tastes, Eccleston is a skilled politician. Asked to choose between Biggie or Tupac, the native New Yorker initially named Biggie. But there was an addendum: “You know what? Tupac was also very brilliant,” she said. “Just from an activist standpoint, in terms of being a woke MC.”

Eccleston has the potential to be an inspired choice as an administrator for a genre that has a complicated relationship with black women. While she straddled the East Coast/West Coast divide, for instance, she was fully comfortable sharing her thoughts about Kendrick Lamar’s lyrical endorsement of stretch marks on “Humble.”

“I was like, ‘Go ahead, Kendrick!’ ” Eccleston said, grinning.

Simone Eccleston

André Chung for The Undefeated

“I think that there are certain images, certain artists, that are celebrated who may have had some augmentation. That is seen as beauty, or as beautiful. Then young women that may look up to the artist, or the ideals that are being portrayed in music videos, they then think that they have to alter who they are in order to be considered beautiful or attractive. We need to interrogate that, which is why it was great that Kendrick celebrated stretch marks.”

While hip-hop isn’t the only genre that features misogynistic themes and lyrics, it is the one that often gets publicly dinged for it. Eccleston, like many of her feminist friends who are also hip-hop fans, has experienced times where she felt that a particular artist or song just wasn’t for her.

“I think it’s important for us to maintain healthy critique,” Eccleston said. “I think that it’s also important for us, as we’re looking at the songs that we may want to challenge, or the artists that we may want to encourage to dig a little deeper, to look at all of the other work that’s being done that either celebrates us or provides a multidimensional portrayal of who we are.

“It’s delicate because you have to provide space for an artist to be an artist, you can’t censor them. … It’s just real complex because we all have our hopes for something that we’ve seen ourselves reflected in, something that provides us with a sense of space. I think we’ve all got to continue to complicate it and disrupt it.”

Eccleston now has the power to further that disruption. With the Kennedy Center’s resources, she can expose audiences to lesser-known female emcees such as Brooklyn, New York, rapper Jean Grae and Snow Hill, North Carolina, artist Rapsody. She wants to bring more female graffiti artists and beat girls into the fold.

“There’s a whole generation of hip-hop … culture producers that are impacting literature and theater and scholarship, and it’s getting pressed into that. I think that one of our roles as an institution is to create space for the celebration of all of those things so people understand the depth, the breadth, the complexity of the culture,” Eccleston said. “I think it’s important for people to know hip-hop culture isn’t just one thing.”

What now?

One of the most significant challenges Eccleston faces will be making the Kennedy Center feel accessible to everyone.

While it’s a national institution, it’s situated in a city that for decades was majority black and is still majority minority. Eccleston is adamant about wanting the community to feel a sense of ownership and investment in the center, rather than seeing it as a stodgy, predominantly white institution finally granting validation to a still relatively young art form.

While existing partnerships, such as those with Hi-ARTS and Words Beats & Life, the D.C. nonprofit dedicated to advancing hip-hop culture, provide a foundation, the Kennedy Center faces hurdles that predate Eccleston in attracting eventgoers who are economically as well as racially diverse. The most obvious hurdle may be geography. The Kennedy Center is situated in D.C.’s Foggy Bottom/West End, a neighborhood that’s home to George Washington University, where tuition and fees run nearly $70,000 per year. Its immediate neighbor is the Watergate complex.

Of course, black people frequent the Kennedy Center. They show up for the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater’s yearly appearance. They line up to see Brandy play Roxie Hart in Chicago, to hear George Benson, to witness the brilliant athleticism of Misty Copeland. And it has no problem selling out concerts like the ones Nas and Lamar did with the National Symphony Orchestra.

But the center is still figuring out how to extend the same sort of welcome to audiences with fewer resources, and that’s where the inclusion of free dance parties, open to the public, appear to come into play.

Simone Eccleston

André Chung for The Undefeated

These concerns aren’t exclusive to the Kennedy Center. They bubble up every time hip-hop veers into spaces such as Broadway that are traditionally coded as white. Class and accessibility were a big part of conversations surrounding Hamilton, so much so that its practice of making tickets available to those who couldn’t necessarily afford its astronomical market rate prices has become central to the show as it’s expanded into multiple cities. That includes the upcoming production of Hamilton coming to the Kennedy Center. (Hamilton, while heavily influenced by hip-hop, is still under the Kennedy Center’s theater programming slate.)

“Part of the goal in terms of instituting hip-hop as an integral part of our institution’s work is about creating space for the community to engage in the work that we’re doing,” Eccleston said. “To see themselves and their culture reflected. Right? That’s how I got into the arts, understanding the significance of it. As many opportunities as we can create for people to know that this space is theirs and open to them. A place that they can call home. I think that that is important.”

While there’s a moral argument for expanding hip-hop into a dedicated programming season at the Kennedy Center, there’s a financial one as well, especially when you consider the graying fan base for opera and classical music. The Kennedy Center relies on funding from corporate sponsors, philanthropists and paid memberships that unlock access to ticket presales and opportunities to hobnob with talent. If additional hip-hop programming results in more memberships from rap fans with money to drop, that’s all the better for hip-hop and the Kennedy Center. So far, it appears Q-Tip and Eccleston will have to figure out how to find a balance between buzz and revenue. While names such as Fab 5 Freddy and Kurtis Blow may draw older, more financially established attendees, a healthy dose of current voices is necessary too. Yes, hip-hop is famous for its backward-facing references and samples, but it’s always charging forward to new musical territory, thriving on the spirit of reinvention.

Still, if this experiment goes well, who knows? We might one day see the same programming in the ritzy fine arts institutions of New York — you know, the birthplace of hip-hop.

Lil Yachty takes off at Flight Club Complex’s latest ‘Sneaker Shopping’ episode is great

Joe LaPuma’s series, in which he brings various stars to sneaker stores to shop and discuss their favorites, has developed into one of my consistently favorite things on the Internet. But occasionally, he lands someone on the show who’s a real live sneakerhead, not just a randomly rich star or athlete. With Lil Yachty, the combo was excellent.

It starts with Lil Boat clearly botching all sorts of lines in the stand-up shot to open. It’s quite funny, because rarely do other guests say anything at all while Joe does his thing. But for the rapper who just was named a Nautica creative designer, talking about clothes is second nature. If you want to know how he got that job, take notes, kids.

“I’d been wearing it, I kept tagging them,” he told GQ during Fashion Week. “I dunno, I just kinda got their attention and they hit me up.”

That aside, having worked with Puma in the past as well as other streetwear companies, gear is a big part of his bit. So, the pre-sneaker copping interview is pretty interesting from multiple sides. He reveals that Kris Kross was a legit fashion inspiration to him, and he also informs Joe about a sneaker buy/sell/trade collective called ATATF (Addicted To All Things Fresh) that La Puma hadn’t even heard of — which is mad rare.

Otherwise, he reveals that he almost made a boat shoe with Reebok (clever!), that he is a bit of an undercover hypebeast and that he really enjoys the culture of Washington, D.C. He also once paid an absurd amount for the Back To The Future Nikes.

Good subject, tremendous interview, excellent episode.