The first rap song I memorized was “Gold Digger.” The chop of Jamie Foxx’s crooning banged out the speakers of my family’s Honda. From there, I probably have listened to every Kanye West verse from “The College Dropout” to “The Life of Pablo.”
I’m a first-generation Chicagoan, born and raised. I grew up in Chatham off 79th and Cottage Grove, and Kanye’s mother, Ms. Donda West, was a family friend. “Amazing” and “Touch the Sky” played on every pre-game car ride to middle school soccer and basketball games. When I was doing poetry slam in high school, “Champion” would get played after every bout we won. He inspired the earliest days of my writing journey. Kanye’s persona — which felt genuine even with all the bravado — and his music meant something to me.
So his fall from grace has been hard to watch. When he stood with Donald Trump, I felt betrayed and bamboozled. We’ve come a long way from Kanye saying “George Bush doesn’t care about Black people,” and now I feel like he doesn’t care about Black people — or really anyone but himself. After that, I unfollowed him on all platforms and boycotted his music for years.
From saying slavery was a choice, to wearing a “White Lives Matter” shirt with Candace Owens, to big-upping Adolf Hitler, to being sued for sexual harassment by his former assistant. … I can’t keep up. He has doubled down so emphatically on actions and rhetoric that are complete bigotry. I still don’t want to believe he believes what he’s saying and doing. “I feel the pressure under more scrutiny. And what I do? Act more stupidly!” (“Can’t Tell Me Nothing.”)
I acknowledge that he’s dealt with grief and mental health struggles, but those are not excuses for the racist, hateful and violent comments he’s made. Holding Kanye accountable comes with hopes he would apologize for and change his behavior. Unfortunately, it’s been a decade now, and not much has changed.
I watched the “Touch The Sky” music video for the first time in a while. Kanye cosplays Evel Knievel and takes the Death Rocket to touch the sky, only for the rocket to plummet and explode. I think this foreshadowed his career. He indeed touched the sky — global superstardom, financial freedom, accolades galore, undeniable musical influence on generations to come. But once he did, he fell even further.
Maybe it was childish of me to feel so connected to a stranger, but that would be dismissive of my truth. Kanye was my favorite and arguably the most impactful artist of my childhood. “Heard Em Say” is one of my favorite songs ever. I have been moved to tears by a song off every Kanye album up until “Yeezus.” I catch myself on walks or cleaning my room with the verses of “Crack Music” or “Two Words” rolling off the tongue. I watched the “Jeen-Yuhs” documentary when it dropped and was reminded of what inspired me about Kanye in the first place.
But I ain’t a kid no more.
My nearly bulletproof love for Kanye has eroded as I evolved. There are artists from my childhood/adolescence whom I am excited to hear. Kanye is no longer one of them. If this was 2016, I’d have already copped my ticket for his Soldier Field show. I won’t be at this one.
Nile Lansana is an interdisciplinary artist, performer and educator from Chicago’s South Side.