They started me wit' Beat Street, sweet peas, and Sunday school. Told me 'bout Noah's Ark and how Herk was cool. Taught me that black was a blessing and an honor, the truth of Sojourner -- here's a book on Nat Turner. Pops rented videos on sandwich heros, hipped to my heritage like Miss Jane Pittman. Meanwhile, church services -- I could never miss them. Mama made me take notes to see if I was listening. Lived among Mexicans, so I never did the "crip thang." Instead, they gave me cans to write my name up on the bricks thang. Big sister house danced, her guy friends wrote raps, and Mama saw her son get addicted to the boom bap. All the while, God's training me to hear His voice, because only He knew I would be a choice. Tagger slash rapper, son of a Black Panther, we got high hopes for him: "He gon be a pastor!" Do I run wit' the church boys, backpacks, or thugs? Funny, Lord's answer was all the above. Son, stay cool; son, stay in school; son, learn the Word of God; you were born to rule. My love, my color, my Lord, my God. My school of the hard knocks, high hats, and fat caps. But that's what I'm about: return of the juke joint, color of your rag homeboy is a mute point. Lift up your glass and let it blast from the jukebox! Come on back home. We were born to get hot.