What does mental illness look like in the Black community?
Sometimes, it’s the unhoused guy on the CTA Red Line threatening to decapitate someone before the train gets to Roosevelt Road.
Sometimes, it’s the guy walking through your alley with his two Rottweilers, pulling his shopping cart with the rooster in the child seat.
Alternatively, it can look like a billionaire musical icon whose impact reached an entire generation — not only Black youth, but people everywhere.
I loved Kanye. There was a time I was so proud he could be the gift my city gave to the rest of the world. His work was equal parts musical brilliance and evocative snapshots of South Side coming-of-age experiences. It captured familiar places and adventures, content that resonated deeply with many of us who grew up in this city. He was us, and we were once him.
Then he suffered the unthinkable. He lost his mom, who had been his anchor and, at times, his muse. The one person more proud of him and who he was becoming than anyone else could ever be. Speaking as a mother, I don’t think she wanted to take a piece of him with her. That’s not how we love. We want to leave a piece of us with them so they never forget what true love feels like, especially in a world where compassion and vulnerability are seen as weaknesses.
I’ve seen up close the torment children can suffer when they lose their mothers. But the people I know had the privilege of falling apart and starting the lifelong process of rebuilding themselves in private – away from cameras, tabloids, record labels and fans. They didn’t have to be everything to everyone when they themselves felt tiny under the boulder called grief.
I believe this was Kanye. This loss would have been enough to cause mental distress in many of us. He forgot how truly grand he was and the amount of influence he still had. By losing a mother his influence couldn’t save, he forgot his power.
I believe that’s why he said hurtful things, such as how “slavery sounds like a choice,” or talked about how much he hated Jews. He forgot how powerful he truly was. But no one else did. That’s why there were Black kids calling themselves Hitler and doodling swastikas in class, when many of them could barely spell their own names.
I also believe it was the reason he never invited the kids he once recognized wanted “to rap and make dope beats, just like you” or like him, on his record label.
He knew them. Once, he was with them. He knew about the record industry. He knew about the predators who’d only give record deals to young artists willing to promote murder music, the killing of their families and neighbors, that more often than not led to their very own demise. I know. I’ve been to some of the funerals. He could’ve helped stop the carnage and given so many of these boys a chance to grow into men, but he forgot that he was powerful enough to do it. Or strong enough to save anyone else if he couldn’t even save the person he loved most.
I don’t hate Kanye. Especially in this season, when Jews forgive and ask for forgiveness. It’s the time where we pray for redemption. I don’t believe any of us are beyond that. Not even Kanye.
I have watched his outbursts in horror at times, just like the rest of us. And as a Jew from the South Side, I chose to forgive him and to still find ways to love him. He has plenty of people constantly reminding him of all of the problematic things he’s said and done. I choose not to be a part of that.
I love him because he loves my city as much as I do. I just want him to remember his true purpose. I want him to be the entertainer that may have left, but now realizes how important it is for him — and us — to come back home.
Rabbi Tamar Manasseh is a speaker, activist and the founder of the antiviolence nonprofit Mothers and Men Against Senseless Killings.