As a kid, I dreamed of being a famous rapper, like the ones I idolized growing up — LL Cool J, Run-D.M.C., Rakim, KRS-One. But I was shy and hated the stage, not to mention white and from the ‘burbs. Plus I didn’t know anyone involved in rap music. For years, I kept my vision to myself for fear of ridicule and shame. But I loved hip-hop, listened to it religiously, became quite the connoisseur, and quickly started writing and reciting my own rhymes. It was the creative outlet I desperately needed to weather a difficult childhood. I recorded my first demo on a 4-track in high school with a friend. The moment I heard my voice come out the boom box I was convinced — I’d found my calling.

But the journey to try to realize my dream was arduous, terrifying, and also, exciting and fulfilling. One story stands out. In 1996, I was 25 and living in Los Angeles, having relocated there with 2 bandmates to go for it. We’d booked an opening slot on a big hip-hop concert in a beautiful, old theater in West Philadelphia. KRS-One and Biz Markie (RIP) were headlining — both titans of rap and large at the time.

The place was packed with 2,000 fans. By far my biggest show to date, I was nervous. Two years earlier, I’d had a severe panic attack, my first ever, just minutes before our set. But we’d rehearsed plenty, and felt strong about the 3 songs we’d chosen to perform. Biz Markie was 2 hours late so the crowd was restless by the time we hit the stage. Still underground and unknown, we weren’t even listed on the flyer. The emcee introduced us as a group from Los Angeles at the height of the East Coast/West Coast beef. A chorus of boos rang out.

After our first song, a massive wave of hateful vitriol rained down on us from all corners of the theater. Folks were yelling, cursing, telling us to get the hell off the stage. They hadn’t paid to see us, and they made it known. We couldn’t see anyone from the stage because of the blinding spotlights in our faces. But we could feel them.

We started our second song and knew immediately we were in for a fight for our artistic lives. I remember I was mid-verse, trying to block out the boos and keep my concentration on the intricate rhyme patterns and precise timing of my delivery when I had this realization. Mid-rhyme, I was looking at the metal grille on the microphone I was holding just an inch from my lips. And I instinctively recognized that I simply could not let all this hate infiltrate the space between my lips and my mic.

At that moment, I doubled down on myself, on every syllable of every word, on my love for hip-hop, and on my dedication to developing my craft, to living out my dream. So did my partner. The two of us, backed by our stellar deejay, proceeded unfazed, ignited by the intensity of the moment, a trial by fire. After the second song, it was half boos, half clapping. And after the third, everyone applauded.

As a white rapper coming up in the post-Vanilla Ice, pre-Eminem mid-90s hip-hop community, where Black and Brown gatekeepers were key to success, I had to prove myself over and over again. Regularly facing intense scrutiny meant I had to commit to getting good. To daily practice. To daily doubters. To developing the level of skill that can silence doubt. And turn it into praise. Not because I wanted to prove anyone wrong. But because I needed to prove to myself that I belong.

Excerpted from Bold Journey Magazine, March 8, 2024