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Dear Kendrick,
My first love was music. It was the only thing that made sense, and the only thing that ever personified who I really was. It was a secret world just for me, where all the worries of the world fell away.
I remember discovering you, Kendrick, while sitting at the bottom of the stairs in an institution I had grown weary of.
Then you came to me, Kendrick, and made a change to my life. You, a badass rapper from Compton, California, who made sense of what it meant to be black in a world that hated you and wouldn’t give you a chance.
Your words resonated with me, Kendrick. The world suddenly made sense. Your words articulated my frustrations and hopes.
I remember rapping your lyrics word for word:
These were the lyrics to my favourite song, The Art of Peer Pressure. When I listened to this and many other songs of yours, the world would often melt away, as we spoke a language only we knew the words to in my head.
These are the words you used to describe the institutions that constrained us:
I was always in awe of a black man with a rock star’s attitude. You were the person I aspired to be. Your thoughts clicked with mine. We fitted like two perfect puzzle pieces.
A decade later, my world was shattered. Your words became the noise I fought so hard to ignore. “F*ggot.../ My auntie is a man now” is what you sang.
When I was 15 you were my rap soulmate. But when I was 24, you broke my heart with your bigoted and hateful lyrics.
As a queer black person who found their voice through your lyrical genius, it gave me goosebumps to hear what I and my community were to you.
To be black and queer means to be ostracised. Through your power and influence, you only reinforced anti-queer language.
Now when reality becomes too much to bear, who will I turn to, whose language will I have to speak to find comfort again? I am in pain, Kendrick.
Deep pain. You betrayed me.
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