made Allen eat the soft ones.
I got to hang out with Allen a lot that summer. He had tons of jokes, made fun of everyone, and had the best cut-downs. Most of the time, he made fun of Emery, Phil, or me, but I didn’t care—he was funny! He showed me my first
Sports Illustrated
Swimsuit Issue with Kathy Ireland in the artificial grass skirt by the artificial pool. One day toward the end of summer, he gave me something. A cassette tape. I put it in my deck, pressed play, and I’ll never forget what came out the speakers.
“This is dedicated to the n!gg@s that was down since day one … [click clack] Welcome to Death Row.”
It was
The Chronic
and, just like when I first spotted the Jordans, life would never be the same again. These rappers on the record talked like my parents when they were fighting, dropping words like “fuck,” “bitch,”and “shit,” but they had new slang, too, like “eat a dick.” I was all about this Chronic shit and didn’t even know what it was.
“Yo, what is this, man?!?!”
“The Chronic.”
“It sounds like rap, but not rap.”
“It’s rap, but it’s hip-hop.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hip-hop is that real shit. Rap is just … rap.”
“Word … I like this hip-hop! You got more of it?”
“Yeah,
Doggystyle
comes out soon and I’ll send it to you.”
When I got
Doggystyle
, my dad took it away.
“What is this stuff? These dogs are having sex on the back! Who is this Doggy Dog?”
YOU’RE PROBABLY IMAGINING my dad as this maladjusted, socially inept FOB who didn’t know what he was saying to me. He was just the opposite. At home, he’d walk around in his underwear and house sandals, but if he had a meeting out came the Jheri curl, gator shoes, and Cartier sunglasses. Dude was a smooth-talkin’ motherfucker, who chose to come with the hammer. I didn’t understand why he had to be such a dick. I didn’t even really have to do anything serious. If I talked back to him, he’d step to me. I never backed down. I’d stand my ground, defend myself. But whether he was wrong or right, it usually ended in an ass-beating.
One time, we went to Busch Gardens. For half the day it was one of the best trips we’d ever been on as a family. We never liked going to Disney because the rides sucked, but Busch Gardens was like Six Flags in Tampa Bay—less about creating worlds around licensed properties and more about riding big-ass roller coasters. I was still crazy high and giddy from riding the Kumba and if there was ever a day I loved my dad, love in the form of sixty-dollar day passes, this was it. But, before that feeling stuck, he took us all into this medieval souvenir shop he found. The shop sold the most fucked-up souvenirs: they had replicas of weapons and torture items. I can’t remember the names of everything, but the one that I’d endup seeing a lot was a three-foot-long leather whip. My dad saw the shit in a bin, picked it up, and turned to me and Emery:
“This is for the next time you cause trouble!”
It didn’t end there. He kept walking around the store with a wild grin on his face and stopped in front of this hard, heavy, three-foot rubber alligator with skin dotted by sharp points on the scales. The rubber was hard, cold, and flexible. You could hold the head, whip the body back, and just come with it. He copped both. The whip wasn’t so bad. He could get us from a distance with it, but it was light. Nothing more than a belt, really. But that alligator …
To Americans, this may seem sick, but to first- or second-generation Chinese, Korean, Jamaican, Dominican, Puerto Rican immigrants, whatever, if your parents are FOBs, this is just how it is. You don’t talk about it, you can’t escape it, and in a way it humbles you the rest of your life. There’s something about crawling on the floor with your pops tracking you down by whip that grounds you as a human being. The bruises and puncture wounds from the scales of the alligator
I got to hang out with Allen a lot that summer. He had tons of jokes, made fun of everyone, and had the best cut-downs. Most of the time, he made fun of Emery, Phil, or me, but I didn’t care—he was funny! He showed me my first
Sports Illustrated
Swimsuit Issue with Kathy Ireland in the artificial grass skirt by the artificial pool. One day toward the end of summer, he gave me something. A cassette tape. I put it in my deck, pressed play, and I’ll never forget what came out the speakers.
“This is dedicated to the n!gg@s that was down since day one … [click clack] Welcome to Death Row.”
It was
The Chronic
and, just like when I first spotted the Jordans, life would never be the same again. These rappers on the record talked like my parents when they were fighting, dropping words like “fuck,” “bitch,”and “shit,” but they had new slang, too, like “eat a dick.” I was all about this Chronic shit and didn’t even know what it was.
“Yo, what is this, man?!?!”
“The Chronic.”
“It sounds like rap, but not rap.”
“It’s rap, but it’s hip-hop.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hip-hop is that real shit. Rap is just … rap.”
“Word … I like this hip-hop! You got more of it?”
“Yeah,
Doggystyle
comes out soon and I’ll send it to you.”
When I got
Doggystyle
, my dad took it away.
“What is this stuff? These dogs are having sex on the back! Who is this Doggy Dog?”
YOU’RE PROBABLY IMAGINING my dad as this maladjusted, socially inept FOB who didn’t know what he was saying to me. He was just the opposite. At home, he’d walk around in his underwear and house sandals, but if he had a meeting out came the Jheri curl, gator shoes, and Cartier sunglasses. Dude was a smooth-talkin’ motherfucker, who chose to come with the hammer. I didn’t understand why he had to be such a dick. I didn’t even really have to do anything serious. If I talked back to him, he’d step to me. I never backed down. I’d stand my ground, defend myself. But whether he was wrong or right, it usually ended in an ass-beating.
One time, we went to Busch Gardens. For half the day it was one of the best trips we’d ever been on as a family. We never liked going to Disney because the rides sucked, but Busch Gardens was like Six Flags in Tampa Bay—less about creating worlds around licensed properties and more about riding big-ass roller coasters. I was still crazy high and giddy from riding the Kumba and if there was ever a day I loved my dad, love in the form of sixty-dollar day passes, this was it. But, before that feeling stuck, he took us all into this medieval souvenir shop he found. The shop sold the most fucked-up souvenirs: they had replicas of weapons and torture items. I can’t remember the names of everything, but the one that I’d endup seeing a lot was a three-foot-long leather whip. My dad saw the shit in a bin, picked it up, and turned to me and Emery:
“This is for the next time you cause trouble!”
It didn’t end there. He kept walking around the store with a wild grin on his face and stopped in front of this hard, heavy, three-foot rubber alligator with skin dotted by sharp points on the scales. The rubber was hard, cold, and flexible. You could hold the head, whip the body back, and just come with it. He copped both. The whip wasn’t so bad. He could get us from a distance with it, but it was light. Nothing more than a belt, really. But that alligator …
To Americans, this may seem sick, but to first- or second-generation Chinese, Korean, Jamaican, Dominican, Puerto Rican immigrants, whatever, if your parents are FOBs, this is just how it is. You don’t talk about it, you can’t escape it, and in a way it humbles you the rest of your life. There’s something about crawling on the floor with your pops tracking you down by whip that grounds you as a human being. The bruises and puncture wounds from the scales of the alligator
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