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I was a precocious, spirited latchkey kid. From the ages of 9 through 17, my mom and I moved to a different location just about every year. Different schools, different people, different homes all over Connecticut, Florida, Jamaica and back again. I considered it a fortunate opportunity to regularly reinvent myself; I always knew a new adventure of unknowns awaited me, and I was totally game for the ride.

My mom and I would pack up the yellow Datsun (or whatever car we had at the time) with our pets – Rusty, our Doberman and Roscoe, our tabby cat – and journey off to the next place. I was secure in the fact that my notion of home was literally wherever we landed. I looked at people who grew up in one place as strange and missing out. They looked at me the same way.

The different friendships I made and communities I was a part of each year were amazing. Over time, they started to blend; I understood each one as fleeting and temporary. I became less concerned about the risk of any choices I made affecting or following me. I knew that the best experience I was yet-to-have was in the next move, sometimes just a few miles away. I learned to hit the reset button a lot – it felt like a superpower.

Until 1993.

I was 14 and starting my freshman year of high school. My mom and I were bumping heads, and being “the new person” at school finally lost its luster. No sports, video games nor places I moved to could prepare me for the challenges and pains of wondering where my tribe was. I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere. I craved real connection outside of family life and boys who increasingly volleyed for my attention. I kept everyone at an arm’s length; not having people to vouch for me got me into many fights. I never felt more alone.

I tried harder to relate and connect. Which brought a bigger slap. I discovered I was alternatingly perceived as not Black enough… or too alternative… always too something. In predominantly white spaces (where most of my classes took place), I felt like I was a Black representative, The Black Delegate. It frustrated and alienated me even more. I wanted the world to burn, along with everything in it.

In November of that year, I was walking home from school one day headed towards the South End of Stratford on Columbus Avenue. My hair was freshly finger-waved, I had my black bubble goose coat on and was chomping on a chick-o-stick.

And I heard Wu-Tang for the first time. Time stood still.

It was blaring out of a beat-up Honda Civic parked in a driveway, windows open, swirly puffs of fragrant smoke billowing out. I walked right up to the car nodding my head to the rhythm. I just had to know what this was. It was eery, haunting, grimy. It was like mother’s milk to my ears.

The person in the driver’s seat happened to be someone I’d seen at school before. He let me borrow his cassette tape, and we became fast friends. My taste in music was eclectic – roots reggae to Megadeth – but Wu was the first hip hop that actually made me cry. It was the symphony to my struggles, a stark contrast to the sanitized environment my mom tried to create for us in our home. It told the tales of everything that was happening right outside my door.

My rebellion finally had a home; when the Wu tape was popped in, it was like the world outside stopped and we began. Together in the same struggle, the same history, in community, potential, consciousness. I finally felt like I found my tribe. Those months of building were everything that I wanted and didn’t know I needed. Wu-Tang Killa Beez, we on a swarm.

I started having friends over to listen to Wu after school. We’d eat pancakes, memorize lyrics, bopping hard to the beatbox at my kitchen table. We’d play chess, watch kung fu flicks, call each other Gods and Earths; we asked the world to bring the motherfucking ruckus.

If you’re unfamiliar, let me give you a very abridged peek into some of Wu’s history and brilliance. The Wu-Tang Clan is a musical supergroup that began in 1993, comprised of 10 black men in and around Staten Island with RZA at the helm. They include: the RZA, the GZA, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Inspectah Deck, Raekwon the Chef, U-God, Ghostface, Method Man, Cappadonna, and Masta Killa.

These 10 men changed the genre of hip-hop and the music business as we know it. Their ingenuity, unique lyrics, beats, stories and esoteric style spawned a brand, a lexicon and a movement that is timeless. It’s an empire that’s built connection across genres and millions of people worldwide.

In fact, a study conducted years ago counted the number of unique words used within an artist’s first 35,000 lyrics – including Shakespeare, Herman Melville and others from different time periods who are lauded for their rich vocabulary. Wu-Tang collectively and its individual members scored the highest, among some of the most unique writers in history. It’s a testament to their ability to speak to people at all levels of sophistication.

Wu gave me a sense of belonging; it became my decoder ring for quickly identifying people I could relate with. It became a toolkit and metaphor for connection, community, a celebration of defiant living through struggle. Wu-Tang is truly a language. A culture. A mood. To this day, it is the closest community I hold in loving friendship – including folks I would never expect to have anything in common with – but we both love the Wu.

You may have heard the phrase before and yes, Wu-Tang is also for the babies – the seeds, the new generation, they will keep it alive. If they’re seeking knowledge, if they’re going through struggle, if they want to feel that grimy beat in the back of their throat – they can listen to that Wu-Tang double CD for all the education they need this year, nahmean? It’s always been in their credo and rings true today just as much as it did for me in 1993 – Wu-Tang is forever.

They’ve changed and transcended popular culture – there’s a Wu-Tang shirt in the middle of Walmart, there’s Wu-Tang on the Simpsons. And there’s the bat signal of invitation on me, as well – I always wear a subtle (or not so subtle) something that nods to the Wu. When people recognize the pin, or the sneakers, or something else, it almost always leads to a really dope conversation. My peoples are you with me, where you at, in the front, in the back, killa beez on attack.

If you know and love the Wu, we’ll always have a jump off point to break bread. When I hear about where you were when you first heard them, or who your favorite member might be, it gives me such brilliant insight about who you are. So, I invite you now, to please put your W’s up. On behalf of my crew, suuuuuuuu.

One nation under Wu.

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