My American dreams and nightmares: On Mississippi streets, “Native Son” and Jeezy vs. Gucci Mane
By: Darryl Robertson
Tags: American Dream, Memoir, BlackLivesMatter, Hip Hop

My American dreams and nightmares: On Mississippi streets, “Native Son” and Jeezy vs. Gucci Mane

Big Cripp stood 6'2" with a dark caramel complexion, gangsta under his fingernails, and always strapped with the respect that comes from knocking n***as out, doing a murder bid, and surviving a murder attempt on his life. Cripp, who is also my cousin, sewed me into the fabric of a well-knitted crew, the All-Fam Team. Not only was I moving with a strong unit, but I finally had a plug that moved bricks of cocaine — as Nas said, this is a drug dealer’s destiny.

It was a few minutes after 8 a.m. in Jasper County, Mississippi. The sun was still rising, sitting just at the crowns of the oak, pecan and willow trees that populated the woods. The All-Fam Team lingered outside of Uncle’s home, a tidy white structure with brown trim. Uncle was “up the road” dropping off his baby daughter at a neighbor’s house. There were eight of us — a motley crew of blood brothers and cousins, and brothers through loyalty. The grass that we used as a driveway was more dirt than pasture. While waiting for Uncle to pull up, we leaned or sat on the hood of our cars, or sat on the driver’s seat with the door open, sitting sideways in the seat so our knees hung outside of the car. I was the youngest and newest member of the All-Fam Team, so I was reserved, listening for jewelry and hushed guidance from my drug-dealing mentors.

(Photo illustration by Salon/Getty Images)

I especially looked up to Yellow Boy. We were all independent and rebelled against the promises attached to general labor in the formal economy. There’s nothing wrong with making a living from general labor. In my opinion, working-class people are the real heroes of America. But we aspired to achieve a different type of agency than the freedom, or lack thereof, offered by working at one of the chicken plants in Jones and Jasper counties. I was attracted to Yellow Boy’s organic intellectualism. His individuality came naturally, and his thoughts were original. He didn’t follow trends, yet he was always freshly dressed. He greeted the world with curious suspicion, honestly questioning everything. And he was always interested in the books that I was reading.

Inside Uncle’s house, which is not much bigger than a kitchenette, I was shook. Two kilos of cocaine sat on the kitchen counter. This was my first time seeing bricks of white girl. I was fully aware that kilos of coke came with heavy package deals. Along with the two bricks, garbage bags of marijuana lined the kitchen wall. There were a couple of Pyrex bowls and boxes of baking soda. I kept thinking to myself: If the Feds come here right now, we’re going away for a long time.

While the chef ice water-whipped cocaine into crack, we bounced around theories centered on hip-hop lyrics, songs and our favorite MCs. We discussed the current fashion trends, sneakers, basketball, and the latest street gossip. On the surface — based on our conversations and illegal activities — we colored in the stereotypical views of Black men that ran the gamut of America’s media outlets as well as the minds of white suburbia. Some may say that these topics are not intellectually challenging. For one, they don’t have to be; and two, it was through these theorizing sessions where I gained a deeper glimpse into the minds of the men that I admired. These crack-cooking sessions also gave me a peek into what these guys did when they were ducked off from the flash of street cameras.