by Ja Rule
I realized how much I needed Aisha to keep me on the ground. I wanted to do right by her and the baby, but this was my chance. Shit was so hectic that some days were a blur. As her stomach grew, hip-hop was bigger than ever. My ego was growing and my mind wouldn’t stop playing tricks on me. I was taking on the attitude and swagger of the men around me.
This all happened close to my leap year birthday, February 29.
I had started hanging out with more music people and hanging out in clubs trying to meet as many people in the industry as I could. People were showing me some love at the Q Club in Queens and sending over bottles of champagne to acknowledge my birthday. The Cash Money Click single was out and people recognized me. It felt good to finally get some birthday love.
Def Jam had released Mary J. Blige and Method Man and following right behind them they released Foxy Brown and Jay-Z doing another rap/duet. Foxy Brown was a young female rapper who embodied all the things that the hip-hop world was fiending for, a female MC with skills and looks, sex appeal and a gangsta attitude. Foxy Brown was the hottest thing out and her and Jay-Z’s joint, “Ain’t No Nigga,” was ruling the radio. Foxy and Jay-Z were performing that night and I was there to see what my life would have been like if Black hadn’t gone to prison. Like I said, the bottles of champagne were being sent to me from all over the club and Foxy Brown noticed. She sent her brother over to me.
“Yo, Rule, my sister wants to meet you.”
I didn’t recognize him. “Who’s your sister?” I asked.
“Foxy Brown,” he said, proudly.
“Word? Where is she? I would love to meet her.”
When I met Foxy, I immediately liked her vibe. She was dope on the mic and she was a cool chick. She had a sex appeal and swag about her that said Brooklyn. I wasn’t interested in getting with her, I wanted to pick her brain about the music industry. We exchanged numbers and became cool.
I told Foxy what happened with Black and TVT and that I was stuck in a deal that I couldn’t get out of. She listened and told me she would keep me posted. She already knew about “Get tha Fortune.” She called me a few days after Lyor had seen the video. She was in the middle of a meeting with Lyor.
“Ja, this is Foxy.”
“What’s up?” I said, surprised to hear her voice.
“You’ll never guess what happened. Lyor is looking for you. They looking to sign some new acts. I told him that I knew you.”
“Word? I’ll take it from here. Good looking out, Foxy.”
I called Irv and told him that Def Jam was looking for us. Irv was happy to hear that because he was working with Jay-Z, who also needed a deal. Jay-Z was also a hustler and he had formed his own independent label called Roc-A-Fella. Although he was only an indie, he sold a lot of records on his own. But he was getting antsy, too. He wanted a label deal to take his music to the next level. He and Gotti had a plan.
“Def Jam is looking for some real shit,” I told Irv.
“That’s all I need to hear. Ya know I got you, Ja.”
Def Jam Records is the hip-hop generation’s Motown and when I told Aisha that we were actually going to a meeting at Def Jam, she screamed. “See, baby. I knew it would happen for you,” she said as she kissed me.
The dream was back on and there was definitely going to be something to live for.
never again will I run down a road so dark
hope to die
cross my heart never again
but these streets keep calling
they keep calling
they keep calling
never again
I looked at the words and thought that I had to get off the streets. I wanted to give my child a chance. A chance that he or she wouldn’t have unless I was alive. Dying young really didn’t mean shit. It’s not a badge to wear on your arm. It’s not honor. You’re just dead, while the living just go on. Aisha was right, I did have something to live for.
I was going to show her. I’m gonna break the cycle. Muthafuckas don’t need more babies out here who don’t have a father. Another line came to me and I scribbled it down before I lost it:
Rule spits monotonous, hot as apocalypse
Now you eyein’ dis ferocious mic supremist
Whose limits is endless
This nigga here done risen
“I DON’T FEEL WELL,” Aisha complained. I was heading to the studio although the baby was due any minute. September 20, 1995, had come and gone and there was still no baby.
“Babe, I’ll get with you later tonight after the studio,” I promised. “Tell the baby to wait for me.”
“Babies don’t wait for anyone or anything,” Aisha said, angrily.
Later that night, Aisha’s cousin, Cheryl, paged me but I was in the studio with O where the reception was poor. After we’d finished laying down some tracks and got the message from Cheryl that Aisha was in labor, we headed directly to the hospital.
When O and I were on the train going to the hospital, I was scared as shit. In a panic, I got off the train and stopped by my Moms’ house for support. She told me, “I wasn’t there when you made it.”
“Just be a man,” I heard my Moms’ voice say in my head.
I quickly got back on the train. O and I went between the subway cars and smoked a blunt. We were both lost in our own heads. I was trying to accept that after that night, I would never be the same. There’s no rulebook on being a father. Most of us had never seen it done. I knew that suddenly I wanted to live to be one hundred. I needed proof of something positive that I had created. I’d destroyed too much shit already. I turned to O and nudged him. He opened his eyes slowly.
“Nigga, you know having this baby will right my wrongs if I do right by the baby and Aisha.”
“You have a lot of wrongs to right, nigga.” O smiled at me.
“On the serious tip, I mean it. We have to stay alive. Life is all we got. My shit will never be the same once this baby gets here.”
“It’ll be all good, man. You’re just nervous. I wanna stay alive, too. Don’t worry. We gotchoo.”
When I arrived at the hospital, O and I both reeked of weed. When we checked in at the hospital the doctor came out to meet me and tell me how Aisha was doing. When he smelled the cloud of stink coming out of our clothes, the doctor recoiled, as he stood back and said that he would come get me when Aisha was about to deliver.
When a nurse finally came out to get me a couple hours later, I rushed in to see Aisha. When I got there, Aisha was already holding our daughter in her arms. What the fuck? I started to go find the doctor and curse him out because he’d said I’d be able to see the birth. But I didn’t make a scene on the day my daughter was born. I was trying to change.
It was September 22, 1995, at seven a.m. that my daughter, Brittney Asja (pronounced “Asia”) Atkins, was born. I was nineteen.
I held Brittney in my arms. I wanted to bear her weight, and keep her safe. A quiet feeling of power swept over me like I’d never felt before. Just holding her made me want different things. I wanted life. I no longer hoped to live, I needed to live, for Brittney. I could barely see her through my tears. She was small and precious. I was the only person who could keep her and Aisha safe for the rest of their lives. I was the only one who could be Brittney’s father. I was dizzied by the responsibility. I had to sit down.
PART TWO
The Last Temptation
*
July 9, 2011
My first night here was crazy, inmates screaming, banging and kicking the doors, calling the male COs bitch ass niggas & faggots, telling the female COs how they gonna fuck ’em, throwing plates of food out their cells onto the floor. LOL. WELCOME TO THE GREEN MONSTER! This type of shit would never happen upstate. At best, you’d be in the box for a month. At worst, the infirmary. I even got into it wit these stupid niggas trying to assassinate my character, talkin about I’m snitching to the guards and that I’m getting special treatment. I barked on these niggas and set ’em straight ’cause a
s a man there’s only so much you can take before you snap. At first I tried to ignore their lil comments until they started talkin shit like they gonna kick my door and all this clown shit. But the funny thing is, when I started screaming on them, lettin them know they got the wrong nigga they got excited. It was like that’s what they wanted, to bring the hood out of me. That’s when I realized that I’m dealing wit kids. They can’t be niggas my age ’cause that would’ve lead to instant confrontation, not instant admiration. After I set ’em straight they wanted to talk & ask me about the industry. I could tell they wanted to be my friend but just didn’t know how to go about it. So I chatted wit them for a lil bit before letting them know I was tried and ready to lay down. But as I laid, I listened to them talk, telling their life stories of how one was born in a crack house and grew up selling crack to his mother; how another watched his father get murdered right in front of him by some dudes he owed money, as they robbed his house; and how they were now in jail for crimes of their own. One for beating his girlfriend and the other for a murder. One of them is 19 the other just turned 23 yesterday. Both with kids of their own. When will we break the cycle? WILLIE LYNCH LIVES ON . . . DAMN!
When I got here I was happy to see some officers of the same skin color—not that I’m racist or anything, but in this type of situation and where I just came from, you’d be happy to see some of your own, too. Prejudice does still exist, trust me, I’ve been treated and have seen other people treated like niggers more in 1 month than I have my whole life. I feel like a slave, and even tho I haven’t heard anyone say it, actions speak louder than words. As I walk through the door everyone is staring like they can’t believe I just walked in cuffed from head to toe. Even tho I don’t feel like much of a star that’s all they see—the star that has fallen. But as I look in their eyes I still see the love. They still wanna meet me and greet me as if I’m on their own personal stage, except there’s no screaming fans, fancy clothes & bright lights. There’s only screaming inmates, me in my orange jumpsuit, and little flash lights they shine in my cell at night. It’s hard to feel good signing autographs and taking pictures in this predicament but I did it with a smile ’cause I love my fans and never say no, no matter what mood I’m in. After the meet & greet they took me to my cell where I’ll be housed till my court date. It’s not the best but it’s not the worst either. They gave me some pillows and an extra mattress so I’ll live. This is my 3rd day here and IA already came and got me to investigate my lil meet & greet. I basically told them to fuck off and that those are good cops ’cause they really were nice to me. The last thing I wanna see is good people get in trouble ’cause they got an autograph or a pic from me. You wanna investigate something, investigate the crooked Hip Hop Task Force that got me into this shit in the first place.
As I sit in my cell listening to their stories I think about me and my Dad and how I hated to love him for so many years and how I vowed to be nothing like him, only to have my mother say, “You’re just like your father.” LOL. Which made me curious to know him. Of course, just as me and my father started to get closer to one another, he dies. But I have my closure. I learned a lot about him and him about me in the short time we spent together. Which makes me think about my kids and how I’m raising them. I am a great father and I have broken the cycle. Even though I’m in prison the foundation has already been laid. I hate being away from them for 20 months, but shit I could have easily been on tour for that long. I feel compelled, I wanna help other kids break the cycle.
I’ve been to 5 different prisons and all I see is niggas and I ain’t talking about Black people I’m talking about ignorance. See the problem wit most people is they don’t smell shit until they step in it and by that time it’s all over your shoe and everybody is tryin to get away from you. Now you have 2 choices, you can either wash that shoe or throw it away. A lot of people choose to throw it away, meaning they didn’t learn shit. Those that choose to wash that shoe tend to watch their step knowing how hard it was to get ’em clean. I think I’ll wash my shoes this time ’cause this shit ain’t me.
R.I.P. William Jeffrey Atkins
BREAK THE CYCLE!
*
SEVEN
Must Be the Music
“DON’T GIRLS GO TO THEIR MOTHER’S WHEN THEY GET PREGNANT and aren’t married?” Moms asked in response to my question.
Aisha was living with her Aunt Sarah. Things around the crib had been tense.
“Ma, Aisha don’t even live with her moms. Her Aunt Sarah won’t take her and the baby. I was thinking that they should come and live with us. Could they?”
Moms was reluctant at first. She didn’t even know Aisha that well, which was a sign of the times. Although I love my Moms deeply, we had separate lives.
She thought about it for a long minute and said into the air, “My grandbaby needs a roof over its head. So, I guess we have to do what we have to do.”
It was only a two-bedroom apartment. The crib was feeling crowded with my Aunt Dawn, Uncle Dennis and my man Rich who had all come to stay with us. With Aisha and Brittney moving in, things would have to seriously change.
Moms had that tired look on her face when she said, “Jeff, I need to talk to you about something,” She hadn’t sounded like that since she signed me out of high school. Moms started, “I know you’re trying really hard to do this music thing, but maybe it’s not working out. You have responsibilities now. You have a child.”
“Moms, trust me. I’m going to make it. Music is what I was meant to do. I’m going to do it.”
Moms looked at me and shook her head. “We’ll all just have to pull together as a family and help with the baby.”
Saturday morning, Moms called a meeting for everybody living in the house. We all came to the cramped living room. Me and Aisha and Brittney sat on the couch, Dawn and Dennis were on the love seat. Moms was standing and Rich was already in his usual position, on the floor watching TV.
“Turn off the TV, Richard,” she said sternly.
“It’s tight in here and it’s even tighter now that Brittney and Aisha are living with us. You all can forget your pagers for a while. We should all try to avoid buying new clothes or anything that we don’t need. We have to make sure that the rent gets paid, every month and on time.” We all listened but no one was willing to give up their pagers. The pagers were what paid the rent.
“Don’t think I’m not making sacrifices, too. I’ve decided to give Kiku and Sabu away,” she said sadly.
The room was quiet.
Kiki and Sabu, my Moms’ cats, had been her constant companions for many years. They had been through everything with her.
“I worry that they may hurt Brittney. Besides, Brittney is one more mouth to feed and we need the extra money for food and diapers.”
I hated sitting there hearing all of this. I didn’t want to think that my family was going to be a burden on Moms. I felt restless, I didn’t need to hear any more. I had to break out and make some money. I had to head back to the studio.
When the meeting was over, I came up behind Aisha in the kitchen and put my arms around her waist. She usually loved it when I held her like that. “Ish, I need to go back to work and finish the track that Irv and I started.”
She whipped around to face me, dropped the dish that she was washing and snapped, “I’m sick of you and the studio. Brittney should be your priority!”
“Aisha, I need to do this. I’m not just doing some small shit. I’m making a record. I need to do this thing to the highest.”
“What’s that mean? The highest? We need you here. We need you home!” She grabbed Brittney’s rattle off the counter and threw it on the floor. “Do this to the highest!” she said with tears in her eyes.
“It’s feast or famine now. To put you and Brittney in a better place, I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. Nothing will happen with me sitting here with you and the baby. Trust me, Ish. You have to trust me!”
“Jeffrey, I don’t want to blindly
trust anymore. I want to trust because you’re doing what you said you’d do.”
Aisha sat on the couch after picking up Brittney’s cracked rattle from the floor. As she spoke, she looked down at it. “There’ve been too many broken promises. I’ve seen my own father only three or four times in my whole life. My mother struggles so much she can’t even take care of us. We’ve lived all over the place forever, never having a proper home. I can’t take any more broken promises. It’s sad to say but you’re the most stability I’ve ever had. What does that say for my life? You can’t desert me now.”
I didn’t say anything. I just had to show her.
As I walked out the door Aisha screamed, “I hate you!”
“No you don’t,” is all I could say. I was mad at her, too. She should have been saying, “Get out and work . . . go provide for our family!” I knew I wanted to marry Aisha, someday. I knew that she loved me. This was just a really hard time. She loved me, even on that day. Even when I was walking out the door to be with my other true love, hip-hop.
I slammed the door.
HIP-HOP LIVED IN MY EARS twenty-four hours a day. I couldn’t turn it off. I wanted to know everything about it so I started to study it like it was a class at John Adams. I wanted to know and hear everything that I could get my hands on. I wanted to understand the art of it, not just memorize all the most popular rhymes like everyone else. I needed to understand the science of that shit. What differentiated one muthafucka from another? What was the difference in the quality of their beats? Was their production considered rough or smooth? What type of voice sounded best on hardcore tracks? Whose voice was the most unique? Whose style was the most memorable? Sometimes when I got really high, I would listen to Tupac and I could feel the hairs on my arms rising. Tupac’s fiery message was all passion and pride. Tupac’s mom was a Black Panther and the rage and militancy that flowed through his veins inspired me.
I started studying in 1991 and have never stopped. It was as if I was in school and hip-hop was my major. I listened to all of the joints from the MCs that were at the top of their games. I was studying Dr. Dre, who was killing it with his funky head-bobbing joint, “Nuthin’ But a G Thang” that featured another new nigga, Snoop Dogg. Dre’s album was called The Chronic and the album just had a picture of Dre and a weed plant. Dre’s style was a nice even flow and Snoop was the perfect partner because his flow was like molasses, slow and melodic. The track by Dr. Dre was strictly for head bobbing.
