The Rose that Grew from Concrete

This has always been my favorite Tupac poem, and maybe his most famous. Tupac was my favorite rapper, along with Nas. Pac's life and experiences had so much complexity, and I saw myself reflected in them, even as an 8, 9, 10-year-old boy.

Growing up in the projects. Being raised by a single mother. Gang violence, police brutality, drugs, and Black consciousness. He spoke to the literal experience I was living and witnessing every day. To me, Pac wasn't just rapping. He was a documentarian, an archivist set on making America look at the outcomes its own system created and refuses to account for. He existed as a constant contradiction, in ways I find myself existing, too. I've always felt like a rose that grew from concrete.

I remember the night Tupac died. We were hanging out on my back patio, and the screen door to the living room was open. MTV News cut in to report that he had passed away. I was 11, but I was already familiar with death by then. The only thing I clearly remember after that is my neighbor Ashley completely breaking down. She couldn't have been more than 14 or 15. We were all devastated.

For years, I believed Tupac was in Cuba, and that he'd come back eventually and run for president. I really believed it. Then, in my late teens, I got to meet Pac's brother, Mopreme. We talked for a while, and I told him how big a fan I am. It was after Mopreme confirmed he was gone that I finally let that belief go.